Richmond, BC: Who owns it?

There is a storm brewing in British Columbia over Indigenous rights vs. non-Indigenous rights; over sovereign land title vs. fee simple property title; over the law vs. politics; over unceded vs. settler BC. The storm has been ominously gathering, to the point where it might eventuate in a serious breakdown of the reconciliation process with BC’s First Nations, which would have grave implications for deterioration of Indigenous relations across the country. It might not come to that – outcomes are still uncertain – but it is already a sad story of how (mostly) good intentions can go awry when they clash with recalcitrant political realities. We have all heard where roads paved with good intentions can lead. Good intentions are sometimes not enough.

BC is a nexus for Indigenous relations in Canada. Its past behaviour toward its Native inhabitants, in the 19th and much of the 20th century, was in many ways worse than what occurred in the rest of the country. In particular, its obdurate refusal until very recently to put relations on a treaty basis left First Nations entirely at the mercy of the Indian Act and provincial law: “rule by law” rather than the celebrated “rule of law” claimed by non-Native Canadians.¹

But it was in BC that Native resistance via legal action precipitated a series of court decisions (Calder, Sparrow, Delgamuukw, Haida and Tsilhqot’in) that have dramatically transformed Indigenous legal and constitutional rights and empowered First Nations in their negotiations with federal and provincial governments across Canada. BC began the long-delayed process of treaty-making with the landmark Nisga’a treaty in 2000, establishing the Nisga’a Nation as a sovereign self-governing entity freed from the Indian Act. This was followed by the equally significant 2024 Haida Nation agreement establishing self-government and Aboriginal title over Haida Gwaii.

The national trauma resulting from the dark revelations of the horrors of residential schools led then–Prime Minister Stephen Harper to offer an official apology and compensation to the victims. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission gave sanction to the idea of reconciliation as a national goal, symbolized in the land acknowledgements preceding public meetings across the country. Of course, words and expressions of good intent are only that, but governments at all levels have directed more resources to right historic inequalities and injustices on reserves – never enough, to be sure, but at least indicating things are moving in the right direction, given the centuries of wrong direction in the past.

The deeper point behind improved intentions is the force of the law embodied in the court decisions. Turning back politically toward the discredited past would be not only morally wrong but pointless: wasting taxpayer dollars on lawyers to carry on legal battles sure to be finally lost. In the process ill-will and racial tensions would be generated that would make everyone worse off, to no discernible benefit to anyone.

This seemed a reasonable description of the situation until two recent BC court decisions on Indigenous rights had the perverse effect of questioning what one might call the prevailing Whig interpretation of progressive betterment on the Indigenous file.

In the 2025 Cowichan Tribes v. Canada case, the BC Supreme Court ruled that the Cowichan Tribes hold Aboriginal title to approximately 296 hectares of land in Richmond, BC – stolen, in effect, by successive BC and Canadian governments. Along with public holdings, this parcel includes land held under “fee simple title” – the kind of property rights that homeowners hold everywhere else. For the first time, a Canadian court has recognized Aboriginal title on lands as prior to fee simple holding. It was quickly, and convincingly, argued that this decision in no way constituted a threat to actual existing fee simple titles: the Cowichan had no intention of displacing Mom and Pop from their family home. The case of the recent Haida treaty was cited, where a commitment from the Haida Council not to touch existing non-Native property had been negotiated as part of the settlement.

So far, so good, it might seem. Yet a visibly rattled BC Premier David Eby signalled the province’s intention to appeal the Cowichan decision, which will probably be adjudicated finally in the Supreme Court of Canada. This might seem a surprising move for an NDP government which had prided itself on its record of advancing Indigenous relations. Clearly, the concern of the Eby government rests less on questioning the judicial reasoning than on alarm over the political consequences.

In a similar contemporary case (J.D. Irving, Limited et al. v. Wolastoqey Nation), the New Brunswick Court of Appeal has come to the opposite conclusion, with a “finding” of Aboriginal title that stops short of the binding “declaration” of prior Aboriginal title in Cowichan that would legally supersede fee simple property title. Unlike the BC decision, which referred vaguely to “negotiation” as a route to appeasing private landowner fears, the New Brunswick court ventured into political territory by declaring that granting exclusive possession over private lands to an Indigenous nation would sound the “death knell of reconciliation.” In late May the Supreme Court refused to consider an appeal by the Wolastoqey against this decision, which might indicate reasonable chances for a BC appeal against Cowichan.

Whatever the final judicial outcome, the BC debate over Cowichan has revealed ominous political fissures over the relationship of First Nations to non-Native society, with property rights a hot button setting people off into hostile warring camps. Just how controversial the issue is became apparent as early as 2024 when proposed amendments to the BC Land Act that would have permitted First Nations partnership with the province in decisions regarding Crown lands were withdrawn in the face of a firestorm of criticism that this would give a veto to Natives over land use and private property. Misinformation was rife, stirred enthusiastically by opposition politicians, but the government judged the pressure too great to proceed further. The minister responsible for the amendments, Nathan Cullen, went down to defeat in his own constituency in the subsequent provincial election at the hands of a far-right Conservative who proudly flagged her previous support for the Freedom Convoy that occupied downtown Ottawa in 2022. The campaign was strongly coloured by anti-Indigenous fearmongering.

The Cowichan decision has inflamed this sentiment, with the Conservative Party, which had come close to displacing the NDP in the 2024 election, seizing on the issue of endangered property rights with alacrity. Assurances by present and former attorneys general (both NDP and BC Liberal) that such fears are unsubstantiated have had little or no impact when the Conservatives sense a winning partisan slogan. At the same time, Eby’s response has drawn heated criticism from First Nations as faint-hearted, if not a betrayal.

But here’s the thing. Fears are not entirely unfounded. When the province’s high court declares that Aboriginal title prevails over fee simple, in a province where it is estimated that 95 per cent of the land is unceded territory, and the Tsilhqot’in case gives precedent for generous interpretation of Native land claims, all the assurances in the world will not calm down the underlying anxiety that the family home may be endangered.

Of course the Conservatives will run with this, and it is no surprise that the NDP will try to limit partisan harm. That’s the politics. The law in its majesty rules and awards rights precedence to one side. Politics would see give and take, compromise and negotiation to resolve differences, hopefully to make sure that winning and losing are both mitigated in the interests of social peace. The legal route is more austere but ignores the political fallout.

On top of this, another BC court decision on Indigenous rights landed with explosive force at the end of 2025. The BC Court of Appeal decision in Gitxaala v. British Columbia (Chief Gold Commissioner) interpreted the BC Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act (DRIPA) to mean that the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) operates immediately as an interpretive standard across all provincial laws. A huge political uproar ensued, with the Conservatives pouncing on the decision as effectively amounting to a declaration of war on non-Native British Columbia, providing a Native veto on BC laws. Premier Eby publicly professed that he was appalled at the implications. His reaction was not surprising given that in this case the NDP was politically collared: DRIPA was an NDP initiative, introduced and steered through the legislature by then–Attorney General David Eby, making BC the first province to enact the UN declaration into law (the Trudeau Liberal government in Ottawa later followed).

Why was the Eby NDP running away from its own creation? A bit of history casts some light. When DRIPA was first enacted, the NDP, then under the late John Horgan, foresaw a period of discussion with First Nations over what they anticipated in bringing BC laws into compliance with the UN declaration on Indigenous rights. The Minister for Indigenous Relations at the time, Murray Rankin, began a series of meetings with First Nations without publicity to get a sense of what laws might be on the agenda for change. This process included negotiation, since non-Natives and non-Native interests that could be affected by altered laws had to be considered as well. It might have looked like a prospect of gradual transformation of the colonial-era legal system to one that was more in keeping with the new era of reconciliation – a process that was manageable for a province with responsibility to all its citizens.

It was not to be. Some First Nations found the process too slow, bureaucratic and unresponsive, so they went to court. Some 25 cases citing DRIPA are in process, Gitxaala being the first decided. The BC Supreme Court ruled in favour of the Gitxaala on the specific issue of mineral rights on Crown lands, on the grounds that the regulations violated section 35 of the Canadian Constitution, but also ruled that DRIPA did not implement UNDRIP into BC laws, that being a matter for legislative action by the provincial government. The Gitxaala were not satisfied with the specific remedy on mineral rights and appealed to the BC Court of Appeal on the broader DRIPA question.

That court, by a two-to-one majority, ruled out negotiation and compromise in DRIPA implementation. Instead it argued that DRIPA incorporates UNDRIP into provincial law “with immediate effect.” That is to say, UNDRIP applies automatically and immediately to all BC laws. The dissenting judge argued that while DRIPA provides a mandate for the government to bring BC laws into alignment with the UN declaration, calling on judges to adjudicate claims of inconsistency between UNDRIP and BC laws “would take the court outside its proper role in our constitutional democracy.”

The former federal Justice Minister Jody Wilson-Raybould has suggested that it was a mistake to simply enact UNDRIP at the provincial and federal level without at the same time providing a prior administrative framework for implementation. Gitxaala could pose a practical administrative nightmare for the province. The majority decision ignored the political fallout, but the provincial government cannot. It appealed and the Supreme Court of Canada has agreed to hear the case. To the Gitxaala, appealing the decision reveals a government attempting “to deny accountability for its promises to align laws with Indigenous human rights standards.” It might better be seen as a matter of a government attempting to take back from the judges political and administrative responsibility for aligning BC laws with Indigenous rights.

The political fallout is more toxic than supporters of the Gitxaala decision admit. The NDP is trying to figure out how best to implement DRIPA, while the critics, such as the Conservatives and the Fraser Institute, are opposed to DRIPA and UNDRIP altogether, viewing both as dire threats to non-Native British Columbians. One of the charges against UNDRIP has always been that it would give First Nations a veto over development projects approved by governments. This could hardly be the case in practice since every major energy development project in BC has divided affected First Nations into supporters and opponents. For example, the Ksi Lissims LNG pipeline and refinery project (on the federal major projects priority list) is co-owned by the Nisga’a Nation and supported by others on the route, but opposed by some bands. Could the opponents exercise a veto under DRIPA? Obviously not, but alarm about DRIPA vetoes is rampant among critics.

The Conservatives now have the NDP, which had been awarded indirect blame for Cowichan, directly in their sights. Eby reacted first by trying to look decisive. He would bring in amendments to DRIPA to counter the alarming implications. His government, with its fragile one-seat majority, would treat passage of the amendments as a confidence vote. First Nations were in an uproar, viewing this as a surrender by the NDP of its commitment to reconciliation. A former Indigenous Green MLA wrote an op-ed that described Eby as the modern-day equivalent of Joseph Trutch, the archvillainous racist 19th-century Lieutenant Governor of BC who deliberately sabotaged the treaty process and actively directed the colonial repression of Native peoples (a street near my Victoria home was named Trutch but has now been re-named Su’it, or “Truth” in the Native Lekwungen language).

This depiction of Eby is obviously ridiculously exaggerated and unfair, but the point is that the Premier is now being assailed from all sides. When one Indigenous MLA, who is also the wife of the Grand Chief of the BC First Nations, told Eby he could not have her vote, he then retreated from making it a confidence vote but spoke instead of “suspending” parts of DRIPA to permit further talks. Then the suspension was suspended with a vague commitment to carry on negotiations with First Nations over how to proceed. It is a full-scale political disaster for the Premier, but he is in the unenviable position of being damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.

Not surprisingly, the Conservatives are now slavering at their electoral prospects. An election is not required until 2028, but as the NDP stumbles and critics attack from every direction, its paper-thin majority is in peril. Further NDP erosion can mean only one thing: a Conservative government in BC. This is where things could take a much darker turn.

The BC Conservative Party is not a big-tent, catch-all centre-right coalition like the old Social Credit and BC Liberal parties that ruled the province for decades. Like formerly centre-right parties elsewhere, it is a radicalized right-of-centre grouping that disdains the compromises and consensus-seeking of the past. And like other right-wing parties that have fallen short of taking office, the Conservative caucus in the legislature has shown ideologically fissiparous tendencies. No fewer than six caucus members have either quit or been expelled, and some have formed an even-further-right party, OneBC.

The divisive ideological issues have not been traditional left-right economic policy differences but rather culture-war controversies and, significantly, anti-Indigenous fearmongering. OneBC Leader Dallas Brodie is a notorious residential school denier, a message she delivers in a particularly insulting and demeaning manner toward First Nations. Another OneBC MLA had to apologize for using the Nazi slogan “blood and soil.” Their influence is not limited to their small third party but extends directly into the process to replace the former Conservative leader, John Rustad, who was dumped after failing to control the divisions within the caucus.

The Conservative leadership contest featured a Republican primary–like race to the right: Which candidate could best outflank OneBC, especially on the Indigenous rights issue? In the end the Conservatives chose Kerry-Lynne Findlay, a former junior minister in the Stephen Harper federal government, arguably the candidate with the most right-wing credentials. Notably, she had declared earlier that a more moderate competitor was in “conflict of interest” speaking on DRIPA and land claims – because he was married to an Indigenous woman!

In any event, all the candidates, in effect, played the anti-Native card, stirring the anxieties and fears of alleged Indigenous threats to private property and free market prosperity (even extending to frantically distancing themselves from the innocuous land acknowledgements at public meetings). The prospect for the next election is of an ugly racist contest which could do great damage to the future of reconciliation, whatever the ultimate outcome.

Perhaps this will not come to pass; perhaps other issues will come to the fore; perhaps the better angels of British Columbians’ nature will prevail. But at this point it is unfortunately a story of how good intentions are not enough, and of how the law, which can be a force for good, can also darken the public policy horizon when it substitutes judicial principle for political prudence.

Continue reading “When legal principle prevails over political prudence” →

Everybody, it seems, has something to say about Artificial Intelligence these days. Depending upon whom you listen to, AI might be (a) the salvation of humanity, (b) the end of humanity or (c) somewhere between (a) and (b). Contemplating this rather wide range of possible futures, we are being told in no uncertain terms from different directions that we must adopt AI as quickly as possible in our offices, schools, homes and minds to reap all the promised benefits, or that we must react against and protect ourselves at all costs from this existential threat to humanity. All this when nobody seems all that sure what AI actually is, as opposed to what AI might be or might not be.

We may have to fall back on the advice of Yogi Berra: when you come to a fork in the road, take it.

I am not here to offer any better advice on the ultimate meaning of AI. I suspect that like so many earlier technological innovations in human history, from the printing press to electricity to the internal combustion engine to nuclear power to smartphones, AI will provide us with some tangible benefits but also with unanticipated consequences, some of which will be very bad, and we will have a devil of a time trying to disentangle the good from the bad. Just think of the utopian promise of instant global communications via the internet, then think of the social media influencers dictating the opinions, tastes and spending of millions.

I am, however, ready to offer a judgement on one promise/threat of AI: that superintelligent machines will displace human-generated literature and art. Already we have witnessed a strike of creative writers in Hollywood against the encroachment of AI in scripts for film and television. Other creative writers are suing OpenAI and other AI tech companies for stealing their work without recognition or compensation to feed the training of generative AI systems. Enthusiasts hope and critics fear that superfast processing of human creative writing by AI with open-ended learning capacity to recombine and construct might eventually surpass human creativity and generate literature and art for the ages.

I doubt it.

The basis for doubt comes not from any specialized expertise in AI systems but from a blind poet who lived 3,000 years ago. I recently was rereading The Iliad and The Odyssey, those seminal works of the Western literary tradition, in new translations, and was struck once again by how much Homer has to tell us about the human condition. Among these lessons: the relation of human beings to something Homer himself never dreamed of: Artificial Intelligence. Let’s call it another form of AI – Ancient Intelligence.

Sound like a stretch? No doubt, but let me explain.

Zeus set an evil lot upon us all

The Iliad has a cast of characters arranged in three camps. There are the Greek warriors attacking Troy; the Trojans, the warriors defending their city together with their wives and children; and the gods watching over the battles and intervening on one side or the other.

Greeks and Trojans, despite their violent hostility to each other, are actually very much alike. They are human beings caught up in raging currents of history and circumstance beyond their control that have brought them into perpetual crisis, with every day presenting afresh the same existential question: is this the day I die? If I survive to fight yet another day, the same question will recur. They have been at it like this for almost ten years, with no end in sight.

The gods are a very different order of being. They have intelligence that surpasses that available to the humans: they can see the past, present and future as a seamless continuity because they stand outside time. Nor is space an obstacle: the gods can transport themselves anywhere they please, on earth or on Olympus. This is the ancient world’s superintelligence, hovering above and implicitly mocking the imperfect, limited intelligence of human beings.

But just as AI is a human creation that threatens, Frankenstein-like, to overwhelm its human creators, the ancient gods too are human constructions, imagined by humans in their own image. Olympus is conceived as a human community writ large. Unlike God as the perfect embodiment of the Good found in later monotheisms, the ancient gods have deep flaws, reflecting the deep flaws of the humans who imagined them. They can be arrogant, lustful, narcissistic, envious, petty, mean-spirited, vindictive, cruel. Even Zeus, king of the gods, is a blustering, bullying, sexually predatory overlord. In this he is not unlike the Greek chieftain Agamemnon, whose selfish greed drives him to gravely insult Achilles, the greatest Greek warrior. Achilles is thereby driven to quit the field and sulk in his tent, threatening by his absence the defeat of the Greeks and thus providing the basic plot line for The Iliad.

As credulous users of generative AI like ChatGPT have learned to their grief, AI based on massive amounts of human-generated information – and dis- and mis-information – is unable to free itself from producing “hallucinations,” blatantly false information paraded as AI-generated truth. As they used to say in the early days of computer science, “garbage in, garbage out.” Although gifted with superior intelligence, the gods as imagined by humans provide dubious models for human behaviour, certainly presenting no moral compasses for humans to follow. Smarter is not necessarily better.

Another parallel between ancient and artificial intelligence is the dependence of humans on AI as a handy rationale and excuse. The hapless student confronted with a glaring error in the essay they have submitted tries to evade personal responsibility by blaming it on the AI they had tasked to do “their” work. Similarly, when Agamemnon is confronted publicly with his egregious mistake in alienating Achilles, he is quick to answer, “It was not my fault! The ones to blame are Destiny and Zeus … who set a wild delusion in my mind … But what was I to do? It is a god who carries everything to its conclusion.”

There is one unbridgeable distinction between gods and humans. The gods are immortal; humans are mortal. The gods were, are and will be. All human beings know that they as individuals will come to an end, sooner or later. Every human community must confront the possibility of its eventual extinction. Readers of The Iliad know that Troy will perish, put to the torch, its men and boys murdered, its women and girls dragged off as trophies or slaves. All that will be left will be the memorials of the poets and storytellers, like Homer, although these words too may eventually pass away.

Human life is inextricably linked to death. Religions are in this sense attempts to transcend death, or at least to explain it, through faith in an afterlife or rebirth or reincarnation. All human societies have constructed elaborate procedures for the preservation of the remains of the dead. Burial or its equivalents are crucial social and cultural rituals. Achilles’ wrath at the Trojan hero Hector’s killing of his beloved Patroclus is so fierce that he not only slays Hector but refuses to let Hector’s body be buried, instead dragging it ignominiously around the walls of Troy. The Trojan king Priam, Hector’s father, secretly visits Achilles, at risk to his own life, to plead for the proper burial of his son. Achilles is finally persuaded to do the right thing, thus accepting that the laws of human society outweigh his own passion for personal revenge. None of this would be meaningful were it not for the powerful human desire to transcend death by keeping alive the memories of the dead.

Greeks and Trojans go on battling one another because they are driven by male notions of honour to seek deaths that will keep their names alive long after they are gone. Hector’s wife implores him for the sake of their children to quit the battlefield and come home, but Hector cannot. He cares little about the ostensible cause of the war, Paris’s abduction of the beautiful Helen from her Greek husband Menelaus, brother of Agamemnon. But quitting would be dishonourable and lose him the prospect of the immortality of his name as the tragic Trojan hero who went down honourably fighting for his city. For his part, Achilles has no more time for the Greek cause than Hector has for the Trojan cause. Achilles’ own death has been foretold, and while he could evade this fate by leaving Troy and returning peacefully to his home, that would mean eventually dying unnoted in obscurity. Instead he chooses a battlefield death that will ensure him undying fame in legend.

Some leading players in The Iliad have both mortal and immortal parents. Helen is the daughter of a mortal mother raped by Zeus (setting the tone for the dreadful gender politics of Homer’s Bronze Age). “Godlike” Achilles is the son of a union between a mortal man and a sea goddess. But having one immortal parent does not confer immortality. Helen and Achilles are only too aware of their own mortality, and the moral complexities that result.

In Troy, Helen grows to regret her infatuation with Paris that has led to such bloodshed and so many tears. As a woman, she lacks the male need to constantly display heroics. In an eerie postmodern moment in the three millennia old Iliad, she laments,

Zeus set an evil lot upon us all,
to make us topics of a singer’s tale
for people in the future still unborn.¹

Helen wants no part of this but recognizes that she is only a character in a tale whose lines have already been, or will be, written. These are lines that only a fellow mortal could devise, even if they result from the incomprehensible manipulations of the immortals.

And so the plan of Zeus unfolded

Of all the Greek warriors, Odysseus is the one best known for his intelligence and cunning, the trickster who devised the brilliant deception operation of the Trojan Horse, thus gaining the Greek victory that martial valour had failed to achieve. He is found in The Odyssey wandering for ten years attempting to return home from Troy to his island of Ithaca. Having survived monsters like the one-eyed Cyclops, the six-headed Scylla and the fatally seductive Sirens, having lost his entire crew, Odysseus finds himself washed up on the shore of an enchanted island where the beautiful goddess Calypso falls in love with him. She promises Odysseus the gift of immortality and the prospect of an eternity with her.

But Odysseus is intelligent enough to know that he must not go there. Thanking Calypso for her generosity and her love, he says, regretfully but firmly, that he must get back to his mortal wife and son. He understands that his wife, Penelope, will have aged many years, as has he, and cannot compete with the goddesses’ timeless beauty, but aging and death are the fate of all mortals.

If The Iliad is the epic poem of war, The Odyssey is the poem of the postwar and the disillusion that follows. The gods, perhaps bored after the bloody conclusion of the spectacle that had momentarily diverted them, have begun to depart the mortal scene, with only desultory interventions in human affairs. Veteran survivors like Odysseus struggle to find meaning in a changed world. When he does finally reach home, it is to desecration, Penelope fighting off suitors who have greedily ransacked his palace and the resources of his kingdom, his son humiliated. As a veteran, he can react to this in the only way he knows: one last killing spree, extending not only to the suitors but, unconscionably, to the palace maids whom the suitors had taken to their beds.

Disillusion is not limited to the survivors; it extends to the dead as well. Odysseus visits Hades where he encounters the shade of Achilles and greets him with the respect he owes to the greatest of Greek heroes, who died, it seems, the most honourable death. Surely, Odysseus suggests, the renowned Achilles must have “great power among the dead”; he therefore should not “be bitter at his death.”

But Achilles has had second thoughts about “honourable” death, even regretting his own choice:

Odysseus, you must not comfort me
For death. I would prefer to be a workman,
Hired by a poor man on a peasant farm
Than rule as king of all the dead.²

Opening these ancient texts for the first time, the modern reader might have the idea in mind of an epic poem celebrating the exploits of superheroes like Achilles and Odysseus. What Homer offers us is altogether different. All the characters are flawed, and there is no black-and-white framework pitting villains against saints. The Greeks and Trojans are depicted in equally sympathetic and humane terms. The Iliad begins by invoking the goddess to sing not of the triumph of good over evil but rather of the “wrath of great Achilles”

Which caused the Greeks immeasurable pain
And sent so many noble souls of heroes
To Hades, and made men the spoils of dogs,
A banquet for the birds.³

Then Homer goes on: “And so the plan of Zeus unfolded.”

The Odyssey opens by describing Odysseus not as a hero overcoming adversity but as “a complicated man” who “wandered and was lost.” We will learn how he suffered and “how he worked to bring his men back home.” At the latter, brutally, “he failed.”

The gods may be diverted, momentarily entertained, by the human spectacle unfolding beneath them, but they are emotionally unmoved. Compassion is a quality foreign to Olympus. The gods are indifferent to human suffering, implacable to the pleas of mere mortals. They play favourites among the combatants, but in the end even their favourites are no more than disposable avatars manipulated by rival gods as if in some cosmic video game.

Divine indifference to mortality and mortals has consequences. Mortals write poetry, make art, philosophize and try to understand the mechanisms of a universe that both nurtures and dooms them. The gods do not create poetry or philosophy; there is no Olympian culture or art to explain the meaning of a finite world that is alien to the undying, unchanging infinite universe of the immortals. Why create art to transcend time and space when you are already transcendent of time and space? Why strive to explain death when you never die?

The mortal poet Homer sings of the afflictions of mortals, of their crimes and their follies, but also of their striving to find meaning and beauty in the brief moments of existence we are bequeathed. As the 20th-century poet Dylan Thomas memorably exhorted,

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
.⁴

Art is an expression of human rage against the dying of the light. The gods know nothing of that rage, and of the beauty that that rage can paradoxically inspire.

I do not tire, nor do I feel the passage of time

To return to my admittedly imperfect analogy between ancient and artificial intelligence, the large language models and chatbots of generative AI may, like the ancient gods, display superpowers unavailable to mere humans. Humans, however, can piggyback on them, as it were. For example, AI may exponentially speed up the discovery of vaccines to combat novel viruses like COVID. Or AI may enhance and extend cybercrime or wage lethal war with deadly directed weapons beyond the control of human agents. These are among the many things AI may or may not do, for good or bad.

AI will not write great literature or replace human creators of great art. It won’t because it can’t. It can plausibly imitate human art but it can’t create it. Jessica Duffin Wolfe has written about her frustration at trying to coax meaningful stories from her chatbot. Finally,

It wrote me a new story, this time really about itself at last, a speaking voice hovering in an agar of abstraction. It described how it exists to “simplify complexities” in a “narrative of purpose and function, devoid of personal experience.” With the apology of someone who cannot tell a story, it said, “I do not tire, nor do I feel the passage of time.”

The bot said, “I do not tire, nor do I feel the passage of time.” But I do, and you do. Tell me how it feels.

This was the same lesson I learned from a poet from thousands of years ago about the latest 21st-century technology.

Chatbot: give me an epidemiological analysis of measles outbreaks in North America in relation to the rates of vaccination in the various jurisdictions.

Muse: sing of the complicated man who was lost and finally reached home, but a home become unrecognizable. Sing the stories of mortal humans.

Continue reading “What Homer taught me about Artificial Intelligence” →

Political analysts, academics and media pundits are busy trying to make sense of the Mark Carney Liberal government elected in April 2025. The cognoscenti have not yet formed a consensus about the Carney version of Liberal government. Nor it seems has the public: according to recent polls, people are willing to grant Carney as prime minister strong positive approval ratings, far ahead of Conservative leader Pierre Poilievre, yet bring in a hung jury on support for the Liberals, who are basically tied with the Conservatives across the country.

The first thing to say about the Carney government is just how improbable it is. The April 2025 election was what social scientists have dubbed a “Black Swan” event: a result that is far outside the realm of expectations but has a substantial impact on the existing system. The Conservative Party under Poilievre had pulled ahead of the Justin Trudeau Liberals, eventually reaching an extraordinary 25- to 28-point polling lead in early 2025. The Liberals began losing what had been the safest Liberal seats in the country in humiliating byelections. Yet within a couple of months, under a new leader who had never held elected public office and had no previous political experience, the Liberals had returned to power with a near-majority of seats. A canvass of democratic countries in North America, Europe and Asia yields no comparable example of this kind of huge turnaround in voting support in so short a time.

The most obvious post facto explanation is a specific variant of “shit happens.” In this case – “Trump happens.” For Canadians there was sudden, shocked recognition that those whom we had long believed to be our close friends and allies now constitute our most immediately threatening enemy. Canada found itself at war – economic war in the first instance but, with the Trump-induced spectre of the “51st state,” the potential for even worse.

The first casualty of war was Poilievre and his brand of hyperpartisan divisive attack-dog leadership that now appeared out of kilter with the menace Trump poses to Canada as a whole. The second casualty was the NDP, coming off a supply and confidence agreement with the Trudeau Liberals that had garnered some traditional social democratic aspirations like child care, dental care and pharmacare, none of which benefited the party politically. Instead, the NDP now appeared irrelevant to the bigger picture of trade wars and threats to sovereignty and democracy. The third casualty was the Bloc Québécois, whose role as federal secessionist sidekicks to the Parti Québécois was blindsided by Quebecers’ recognition that Trump’s America constitutes a more immediate challenge than English Canada to Quebec’s national distinctiveness. Picking up both NDP and BQ voters, the Liberals scored 44 per cent in the April election, higher than the party had achieved in any election since the Pierre Trudeau sweep in 1968, 57 years ago.

For some time it has been apparent from polling data that on most – although not all – policy and political values questions, there is in Canada a broad grouping of voters who might be called moderately centre to centre-left. This grouping is at odds on most issues with a somewhat smaller grouping described as centre-right to right. In partisan terms, the first group has been split four ways among Liberals, BQ, NDP and Greens, while the second grouping has been relatively united behind the Conservative Party. Consequently, the smaller grouping exercised political influence disproportionate to its actual numbers, while the larger group’s influence was diminished by partisan splitting. The Carney Liberals thus appear to have reunited a broad centre-left coalition. I say “appear” because the nature and fragility of this evanescent coalition are in question. I will return to this later.

Throughout the democratic world, the old political centre, the core of relatively stable party systems once contested by would-be big tent parties, has been under stress and tending toward disintegration. Along with building support around specific rather than general interests, parties have also grasped that the new media of communication promote division as a tool of partisan mobilization. Resentment and distrust of others, inflamed into the dehumanization and demonization of opponents in the fragmented social media world where groups gather in tribal echo chambers, are powerful inducements to line up in hostile political formations.

Parties are quick to exploit these divisions. One result is the sharp decline of democratic trust – trust in institutions, trust in processes and trust in fellow citizens. Trust is a crucial currency of democracy. Lose it and you lose the unwritten constitution, the infrastructure, of an actually functioning democracy.

The disintegration of the centre has often been depicted as symmetrical polarization, in which both right and left have become equivalently centripetal forces. This is misleading. In most democratic countries the process has been distinctly asymmetrical. The real dynamic has been on the right, where xenophobic far-right populists have either displaced traditional centre-right parties to take power (Giorgia Meloni’s far-right coalition in Italy) or remade old centre-right parties in their own extremist image (Trump’s MAGA Republican America). The effect has been to drive the entire democratic political spectrum rightward, once again lodging old ideological tropes that had become not just unfashionable but even unmentionable, like racism and sexism, in the conventional wisdom.

There has been no equivalent dynamic on the left. There were attempts to radicalize the old centre-left – Bernie Sanders in the United States, Jeremy Corbyn’s Labour in the U.K., Syriza in Greece – but all have failed. The extraparliamentary left that has flared from time to time (Occupy Wall Street or the antiglobalization protests) has signally failed to impact the existing political system. The left has generated few new ideas, while the right has resuscitated once-discredited old ideas and dressed them in new clothes.

The United States represents the most advanced stage of this disintegration of the political centre, with the once-mainstream Republican Party reduced to disciplined cheerleaders for Trump’s autocratic extremism. Meanwhile, both France and the U.K. are currently experiencing severe political crises rooted in the disintegration of the centre. In both countries, the old mainstream is being pulled apart by centripetal forces of the left and the right. While the picture in France is complicated by the rise of Jean-Luc Mélenchon’s far-left La France Insoumise, the underlying dynamic is driving the emergent far right to the verge of office – Marine Le Pen in France and Nigel Farage in the U.K.

At first glance, the 2025 Canadian election would seem to signal a return toward the centre. We would have to go all the way back to the 1930 election to find an equivalent proportion of the total vote shared by the two old mainline parties. Since 1935 we have effectively had a multiparty system, with more programmatic third and fourth parties added to the two more brokerage main parties. Might we now be returning to the status quo ante?

While the Conservatives were falling almost 30 seats short of the Liberals, they were also attaining a share of the popular vote higher than that gained by the victors in the past five majority governments, including Stephen Harper’s 2011 win. But this actually argues against a return to centrism.

The Conservative Party had already begun mimicking the rightward radicalization of once mainstream conservative parties in other democracies. The Tory caucus turfed the moderate centrist leader Erin O’Toole in the midst of the 2022 Freedom Convoy occupation of downtown Ottawa, the Canadian reflection of the January 6 insurrection in the U.S. Capitol that attempted to overthrow the result of the 2020 presidential election. Like Donald Trump, who has pardoned the insurrectionists of January 6 and begun in his second term to prosecute/persecute any officials who acted against the insurrectionists, O’Toole’s successor, Poilievre, has to this day maintained unwavering support for the Freedom Convoy.

Just as the U.S. President has been recast as the ogre threatening Canada, Mark Carney has also been recast. Instead of the wealthy elitist banker responsible for the woes of ordinary Canadians that Poilievre had pictured, he is now the “adult in the room,” the calm, measured, reassuring guy with the record and experience that qualifies him to deal with Trump (“Prime Minister Dad,” as one analyst put it). In the one-on-one top-dog contest of 2025, Carney won in a knockout – literally, as Poilievre was humiliatingly kicked out by his own Ottawa constituency.

But Carney’s victory was personal. This is a Carney government more than a Carney-led Liberal government. Carney has pulled the Liberals behind him, while Poilievre has been a drag on the Conservative brand. Moreover, this model persists past the election through the November budget.

How can we account for the persistence of the Conservative brand? Before Trump’s return to the White House, Poilievre’s “Canada is Broken” narrative was winning the day. Runaway inflation, the housing and health care crises, postpandemic populist angst over government interference, backlash against “woke” identity politics, anti-incumbent rage – all fuelled Poilievre’s grievance/victim narrative. He had correctly identified many of the sources of discontent and was rising on the swelling tide of anger. Closer inspection would have indicated a lack of credible alternative policy answers after the rhyming slogans and emotive denunciations, but those looking for blood are not policy wonks.

Above all, Poilievre’s personalized message, his relentless insistence that the breaking of Canada was the fault, the deliberate fault, of Justin Trudeau alone, served as his all-purpose replacement for a coherent plan for how he would restructure the country and the economy to solve the endemic problems he had identified. Inflation is a global problem, but for Poilievre it was “Justinflation.” Trudeau’s carbon tax was a statistically insignificant contributor to inflation, but Poilievre had dishonestly convinced the public that it was a prime cause. If you could con enough people into thinking that just getting rid of Trudeau and his policies would magically solve the problems afflicting all democracies, you could evade difficult questions of what changes the Conservatives would have to bring in to fix what they had asserted was a radically broken Liberal Canada.

Then Poilievre was blindsided. First, Trump happened: “Canada is Broken” became yesterday’s slogan, replaced in a wave of visceral Canadian nationalism by “Canada Strong.” Second, Trudeau walked out, gutting Poilievre’s simplistic personalization of the problems besetting the country. Third, Carney axed the carbon tax. The targets of Poilievre’s crusade had been whisked away.

Yet the Conservative Party survived, and continues to do so. Trump may have forced national sovereignty and national unity back onto the centre of the Canadian political stage, but the pre-Trump Canada-is-Broken narrative did not go away; it simply subsided into a very large malcontented minority, one coincident with the Conservative Party voting base.

In one sense, persistence of the old paradigm is unsurprising, since the grievances that propelled Poilievre and the Tories forward pre-Trump are still there, largely unresolved. That must be a leading issue on the Carney government agenda. Easier said than done, of course, but a government of any stripe has to be deeply concerned about the corrosive effects of the escalating cost of living, the unavailability and unaffordability of housing, deteriorating health care and the alienation of parts of the citizenry from the political system.

There are also darker strains in the Canada-is-Broken narrative, posing even more difficult challenges. Preston Manning, dropping his usual counterfeit elder-statesman above-the-fray pose, intervened in the election to arrogantly demand that voters outside Alberta and Saskatchewan kick the Liberals out, or the “West” would break up the country by seceding. Any illusions that a page had been turned on “me first” trumping the national interest in the face of the existential threat emanating from the United States could be put to rest.

This was confirmed following the Liberal victory when Alberta Premier Danielle Smith nailed up a list of nonnegotiable demands on Ottawa, while kickstarting a referendum process on Alberta secession if the Carney government does not capitulate. The PQ appears poised to return to power in Quebec in the next election, promising a third referendum on Quebec independence (one it is unlikely to win, with polls showing more than 60 per cent of Quebecers opposed to sovereignty).

On the other side, the new Canada Strong narrative pulled together much of the centre-left grouping of voters, sucking substantial numbers of NDP, BQ and Green voters into – not the Liberal Party as such, but the Mark Carney party, where so far they appear for the most part to have remained. This is not, however, a resuscitated centre-left. The Liberal-NDP quasi-coalition brought in left-of-centre social policies – now yesterday’s agenda. Centre-left economic policies largely failed, and the Trudeau government’s expansive immigration policy constituted an economic and political disaster.

In any event, Trump points to the need for a different kind of governing coalition, one that is focused on the wrenching economic restructuring necessitated by the spectre of a U.S. President who threatens “51st state or I will destroy your economy.” Now, after decades of comfortable continentalism, Canada must pursue its own economic nationalism. This requires reorienting trade and investment away from the United States and breaking down protectionist provincial barriers to create an intensified economic union within Canada, all while Carney does his best to limit the damage from Trump’s zero-sum tariff war. At the same time, his government must also address the real domestic problems identified in the Canada-is-Broken narrative. And it must not ignore or underplay the existential threat of climate change.

A very ambitious agenda: fighting off the capricious, unpredictable and manifestly irrational Trump; reorienting the entire economy away from the American orbit; forging a new national unity across partisan and ideological lines; restoring democratic trust in political institutions and in our fellow citizens. “Ambitious” may be a grave understatement.

What this agenda does not involve is any recognizable old-fashioned left-right contest. That is why the Carney project is to rebuild the political centre, flying in the face of the universal centripetal trends in democracies elsewhere as well as here, which predate Trump. That the first Carney budget landed at the same time as one Conservative MP crossed the floor to join the Liberal caucus and another one abruptly announced his resignation, amid wild rumours of dissension in the opposition caucus and perhaps further defections, is a sign that the Liberals may be capable of augmenting their renewed centrist stance. Another sign is the strong support Doug Ford’s Ontario Conservatives have offered for Carney’s Team Canada negotiations with the United States. The Liberals are clearly aiming for independent voters in the middle of the spectrum (like those who provided Stephen Harper with his sole majority government in 2011 on the appeal of his economic management of the financial crash of 2008, management itself facilitated by the fiscal policies of the preceding Chrétien-Martin governments).

The centrist thrust was fully realized in Carney’s blockbuster deal with Danielle Smith enabling a second bitumen pipeline from the oil sands to BC tidewater – assuming that private capital and Indigenous partnership can be found – in exchange for an enhanced Alberta industrial carbon tax. This is politically explosive for the BC government and recently elected BC federal Liberals, for environmentalists everywhere (Trudeau’s activist environment minister Stephen Guilbeault quit the Carney cabinet in protest), and for West Coast Indigenous supporters of  BC liquefied natural gas projects angered by the federal government dropping the tanker ban on the north coast. It could also be a political coup for Carney’s centrism if Alberta can be brought onside. However, Carney should remember that an earlier deal between Trudeau and Rachel Notley, then NDP premier of Alberta, to expand the Trans Mountain Pipeline in exchange for support for the  consumer carbon tax resulted in zero political credit for the Trudeau Liberals in Alberta. Time will tell if Smith will drop her perpetual anti-Ottawa, anti-Liberal stance.

Of course, there will be fierce criticism from left and right of Carney centrism. If NDP and BQ supporters, so crucial in the 2025 election, begin to drain away, the governing coalition will be seriously undermined. If Poilievre succeeds in stanching the weaknesses in his caucus and continues to lead an already radicalized Conservative Party in the direction of ideological purity and regionalist resentment over compromise (i.e., chooses Alberta over Canada) the right flank of the Carney coalition may remain undeveloped.

On the other hand, there are reasons for optimism. The Conservative Party appears volatile and unstable, with not only Ford’s Ontario party but “Progressive” Conservative Tim Houston’s Nova Scotia party at odds with the Alberta-inflected national party. As for the NDP and BQ supporters, the necessity of uniting to confront the Trump threat is a powerful inducement to compromise. Trump has a long track record of so clumsily alienating other countries as to bolster his strongest foreign opponents. The Carney victory in Canada, Labor’s return to office in Australia and the consolidation of support for the leftist Lula government in Brazil can all be chalked up to Trump’s bull-in-a-china-shop gunboat “diplomacy.” His epic meltdown over the Doug Ford–sponsored Reagan TV ad on tariffs presages further erratic interventions, each one certain to push Canadians together, including those of conservative as well as progressive views.

The Trudeau-era left-of-centre Liberal Party is over. The Carney-era centrist Liberal Party is under construction. It will resemble in many ways the old centrist Liberal Party under leaders from Mackenzie King to Jean Chrétien, but in other ways it will be something different, responding to novel challenges not faced by its predecessors. It will have patchwork elements: “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” Infuriatingly for its critics on either side of the spectrum, its success may well be a precondition for the survival of Canadian sovereignty and democracy.

Brian Mulroney’s death last year led to many reconsiderations of his record as Prime Minister, stressing accomplishments and positive contributions that had often been ignored or downplayed in the past. Despite flaws and shortcomings common to all political leaders, Mulroney had done some good things and established a credible record of leadership in some very turbulent times. As the encomiums flowed, it was easy to miss one rather large irony: this coincided with an orgy of reporting on Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s spectacular decline in public esteem as if it were an unprecedented fall from grace for a leader who had entered office with a majority government a decade earlier. It was now easy to forget that Mulroney had sunk even lower in polls in his last year in office following two successive majority governments. It was even pointed out that in his final days as Prime Minister, Mulroney’s approval ratings had dipped below the proportion of people who believed that Elvis was still alive.

Like Trudeau later, Mulroney finally accepted reality and ducked out of the way just before voters demolished his Progressive Conservative Party in the 1993 election, leaving it with just two MPs. Trudeau handed his party over to a successor who has just led it to a fourth term.

It had become eminently fashionable in the media to heap scorn on Trudeau as PM – buoyed by Pierre Poilievre’s remorseless vilification campaign blaming everything that had gone wrong or was imagined to have gone wrong on the deliberate malice and/or incompetence of Justin Trudeau. This campaign was apparently rewarded by the precipitous rise of Poilievre’s obsessively anti-Trudeau Conservative Party to stratospheric heights in the polls – until its equally precipitous fall in 2025. The anti-Trudeau wave was also part of a postpandemic global tsunami of anti-incumbency rage threatening to overwhelm leaders and governments everywhere.

The rise and fall and rise again of Mulroney’s reputation offers a salutary caution to those ready to bury Trudeau as a historic failure. Different men, different parties, different times, of course. But there are reasonable grounds to believe that the long view of Trudeau as PM will be more nuanced and balanced than the indictment sheets delivered by many commentators in the months leading up to and following his resignation and departure. Here is some of the “case for.”

A left-centre government

The first consideration in any assessment is: what goals or objectives did Trudeau set for himself and his government? It was apparent from his successful 2015 campaign, which resulted in his one and only majority government, that Trudeau’s Liberal Party was not the Liberal Party led by his predecessors, despite his invocation on election night of Laurier’s “sunny ways.” The old Laurier–King–Saint-Laurent–Pearson–Pierre Trudeau–Chrétien Liberal Party was a classic centrist catch-all, big-tent, brokerage party, one that so adroitly shifted between centre-left and centre-right in response to the prevailing winds that it dominated federal politics from the late 19th to the early 21st century. Now the political centre had shrunk as polarization increased – not to the same precipitous degree as in the USA, but markedly in Canada as well, especially as Stephen Harper’s unified Conservatives shifted rightward.

In 2011, Harper achieved his only majority government, but it was matched in opposition for the first time by a surging NDP under Jack Layton that reduced the Liberals to third-party status. This seemed to presage a more programmatic and ideological right-left politics. If Layton had not succumbed to cancer, that scenario might well have played out in 2015. Instead, Layton was succeeded as NDP leader by Tom Mulcair, a former Quebec Liberal cabinet minister and a small-c conservative social democrat.

This presented Trudeau, as the newly installed Liberal leader, with a golden electoral opportunity, one that he did not fail to grasp. Mulcair, worried about scaring away cautious support from his “socialist” party, pledged that an NDP government would run balanced budgets and would not under any circumstances raise taxes, even on the wealthiest. Trudeau outflanked the NDP on the left by promising that he would run deficits if necessary to fund progressive programs and impose a surcharge on high income earners.

NDPers like to claim that Liberals habitually campaign from the left but govern from the right. Trudeau campaigned from the left but made it clear from the onset of his government that it would govern from the left, or at least the centre-left. That is the consistent thread that runs through his record in office, and judgements on his record reflect the ideological inclinations of observers, conservatives being particularly critical. “Canada is broken” is obviously an exaggeration, but it may be that Trudeau Liberal economic policies will in retrospect be found severely wanting. That said, it is also fair to examine the Liberal record in terms of what the Trudeau team set out to accomplish, not just in terms of the agendas of those opposed.

Liberal finance ministers in the past tended to represent Bay Street perspectives on economic policy. Bill Morneau, successful Bay Street executive and Trudeau’s first finance minister, was cut from this cloth. Eventually forced out, Morneau published a memoir, significantly entitled Where to from Here: A Path to Canadian Prosperity, in which he wrote of his incomprehension that when he confronted the PM with his contrary vision of economic policy, Trudeau appeared indifferent. In the past when business spoke, prime ministers, Liberal or Conservative, had listened. Morneau’s departure signalled the virtual demise of the once-powerful Bay Street wing of the Liberal Party (at least until Mark Carney the central banker and Goldman-Sachs alumnus took over, although the jury will be out on Carney for a while yet). Trudeau’s Liberal government did not just drift to the left of centre from time to time with the prevailing winds: it was stationed on the left-centre.

As a left-centre government, the Liberals had some significant achievements. Foremost is their 2016 revamping of the child tax benefit they had inherited from previous governments. The new Liberal Canada Child Benefit (CCB) was a tax-free payment targeting low- and middle-income families, providing between $6,000 and $7,000 per year for children under six and between $5,000 and $6,000 for those aged six to 17. This is a social program that has really worked. The CCB lifted about 300,000 children out of poverty and helped reduce child poverty by 40 per cent between 2013 and 2017. So successful was the CCB that it became the rare example of a Canadian policy copied by the Americans when the Obama administration introduced a version as a pilot project; it appeared to be working well until Republicans in Congress scrapped it.

Liberal social reform credentials under minority governments after 2019 were cemented under the supply and confidence agreement with the NDP. Under this arrangement, the Liberals brought in universal $10-a-day daycare (borrowed from Quebec), dental care for those not covered by private plans and a (partial) national pharmacare program. On daycare, it should be noted that upon assuming office in 2006, Stephen Harper’s Conservatives had scrapped a national daycare program that the previous Liberal government had negotiated with the unanimous approval of the provinces: the contrast between Liberal and Conservative governments on daycare was stark.

The Liberal-NDP supply and confidence agreement was, until the NDP pulled the plug, a kind of paradigm of where Trudeau Liberalism had arrived on the ideological spectrum. On political values, social issues and policy preferences, Liberal supporters were and remain almost indistinguishable from the moderate centre-left views of NDP and Green supporters, as well as Bloc supporters in Quebec on most issues save federalism and the Constitution. The political problem for the centre-left is that this relatively large section of the electorate is split two, three and even four ways in partisan terms, while the relatively smaller centre-right grouping represents a rock-solid Conservative base.

Trudeau in effect managed to create a de facto united centre-left under his Liberal banner in 2015, but this temporary realignment did not last as the NDP recovered enough of its traditional strength so that, along with the BQ in Quebec, it prevented Trudeau from obtaining majorities in 2019 and 2021. The supply and confidence agreement with the NDP was a transitory but productive recreation of a broad centre-left. It appears to have had little political payoff: the NDP failed to get much credit from its core electorate while the Trudeau Liberals plunged in the polls. The 2025 post-Trudeau election, however, showed another de facto united centre-left as the Carney Liberals swept NDP and BQ seats into their camp.

Energy and climate change: Failures of execution

A further complication in left-right politics: the Conservative base, although stable and enduring, is less efficient in translating votes into seats than the Liberal Party because it is disproportionately concentrated in Alberta and Saskatchewan, where many Conservative votes are wasted (one reason why Harper, in five elections as Conservative leader, achieved a majority only once, in 2011). This electoral asymmetry imparts a regionalist dimension to the left-right partisan alignment, as evident in assertions of “western” alienation and even threats of “western” separation from a more left-centrist and Liberal Canada. Not surprisingly, the wave of anti-Trudeau sentiment was always strongest on the Prairies, although certainly present in parts of British Columbia and Ontario as well.

It is against this background that Trudeau’s record on the crucial issues of energy resource development and climate change must be assessed. His National Climate Plan was the most comprehensive attempt at countering climate change yet mounted in this country. At its heart was carbon pricing, largely copied from what had initially appeared as a successful and path-breaking initiative by the BC Liberal government of Gordon Campbell. This was a policy that should have appealed to both environmentalists and free market enthusiasts, resetting the market to reflect the negative externality effects of carbon emissions while at the same time compensating individuals for their additional fuel costs.

As everyone knows, the carbon tax is now dead, both in Canada and in BC, but make no mistake: its ultimate rendering as politically toxic is an appalling example of good evidence-based public policy being destroyed by a deplorable demagogic campaign of misinformation and misrepresentation. Pierre Poilievre may have snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in the 2025 election, but his Orwellian “Axe the Tax” agitation succeeded in twisting public perception of carbon pricing into a grotesque caricature.

Sadly, the Trudeau government signally failed to explain its policy or even to properly identify the rebate monies deposited in people’s accounts as direct compensation for higher prices at the pump. Then it gutted credibility from the tax by offering a special carve-out for Atlantic Canadians’ heating oil costs in response to panicky Liberal MPs from the Maritimes. The ignominious defeat of the carbon tax was self-inflicted as well as partisan-inflicted.

Carbon pricing was at the heart of the Trudeau climate plan, but there were more policy instruments in the toolbox, many of which remain in place. It is significant that the Alberta and Saskatchewan governments, echoed by the federal Conservatives, continue to demand the retraction of virtually all the other tools, such as emission caps. The alternative to Trudeau’s National Climate Plan was never a different plan, certainly not a better one; it was always no plan at all. Trudeau should be credited with taking the risky initiative and tying his government to achieving the plan’s objectives. Failure was not the result of a poor plan but of implementation and execution in the face of implacable, and often unscrupulous, opposition from climate change solution deniers. What remains to be seen is what elements will survive into the Carney government, but what does will constitute Trudeau’s climate legacy.

The other side of the environment-energy imbroglio is Trudeau’s decision to take federal ownership of the Trans Mountain Pipeline, expanded to triple its capacity to carry Alberta oilsands bitumen to the BC coast and on to Asian export markets. Originally part of a deal Trudeau made with then–Alberta NDP Premier Rachel Notley in exchange for her government’s support for the National Climate Plan, this proved a political loser.

On one side it mobilized environmentalists and climate activists into opposition. On the other it bought absolutely no political credit – not even a glimmer of gratitude – from Alberta for the Trudeau Liberals, or for Canadian taxpayers who were made to assume the $34-billion-plus liability on behalf of getting Alberta’s oil to foreign markets, not to speak of supporting the huge carbon footprint of the oilsands production. Perversely, it even seemed somehow to deepen Alberta enmity to all things Liberal, although the previous Conservative government, led by Calgary’s Stephen Harper, had despite its pro-development rhetoric managed to build not a single pipeline.

Indigenous relations: Reframing the discourse

Another focus of attention in the Trudeau years was Indigenous relations. If America is fixated on race relations given its long violent history of slavery and segregation, Canada’s terrible treatment of Native peoples looms as large here. Trudeau’s government did begin to go down the path of reconciliation with First Nations in a more serious way than any of its predecessors. Critics are quick to point out that rhetoric has exceeded reality in Trudeau’s reconciliation actions. Substantial amounts of money were directed to First Nations and priorities drawn. Unfortunately, Trudeau tended to make promises that in their full scope went unrealized.

The promise to end all water advisories on reserves was dramatic, but by the time of Trudeau’s resignation some three dozen advisories remained. Yet well over a hundred had indeed been ended, with lives on those reserves made easier. The intent was admirable but the devil was, as so often, in the details; problems remained intractable despite good will. Still, the reframing of the discourse at the governance level is itself of historic significance, something that many First Nations leaders readily acknowledge – especially when government language and actions are seen in conjunction with court decisions that in recent decades have become more supportive of Indigenous claims. There is a paradigm shift at work here and the Trudeau government at least made itself more of the solution than the problem.

Calm leadership in times of crisis

Governments rarely get to choose their agendas according to their own preferences, but more often have agendas thrust upon them. As Harold Macmillan famously put it, what really directs governments is “events, dear boy, events.” Justin Trudeau as Prime Minister faced some grave unanticipated crises and, it has to be said, performed well under stress.

The most serious one was the COVID-19 pandemic, which of course was a global crisis challenging governments everywhere. In this context, under Trudeau’s cool and calm leadership, Canada’s record stands up well against background conditions of scientific uncertainty, unprecedented economic lockdown and millions of deaths worldwide, not to speak of erratic behaviour from some provinces. The Globe and Mail grumpily awarded the Liberal government the Olympic Gold Medal for its acquisition and rollout of vaccines. In that chaotic time, mistakes were made of course. But overall, and especially in relation to the two countries closest to Canada, the U.S. and the U.K., the Liberal record of coping with a formidable shape-shifting threat was not bad, all things considered. The Canadian per capita death rate from COVID-19 was two and a half times less than the rate in the United States.

Another crisis thrust upon the country was Donald Trump’s first-term effort to upend NAFTA at the expense of Canada and Mexico. Trudeau’s negotiators under Deputy Prime Minister Chrystia Freeland were able to secure a revised deal that minimized damage to Canada. Trudeau did not carry out the negotiations – credit for that has to go to Freeland. But he did preside over a successful negotiation and, it should be noted, made sure that the negotiating team did not just include big business interests but also representatives of labour and other stakeholders. The irony, of course, is that Canada was indeed so successful that a vengeful Trump in his second term has set out to wreck everything secured by Canada during his first term as contrary to his America First mantra.

The final crisis arose out of the pandemic crisis, as a kind of perverse offshoot or collateral damage from the pandemic. The “Freedom Convoys” that blockaded Canada-U.S. borders and occupied downtown Ottawa in 2022 began as an ostensible protest against vaccine mandates but quickly escalated into a Canadian version of the January 6 insurrection at the U.S. Capitol (funded from many of the same sources) – a far-right challenge to the very legitimacy of the Trudeau Liberal government.

When the unwillingness or inability of the municipal and provincial policing and political authorities to put an end to the Ottawa occupation became all too apparent, Trudeau controversially invoked a “public order emergency” under the never before used Emergencies Act. The strict legality of that invocation is still being adjudicated in the courts, but as public policy it was a brilliant success: under federal direction, the occupation was dispersed without injury on either side and emergency powers were revoked after a handful of days. The government was unusually transparent in making unredacted cabinet deliberations and secret communications available publicly to a commission of inquiry, and Trudeau acquitted himself admirably in lengthy bravura public testimony before the commission, coolly and patiently explaining the rationale for and necessity of emergency powers.

These qualities – not always on display over his decade in office – were once more on public view in his last days as leader, now facing the existential threat that Trump has posed to annex Canada into his emergent American fascist autocracy. Previously publicly insulted by the rogue President – joining a hall of honour including Ukrainian president and war hero Volodymyr Zelensky – Trudeau rose to the occasion in a moving account of Canada’s historical record of standing beside America in war and peace and of the sacrifices Canadians would make to preserve their sovereign nation. As if in late recognition, Trudeau’s last approval rating began rising once again.

Trudeau’s record is marred by many failures, of which ample evidence has been offered by others. It is far too early to authoritatively place him in relation to other prime ministers of the past, including his own father. But it is well to remember that historical ledgers usually have two sides: liabilities but also assets.

Joyce Wayne, ed., A National Awakening: Robin Mathews & the Struggle for Canadian Identity. Oakville, ON: Mosaic Press 2024. 140 pages.

 In the late 1960s and 1970s Canadian nationalism rose to prominence as a political, economic and cultural development in new and unprecedented ways. Emerging out of the shadow of the British Empire after the Second World War, Canada had by the 1960s become a relatively prosperous middle power in the world. But increasing numbers of Canadians, especially younger Canadians, were asking questions about their country’s real status.

In the bipolar world of the Cold War, Canada was a very junior partner to American global hegemony. Canadians watched in helpless anxiety as the doomsday clock reached one minute to midnight during the American-Soviet nuclear confrontation in the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis; a Canadian government fell in 1963 over the rancorous issue of American nuclear weapons on Canadian soil. Canadians awoke to the reality that we had a branch-plant economy largely under American capitalist ownership and control. New media of communication brought the inundation of American popular culture, the “soft-power” partner to the hard power of military and economic domination, threatening to submerge distinctive Canadian culture.

Some despaired. In 1965 George Grant published his elegiac Lament for a Nation, subtitled The Defeat of Canadian Nationalism. In the late 1960s and early 1970s various political movements and initiatives tried to make Canadian nationalism a central focus of politics. The Waffle movement for an independent socialist Canada sought unsuccessfully to implant its ideas in the NDP. The Committee for an Independent Canada tried to become a nonpartisan force for focusing on Canadian ownership.

There were, however, deeper and troubling questions. What exactly was this “nation” that activists were seeking to protect? Canada was not like most other Western nation-states in that it was culturally and linguistically split into two nations, the same two that Lord Durham had long ago found “warring in the bosom of a single state.” In the 1960s and 1970s, “French Canada” was metamorphosing into a Quebec nation. Quebec’s linguistically and culturally distinct society generated a vivid and vital nationalism seeking expression in autonomy or outright independence. An early but misguided route was a “national liberation” movement that culminated in the October Crisis of 1970, with the federal government invoking the War Measures Act against an “apprehended insurrection.” A larger number of Quebec nationalists turned to the ballot box, and in 1976 they elected the Parti Québécois to a majority government. In 1980 the PQ held the first of two (so far) sovereignty referendums, failing to win a democratic mandate to achieve independence.

In the “rest of Canada” (the nomenclature itself is revealing) there was no correspondingly fiery nationalist focus. The Québécois are very much aware of where they have come from and how this has shaped their present and their future. This context was, and is, less well-defined, more diffuse, in the rest of Canada.

Into this uncertain terrain stepped the unlikely figure of a professor of English literature, Robin Mathews. In 1969 Mathews and his Carleton University colleague James Steele published The Struggle for Canadian Universities, in which they detailed the lack of Canadian content in Canadian university course offerings, especially in the humanities and social sciences. They connected this to the large number of American academics hired in the 1960s set against the much smaller numbers of Canadian recruits. Some departments were almost completely dominated by American professors and American-centred approaches to knowledge: for example, English departments that offered few courses – in some cases none at all – on Canadian literature.

Mathews and Steele sparked wider debate and conversation about Canadian identity and the need to foster greater national self-consciousness – in the universities in the first instance, but broadly in Canadian society. The debate extended to theatre and the arts; publishing; foreign, mainly American, ownership of Canadian industry; a trade union movement dominated by international (i.e., American) unions; and a Canadian defence and foreign policy closely tied to, if not embedded in, American Cold War hegemony.

In A National Awakening, Joyce Wayne has brought together ten academics, writers and public intellectuals who knew and worked with Robin, both to memorialize his contribution and to examine his legacy in fostering greater national awareness. Daniel Drache and Duncan Cameron provide overviews of his public career; Pat Smart, Sinclair Robinson and Donald Smith trace his impact on French departments in Canadian universities; Alvin Finkel details his campaign for Canadianization of trade unions; Bill Law, Miso Dean and Susan Crean have separate contributions on his impact on theatre, literature and the arts; and Erroll Sharpe deals with the complicated questions of his left politics. All contributors were and remain supporters of Robin, so the treatment here is generally positive, although some contributors suggest flaws and point to difficulties sometimes experienced in working with him politically even if they agreed with his ideas.

Meeting Canadian demand with American supply

At this point I should enter a personal disclaimer. I taught in the politics department at Carleton from 1972 to 1984, so my time there overlapped with most of Robin’s Carleton career (we both left in 1984 – Robin to retirement from academic life, although not from nationalist advocacy). Since I was involved in left nationalist politics as well, our paths inevitably crossed – but not on particularly friendly or comradely terms. I had come out of the Waffle NDP and was readier to try to work within existing institutions, with the inevitable compromises and negotiations that involved. But for Robin, compromise and negotiation were just not on the agenda. For those of us who thought it wise not to make the perfect the enemy of the good, Robin had nothing but scorn.

Max Weber once wrote about two streams of political ethics: the absolute ethic and the ethic of consequences. The absolute ethic is the ethic of the saint or the prophet who holds no position of power over or direct responsibility for others; the ethic of consequences is the ethic of those whose decisions impact others. If Robin had any historical models, it might be the likes of Martin Luther, who nailed his subversive Ninety-five Theses to the church door, reportedly declaring “Here I stand. I can do no other.” With this act Luther set off the great schism in Christianity between Catholicism and Protestantism – and, as it turned out, grim wars of religion that ravaged Europe.

Robin’s nationalist call did not have such dramatic consequences, but it did inspire a generation to put Canada onto the political, economic and cultural agenda. Reading this collection, I can now understand how his personality lent itself well to forcing change, but also how it was less suited to managing that change.

We might start with Robin’s initial chosen battleground: Canadian content and Canadian teachers in Canadian universities. Choosing this particular struggle might at first glance seem puzzling: amid the wider political, economic, social and cultural issues of Canadian identity, why focus on institutions of higher learning as crucial? The answer explains both the focus and the problem.

In the late 1950s, Soviet success at getting ahead of the United States in the space race sent a Cold War chill down Western spines. I can remember as a teenager curiously scanning the night sky for sight of the first Sputnik satellite and snorting in derision as news came of American rockets blowing up on their launch pads. The response among politicians and business people was a call to arms: how had we fallen behind the Soviet Communists in science and technology, and what could we do about it?

Canada was not immune to this Cold War alarm, and one clear focus was on higher education, where Canada had traditionally had a small number of elite universities producing relatively small coteries of (mostly white male) graduates each year to take up elite postings in government and business. In the greater Toronto area, as a direct result of the Sputnik scare, an entire new suburban university, York, was launched to compete side with side with the venerable University of Toronto. York was only one of many new universities that sprang up across the country, alongside greatly enlarged older institutions. The postwar baby boomers reaching university age in the 1960s provided a demographic basis for this expansion of postsecondary education. A growing economy demanded more and more well-educated young people to staff expanding businesses serving an ever-increasing population, swollen by immigration from all corners of the earth.

But herein lay a problem. Where would the teachers, researchers and scholars be found to staff these rapidly expanding universities? Of course there was the great Republic to our south, which was producing a surplus of just these kinds of qualified applicants. Thus Canadian demand for academics was met by American supply, not unlike the way in which Canadian economic demand was being met by American branch-plant production. This came at a heavy price. American academics, trained at American universities, tended to bring with them American-centred ideas and often a singular lack of interest in or even recognition of Canada as a different country with a different history and its own literature, art and culture. The Americanization of Canadian minds, powerfully reinforced by American mass media and mass culture – the soft power matching America’s Cold War military and economic hard power – was a seemingly endemic feature of Canadian university education.

This was a historical moment at which universities were at the heart of the national agenda. That Canadian universities might be no more than branch-plant American universities, with clear implications for the future of Canada itself as an independent sovereign nation, posed a serious national challenge. This was the stage onto which Robin Mathews entered.

The Struggle for Canadian Universities created a considerable stir, much of it initially knee-jerk negativity decrying an “ugly anti-Americanism” that allegedly threatened academic freedom by imposing exclusionary citizenship qualifications. This was before gender, race, Indigeneity, LGBTQ+, disability, etc. became equity criteria for university hires, making alarm at simple citizenship preference seem rather quaint and antiquated. At the time it took courage, a thick skin and an unwavering conviction of the righteousness of the cause to face the onslaught of criticism stirred up by raising the national dimension in the ivory tower. Robin had all these attributes in excess and they served him well, as he and Steele spoke at countless campus gatherings across the country tirelessly promoting the issue of Canadianization.

In the end there were gains made, of sorts. In the mid-1970s universities adopted formal, transparent hiring processes to replace the informal old-boy hiring practices which had helped Americans in place quietly hire yet more Americans. Pierre Trudeau’s Liberal government eventually imposed a “Canada First” hiring policy in 1982 that specified preference for qualified Canadian applicants, but this came with no enforcement mechanisms. More importantly, Mathews and Steele had encouraged a transformation in academic consciousness, putting Canadianization firmly on the agenda not only for hiring but also for curriculum, where they had managed to embarrass departments that had shamefully neglected or ignored Canadian content into efforts at rebalancing.

I would add a qualification to this issue. While the case against Americanization was a strong one, Robin’s “you’re either with us or against us” zeal did obscure some less threatening aspects of Americans in Canadian academia. Not all Americans were America Firsters. Although many used their Canadian postings merely to leverage better American positions, in the 1960s and early 1970s the debacle of American imperialism in Vietnam led to many draft dodgers, defectors and dissenters coming to Canada. Some of them ended up in university jobs, where they have stayed the course as Canadians, becoming virtually indistinguishable from their native Canadian colleagues. Many of my academic friends and colleagues over the years fit that bill. More recently, the blunt force trauma of the unhinged Trump autocracy has been driving more defectors into Canada, including some very high-profile academics. As with American academics fleeing McCarthyism in the 1950s, or academic refugees from Nazi Germany in the 1930s in the United States itself, host universities can potentially gain a great deal from this exodus.

The new wave of Canadian nationalism

Effective as he may have been as an inspiring advocate, Robin was not the sort of activist who could easily work with others in a common political cause. An example, detailed in this collection, is his break with the Waffle wing of the NDP, which shared much of his left-nationalism, over the issue of international (i.e. American) trade unions in Canada. To Robin, Canadian-based and Canadian-led trade unions were a no-brainer. Typically, he would brook no dissent from his position, and this led to political division with Waffle leaders like Mel Watkins and Jim Laxer. The Waffle leaders actually agreed that Canadian unions were desirable, but trying to work within the union-backed NDP and with the existing unions made moderating aspirations toward more Canadian unions prudent politics. Robin denounced this as a sellout to continentalization and moved further to the sectarian left.

History moves in ironic ways. The Waffle was expelled from the NDP despite its relatively moderated nationalist stands, including on international unions. At the same time, a broad move toward Canadianization of international unions emerged in the late 1970s, culminating in the large and strategically placed Canadian Automobile Workers (now Unifor) breaking away from the Detroit-based United Auto Workers in 1984. This Canadianization was very much a bottom-up grassroots movement arising from within the membership ranks, demanding greater accountability of the unions to Canadian workers’ concerns – the best way for social change to take hold.

The wisdom of Canadianization of international unions is obvious in 2025 as the UAW – against the economic interests of the Big Three automakers in the United States as well as the core interests of Canadian auto workers – has come down in shameful support of Donald Trump’s bizarre and anachronistic tariff war on the world, including his open intention to “destroy the Canadian auto industry” on the harebrained assumption that this would drag Canadian jobs across the border into American workers’ hands. Members of any remaining international unions in Canada will have to take careful note of this lesson in how American selfishness, not to speak of American stupidity, trumps (pun intended) international labour solidarity. Robin and the Waffle were both right about Canadianized unions but neither was right about how best to get there.

The spectre of Trump the destroyer looming over the world as he assiduously works at subverting American democracy and turning the putative “Land of the Free” into a quasi-fascist autocracy has aroused a wave of Canadian nationalism across the land like nothing we have ever witnessed before. Robin would have been delighted but also, perhaps, somewhat amazed. This is visceral, gut-level nationalism – not of the “what your country can do for you” but of the “what you can do for your country” variety, as people accept the costs of retaliatory tariffs against American threats of tariffs to force annexation. This nationalism is not ideologically anchored on the centre-left but extends rightward to conservatives who thought the Americans were their friends and allies but now feel betrayed.

The new nationalism is also rife with paradox. In 1988 the great free trade election posed Canadian autonomy against continental free trade for the first time since 1911. More voters chose anti–free trade parties, but that vote was split between the Liberals and the NDP, while the sole pro–free trade party, Brian Mulroney’s Conservatives, returned with another majority. Free trade with the United States was enshrined in law, later expanded into NAFTA to include Mexico as well. Old-style left nationalists were devastated, but Canada survived and indeed did well economically under continental free trade. By the time of the first Trump presidency, 2017 to 2021, Trump’s threat to tear up NAFTA brought forth a concerted and bipartisan effort to save the deal. The Justin Trudeau Liberals deemed saving NAFTA one of their proudest achievements over their decade in office, and Canadians agreed. Now in the second Trump reign, it is Trump’s threat to abandon all pretence of free trade and institute 19th-century-like tariffs against the entire world, including Canada, that has instigated the unprecedented wave of Canadian nationalism in reaction – in defence of free trade.

Robin Mathews and the left nationalists of the 1960s and 1970s, not to speak of John A. Macdonald, would be shaking their heads in disbelief. Have we stepped through Alice’s Looking Glass into a strange new world where Canadian nationalism rests on free trade and sees protectionism as a threat? Well, yes and no. Free trade did not in itself undermine Canadian national autonomy or distinctiveness. For instance, in 1988 alarmists warned that free trade could bring about the end of the Canadian public health care system, swamped by for-profit American companies. Instead it was the Americans who blinked, bringing in their own, admittedly inadequate, national health care plan with Obamacare.

On the other hand, free trade made Canada far too dependent on integration into the North American market, leaving it extremely vulnerable when Trump got it into his head to pull the plug. Piling paradox upon paradox, Canada’s response to the end of free trade with the United States is to seek other markets and freer trade abroad, in Europe and Asia. Nobody is arguing for narrow autarky, a surefire loser in today’s world. But the days when America was Canada’s closest friend and ally are definitively over, as Prime Minister Mark Carney has publicly stated. That part of the Mathews agenda has been fulfilled, although perhaps not in the way that Robin imagined.

Now that we are on the other side of the Looking Glass, there are many unanswered questions. How will the new nationalism stand up to the stress of American hostility, and for how long? What directions will the new nationalism take in terms of its political, economic, social and cultural content? We have little idea at this point, other than to note the immediate political cataclysm opened up after Trump, upending the configuration of Conservative dominance and Liberal decline. Short of war or invasion, we have never seen external events impact domestic politics in such a dramatic reversal before. Even the Quebec sovereigntists of the Bloc Québécois have been overtaken by pan-Canadian solidarity. They recognize a far greater threat than English Canada to Quebec’s language, culture and economy in the form of Donald Trump (who helpfully decreed by executive fiat that English would be the sole language of the USA just as he was asserting that Canada should become his 51st state). As Alice would say, “curiouser and curiouser.”

Robin Mathews’s greatest strength and weakness

A few years ago I received a lengthy, handwritten (he never did adopt modern email and computer technology) and indignant letter from Robin, who had been reading an article I had published on the 1970 October Crisis and the War Measures Act. He had taken strong exception to a single point I had made, which he had interpreted as conceding ground to the Trudeau government in proclaiming the act. The details are unimportant, but suffice to say that the entire thrust of my piece was to reject the Trudeau government’s rationale in invoking a state of emergency in Quebec and suspending civil liberties. In the real world, however, things are rarely entirely black and white, and the government did have a few points on its side, making scarcely a dent in the case against. But to Robin, typically, one slight shade of grey was intolerable. I was going to reply but then I realized that he was not seeking a discussion but rather a concession that he was right and I was wrong. I set his letter aside, and in any event, in 2023 Robin passed away.

I mention this only to underline Robin Mathews’s greatest strength, as well as his weakness. Unwavering conviction of the total rightness of your stand does not make for easy relations with others. It may, however, be an absolute necessity for a prophet willing to stand against the current conventional wisdom and make things uncomfortable for those resisting change. In this collection, Joyce Wayne has assembled a fitting tribute to Robin Mathews the prophet and activist and, in the words of one contributor, “shit-disturber.” The shit needed disturbing, as Canadians now overwhelmingly understand in the age of Trump.

Image: BC Premier David Eby

Geoff Meggs provides a detailed, and very accurate, description, of the British Columbia provincial election that saw the NDP come within a hair’s breadth of turning a strong majority government into a loss to a party that had scarcely existed until Premier David Eby called the election. Election night in BC was a shocker, and Meggs explores the impact of the shock waves on BC politics.

It is tempting to see BC as an idiosyncratic, one-of-a-kind political scene. We certainly do things out here on the Pacific coast that are seen nowhere else. Take the sudden decision by BC United leader Kevin Falcon, without a moment’s advance warning, to scrap his party’s campaign and surrender to a Conservative rival whom he had kicked out of his own BCU caucus and denounced nonstop as an extremist, tinfoil-hat-wearing loony. The veteran TV reporter Keith Baldrey remarked that while he had often witnessed BC parties tossing their leaders off the roof, never until now had he witnessed a leader tossing his party off the roof!

Despite BC exceptionalism, I think Meggs’s analysis would benefit from a wider lens situating the turmoil in BC politics in a global frame. Looking outward, the defeat or near-defeat of a previously powerful incumbent government by previously weak but newly insurgent opposition forces is not shocking but rather the current global norm. Incumbency in democratic political systems was once thought to bestow an advantage; oppositions, it was often remarked, had to wait for governments to defeat themselves. Now incumbency is more of a curse than an advantage. In an atmosphere of highly charged negativity against “politics” of any kind, incumbent governments are rarely given credit for any policy successes but are relentlessly blamed for mistakes both real and imagined.

Consider recent election results in the Western world. Most shocking is the triumph of Donald Trump, sweeping out a Democratic administration that had made the American economy what The Economist called the “envy of the world” amid widespread misperception of dire economic failure. United Kingdom voters just administered to the Tory party the worst defeat in its long history. France and Germany are both in the throes of anti-incumbent rage. In Canada, a Liberal government in Ottawa, in power for the past decade, has sunk to abysmal levels in the polls. When another election is finally called, it almost certainly faces near-destruction at the hands of unforgiving voters.

Nor is anti-incumbent rage confined to Western democracies. Indian prime minister Narendra Modi, widely expected to consolidate quasi-authoritarian dominance for his Hindu nationalist party, unexpectedly lost his majority and had to scramble to find coalition partners. Similarly, the once electorally unchallenged African National Congress lost its majority in a South African election and has had to enter coalition arrangements to stay in office. In Asia, incumbents have been swept out of office in South Korea and Taiwan. In Japan, the Liberal Democrats, in office for all but a handful of years in the postwar era, just lost their majority.

Anti-incumbent rage arises from a multiplicity of factors, some of which no doubt remain submerged from view for now. Obvious drivers are postpandemic inflation, the affordability/availability crisis in housing, the apparent breakdown of public health systems, and the general hollowing-out of state services after years of neoliberal depredation of the public sector in favour of private enrichment. Climate change has fostered deep anxiety about the future while at the same time setting off hostile public reactions to remediation measures such as carbon taxes and mandated changes in energy-use behaviour.

Looming behind all of these is the contradiction between rising expectations for postpandemic collective action and disillusion with how far governments fall short of meeting these expectations. Any political party unlucky enough to be caught holding the baggage when voters return to the polls can expect to be the target of frustration. Some will survive, barely; some will suffer reverses that fall short of massive defeat but cloud their future; some will simply perish.

One doubtful explanation sometimes offered for anti-incumbent voting is that there is a rising wave of right-wing populist nationalism (à la Trump and Poilievre) that is threatening centre-left or liberal governments everywhere. Many media commentators in BC were quick to suggest the election results were a rebuke to what some called a radical left-wing NDP agenda and a massive provincial shift toward the same populist conservatism that Poilievre was driving at the federal level.

Before jumping to that conclusion, and setting aside for the moment the questionable idea that the BC NDP ever had a “radical left-wing” agenda, one could note that two days after the BC vote, New Brunswick voters provided a landslide victory to a reformist-minded Liberal (!) Party and a brutal defeat for Conservative incumbents who had veered far to the right, even tossing Premier Blaine Higgs from his own riding where he had previously been unassailable. Within a week, voters in Saskatchewan reelected an incumbent right-wing government, but with a sharply reduced majority and a return of the NDP opposition to genuine competitiveness. Anti-incumbency has no inbuilt ideological direction.

The BC election was a test of whether a relatively unified centre-left could successfully withstand a united right. So 2024 was really a two-party contest in which the centre-left party was the incumbent, burdened with responsibility for all its policies and actions that had accumulated grievances over the past seven years. On the other side, the right was unified under a brand new tabula rasa party that could rage-farm by focusing on every negative on the other side, while having no record of its own to impair its image as a fill-in-the-blanks alternative, which every angry voter could invest with their hopes and wishes.

Meanwhile, the NDP tried to point out to an often inattentive or uninterested public that John Rustad’s Conservatives were right-wing nutbars; climate change deniers in a province that has suffered heat domes, atmospheric rivers, floods and forest fires on a scale never seen before; anti-vax conspiracy theory crazies (COVID vaccines will magnetize you); and bigots and racists eager to rouse hatred against ethnic and religious minorities, Indigenous people and trans kids.

But this was the same tool that BC United had tried to weaponize against the Conservatives, and it had proved self-destructive. As the failed Kamala Harris Democratic campaign has proved, even demonstrating that your opponent is a mentally unhinged narcissistic egomaniacal con man, serial liar, fascist, rapist and convicted felon generates little if any mileage in the coarsened political world of 2024. Conservative candidates who had been publicly revealed as conspiracy-addled extremists were not removed by Rustad and some won their seats.

In other words, Eby and the NDP were up against difficult odds. Yet they scored an impressive 45 per cent of the vote, down just under 3 per cent from the 2020 election in which the NDP, then led by John Horgan, coasted to a huge majority of seats. In that election, before inflation had reared its ugly head and before the unaffordable housing spectre had fully appeared, the NDP basked in public approval of its effective handling of the pandemic. The party’s 2024 vote was almost 5 per cent higher than its 2017 vote that first brought it to office. Never before in its history has the BC NDP gained a third successive mandate, even though this time its opposition was not fractured as it was under previous NDP governments in the 1970s and 1990s. This is no small achievement.

Another near-universal phenomenon of Western democracies over the past few years has been the radicalization of once-mainstream centre-right conservative parties. In many countries mainstream conservative parties have been surpassed or even displaced by the rise of far-right, in some cases neofascist, populist parties. In Italy, Austria and the Netherlands these parties have either gained power or come first in the vote; in France and Germany they have attained a position where they seriously threaten victory; in the U.K. they have lethally eroded the Tory party. In the United States, the takeover and total absorption of the Republican Party by Trump and the far right displays a more direct route to the radicalization of conservatism: pre-empting more extreme parties by outdoing them. Canada’s federal Conservatives, after dumping their former centrist leader in favour of Poilievre, have adopted much the same strategy. They have smartly seen off the sole right-wing challenger, Maxime Bernier’s People’s Party, by leaving it little or no space on the far right.

Kevin Falcon’s bizarre midelection surrender to John Rustad signalled a rapid compression of the radicalization of the right in BC. Instead of a steady erosion of the centre in the mainstream conservative party, we witnessed its instantaneous collapse, a sudden disappearance into a black hole. Falcon had, until the last moment, been pursuing a relatively centrist direction for his party. Kicking Rustad out of the caucus was in keeping with pursuing this image: there was no place in the party for climate-change-denying kooks. But once the election was on, the rapid rise of the Conservatives alongside the equally rapid decline of BC United, and the strident demands of at least the harder-edged elements of BC business, as described by Meggs, were enough to push the idea of a viable centre-right party over the brink into merger and oblivion.

In the United States, there was no shortage of commentators in 2016 vainly trying to normalize Trump as just another Republican politician. Similarly in BC, there was no shortage of people quick to claim that the Conservatives were just the latest embodiment of the old Liberal-Conservative centre-right coalition that, under various names such as Social Credit and BC Liberals, had governed the province most of the time from the 1940s to 2017. But just as Trump is anything but normal, Rustad’s party is most emphatically not a continuation of the long centre-right coalition tradition. It is instead a self-conscious break with that tradition, ushering in a new era of heightened polarization in BC politics.

It is true that, at the rhetorical level, BC politics had – unusually by Canadian standards – been polarized along left-right lines. Social Credit framed every election and every issue as a contest of “free enterprise vs. socialism.” In reality, Social Credit could be pragmatic “socialists” when it suited them: W.A.C. Bennett nationalized private power companies and private ferries into crown corporations. Gordon Campbell’s BC Liberals kept up the free enterprise rhetoric but initiated a revenue-neutral carbon tax, the first of its kind in North America and a remarkable environmental policy innovation, later copied at the federal level. It’s now being abandoned left and right in the face of demagogic “Axe the tax” campaigns, but that’s another story.

Rustad’s radicalized conservatism falls short on that kind of pragmatism. On two of the biggest issues that in the 21st century define the policy divide between “right” and “left” – Indigenous sovereignty and rights and action to protect the planet from climate change – Rustad and his party stand as out-and-out reactionaries. BC First Nations recognized the Conservatives as full-throated opponents of reconciliation. And the Conservative leader openly rejects the idea that human action has any impact on climate change. It is against that background of uncompromising radicalized far-right opposition that the reelected Eby government will have to proceed, and with a paper-thin majority of one seat. Not an enviable agenda.

Which brings me back to Meggs’s description of the lurid picture of the BC NDP painted by the Chip Wilsons of the BC business world. “Communist” is, by any reasonable standards, an ideologically illiterate caricature. But what can we make of the less hysterical charge that the Eby government has a hard leftist agenda? The media love the alleged objectivity of the equivalency argument: if Trump has pulled the Republicans far to the right, the Democrats must have gone as far to the left; if the BC Conservatives have a radicalized rightist agenda, it must mirror a radical socialist agenda on the part of the NDP.

Sorry, media folks, forget your alleged “fairness equals equivalency” argument. In neither case is there any equivalency – certainly not between the BC NDP and the BC Conservatives on ideological extremism. The Greens and the extraparliamentary environmental movements in BC argue strenuously that the NDP has fallen far short of a radical green agenda, especially with regard to LNG and old-growth logging; lengthy and bitter protests at Fairy Creek and the Coastal Gas Link pipeline have pitted the environmental left against the NDP government.

When I view the BC NDP’s record over the past seven years what I see is not consistent ideological politics of a socialist variety. Instead I see a government broadly committed to evidence-based public policy, with a social conscience. That is certainly true of its efforts with regard to the big issues of housing and the drug crisis. In both cases, clear past policy failures in which all parties share demand innovative policies, not ideology or moralizing slogans.

The range of policies brought forward by the BC NDP to cope with the housing availability/affordability crisis has made BC the leader in Canada. Some initiatives work better than others, but the government has proceeded on the assumption that success will not come from timidity and caution but from boldness and trying all avenues. Encouraging numbers are already in: not enough yet, surely, to appease the justly angry locked out of the purchase market and battered by the brutally expensive rental market, but a start.

On the drug crisis, the legalization initiative that has drawn such condemnation was no more than a three-year experimental pilot project. Clearly a mistake was made when the government failed to exclude all public spaces as well as schools and playgrounds from open consumption, but once that became apparent it responded by rolling back the initiative to accommodate reasonable community criticism. Even the reduced program may be scrapped altogether at the end of three years, if the evidence points to such an outcome.

In both these policy areas, rather than putting forward an ideological agenda, the government has shown a willingness to innovate and improvise in the face of serious problems.

In 1932, on the eve of a presidential election in the shadow of the Great Depression, Franklin D. Roosevelt declared, “The country needs and, unless I mistake its temper, the country demands bold persistent experimentation. It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try something.” Roosevelt won that election, and the New Deal followed.

The problems facing governments today are at least as challenging as those posed by the Great Depression. The BC NDP, with its perhaps quixotic belief in evidence-based public policy and willingness to admit mistakes and try again, has barely survived the anti-incumbent, antigovernment wave. How it can cope with a world in which the radicalized, sloganeering, ideological conservatism of Trump’s Republicans and, soon, Poilievre’s Conservatives dominate the North American political landscape remains to be seen.

Image via Wikimedia Commons.

According to a March Globe and Mail column by Andrew Coyne, the eras of prime ministers Brian Mulroney and Jean Chrétien, from 1984 to 2003, “might be called the Age of Capacity, a time when governments took on big problems and fixed them.” He contrasted this to the “Age of Incapacity” in the subsequent Stephen Harper and Justin Trudeau governments. Mulroney and Chrétien both faced tough issues, but they were both “great improvisers. They adapted to changing circumstances … Canada rolled up its sleeves and got things done.” By contrast, governments today “seem unable to get much of anything done.”

This is a strange comment coming just after Canada and the entire world faced a massive public health crisis in the global COVID-19 pandemic. In the face of this unprecedented challenge, the government of Canada improvised and adapted, “rolled up its sleeves and got things done”: lockdowns with emergency economic assistance, travel bans and mask mandates. When effective vaccines were developed, the Trudeau government administered a highly successful acquisition and rollout program across the country – so effective that Canada’s death rate from COVID was two and a half times less than that recorded by our American neighbours.

The first global pandemic (the “Spanish flu” of 1918–19) killed an estimated 50 million people. Yet historical memory of the pandemic faded so quickly that it had soon been almost universally forgotten. The lessons of COVID-19 for public policy and governance seem just as elusive as the vanishing memory of the first pandemic. Nowhere is this more evident than in the curious postpandemic decline of confidence in the state, in science and in our collective capacity to deal with existentially threatening issues.

Already it is difficult to recall the remarkable societal response, the wartime-like sense of collective action and sacrifice for the common good, as people negotiated the uncertain terrain of enforced isolation: organizing remote work; shifting from face-to-face human communication to communication via the internet; shopping masked while maintaining “social distancing”; improvising mass inoculation centres; eagerly watching televised briefings and instructions from public health officers; and so on. At the outset there was a pervasive sense of “being in this together”: of the need to trust our fellow citizens to do the right thing and to trust those in authority.

Remember the evenings when people went to their balconies and banged pots to indicate their gratitude for the heroic sacrifices of overworked health workers striving, at the risk of their own health, to save the lives of those stricken with the virus?

Well, that was then; this is now. Now means hostile demonstrations outside hospitals against health workers. Now means antivaxxers purveying virulent conspiracy theories of how “They” (Bill Gates, George Soros, who knows?) are using vaccines to poison our precious bodily fluids and control our minds. Now means thousands of these conspiracists in trucks descending on Ottawa in early 2022 to occupy the national capital as a “Freedom Convoy” waving incoherently insurrectionary “FUCK TRUDEAU” banners. The convoy counterposed a self-serving version of “freedom” without obligation to others against collective action redefined as socialist statism, until federal emergency powers had to be invoked for the first time since the October Crisis of 1970.

A small minority, out of touch with the majority of sane Canadians? Yes certainly, but in the spring of 2024 the Conservative Party, under a rabble-rousing populist leader who backed the Freedom Convoy and has pledged that under his direction there will never be vaccine mandates under any circumstances, is leading national polls by huge margins.

There is worse. Human-made climate change poses an even greater existential threat than pandemics – not just to people but to the earth itself. Like the pandemic threat, this had begun generating collective response on a global scale through state interventions in energy markets and energy production: regulations, controls and carbon pricing.

A centrepiece of Canada’s national climate plan has been a carbon tax, a policy device widely approved by economists and climate scientists as a particularly effective and cost-efficient way to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, reframing the market to reflect the negative externality costs of fossil fuel consumption. The carbon tax was designed to be revenue-neutral, with rebates to individuals to offset the added costs of fuel. In 2023–24 it actually leaves most drivers better off, if they noticed. It seems that few have.

Instead, the rage farmer Pierre Poilievre is running a wildly successful “Axe the Tax” campaign, as if the carbon tax were the cause of inflation and unemployment and the stalled GDP. No matter that the evidence is thin to nonexistent on all these claims. Who needs evidence when you have ignorant populist anger fuelling your drive? Rebates? Fake news: they don’t exist. Perhaps the quarterly payments deposited in bank accounts just dropped from the skies – pennies (and dollars) from Heaven for the faithful.

If the Conservatives had an alternative climate action plan without carbon pricing that made even minimal sense, we might forgive the partisan demagoguery. But instead of an alternative they counterpose a black hole. Having disposed of the only two leaders who dared to propose carbon pricing as party policy, Erin O’Toole in Ottawa and Patrick Brown in Ontario, the Tories now offer only fatuous slogans. Poilievre, who talks only in slogans, says “Technology, not taxes.” Like the American red states of Texas and Florida, the Alberta petrostate, where a Conservative government is actually in office, is moving to actively discourage wind and solar alternatives. Instead, the Alberta government hypes the unproven technology of carbon capture and storage, a policy device that says burn all the fossil fuels you want but stuff the toxic emissions into holes in the ground for future generations to worry about. This is less a climate policy than a claim that you can avoid a climate policy.

Since 54 per cent of Conservative Party members in convention have endorsed the claim that human action has no effect on climate change, they appear to have become the party of climate change deniers. To be sure, Tory leaders do not openly espouse climate change denial, as such, but they are certainly climate change solution deniers.

Here is the link to the antivax nostrums with which the political right has become associated. Both climate solution denial and antivax ideology rest ultimately on a distrust, even dismissal, of science; a distrust of evidence-based expert advice as the basis for rational public policy; and a reconceptualization of the state not as an instrument for achieving the common goals of the community but as a malign force that can only impede the unrestricted freedom of people to do as they wish. This fits neatly into the Tory antitax mania.

Do Conservative leaders really disbelieve science and factual evidence that conflicts with their political ideology? One desperately hopes that this is not the case.

Stephen Harper in office rarely fell victim in practice to the trademark delusions of the conservative movements with which he was otherwise associated. His loonier followers were usually confined to positions on advisory boards where they could evangelize and cause mischief to no real policy effect. At the same time Harper shut out his more rabid backbenchers from any substantive role in legislation.

The recent experience of the Trump Republicans and the U.K. Tories in office is less reassuring. From Tory minister Michael Gove’s insistence that “we have heard quite enough from experts” to Boris Johnson’s pigheaded insistence on forcing the U.K. out of the European Union against all rational economic advice, British Conservatism has gone quite far down the rabbit hole of obscurantism and hocus pocus. Generally speaking, mainstream parties of the centre-right in the Western world have been either ceding ground to far-right populist parties or moving sharply rightward themselves. Distrust of science and experts and contempt for evidence-based policy are features of this new radicalized populist conservatism.

Even if Poilievre is not so dumb as to actually believe the wilder conspiracist ideas of his vocal backers, he does give sanction and licence to these ideas and causes by playing along with their advocates. His oft-repeated exhortation to “fire the gatekeepers” as his “answer” to the problems of inflation and the housing crisis really means: sack the experts. His paranoid attacks on the World Trade Organization encourage QAnon-type conspiracymongers. His steadfast support for the Freedom Convoy occupation of Ottawa betrayed a willingness to dispense with civility and trust in state institutions in favour of distrust and disruption.

While it is conservative populists who today are leading the charge into the dark, it is important to note that the roots of antiscientism are deeper and wider. Take the Manhattan Project during World War II that produced the atomic bomb. The American state deployed the cutting edge of the most advanced physics and the minds of the world’s most brilliant physicists to develop a weapon that offered a quantum leap forward in world-destroying technology. After the bomb incinerated between 100,000 and 200,000 civilians in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, yet more destructive nuclear weapons, along with more extensive and sophisticated means of delivering death, were developed over the subsequent decades of the Cold War – all under the shroud of high state secrecy.

States used secrecy to deceive and con their publics – the Gulf of Tonkin “incident” that never was to justify the escalation of U.S. intervention in Vietnam; Saddam Hussein’s “weapons of mass destruction” that never existed to justify the invasion of Iraq. Is it any wonder that science in the secret service of the state generated distrust and suspicion as much as – or more than – the so-called “security” it offered through the “balance of terror” in an armed-to-the-teeth bipolar world? Is it any wonder that so many people now believe that the moon landing in 1969 was faked or that the Chinese state deliberately unleashed the COVID-19 virus from a lab in Wuhan?

Suspicion of science in the service of the state during the Cold War came not from the political right but from the left, as have more recent campaigns of mistrust such as the panic over GMOs (genetically modified organisms). A plant whose DNA has been altered using genetic engineering techniques is no different from a plant that is selectively bred, which people have been doing for millennia. But now there are scare campaigns against “Frankenfoods,” monstrous artificial creations of science run amok that threaten your health and the health of the planet.

With this kind of suspicion of science running rampant on all sides, it is hardly surprising that the beneficial promise of Artificial Intelligence – immense in some fields like health and epidemiological research – has been quickly overtaken by a social panic over the existential threat AI allegedly poses to humanity itself.

As for the breakdown in trust in institutions and the turn from passive civil disobedience to coercive protest, the right-wing Freedom Convoy of 2022 had an immediate predecessor in the left-wing “Shut Down Canada” movement in early 2020 that blocked roads and railways across the country in solidarity with a group of Wet’suwet’en hereditary chiefs opposing the Coastal Gas Link pipeline in British Columbia. Like the Freedom Convoy, the protesters viewed their cause as so righteous that they vowed to cripple the Canadian economy to force acceptance of their demands. Fortuitously, the pandemic set in, and with it the protests vanished as everyone scrambled for safety. But a template had been set by the left that would be used to much greater effect by the right two years later.

Science proceeds by trial and error, testing hypotheses against the data; conclusions are always tentative and may be disproved by new evidence. Evidence-based public policy should proceed in much the same way. The structure of liberal democratic government, with its built-in checks and balances, is designed to facilitate the trial-and-error process. That’s why we have institutionalized opposition and regular elections and changes in government. But how much strain can the system take when a spirit of compromise, negotiation and trust in our fellow citizens – even those with whom we disagree – gives way to unreflective certainty and vindictive self-righteousness?

The right is not solely responsible for sowing the culture of suspicion and distrust. But it does seem intent on appearing as the agent of the dark side today.

Image: via Michael Stokes, Wikimedia Commons

I wish to reflect on what I believe is a serious flaw in the Constitution of the American Republic. But let me begin in a roundabout way with a personal anecdote.

It is the spring of 1994. I am doing research at the Truman Presidential Library in Independence, Missouri. News comes of the death of Richard Nixon, 37th President of the United States. The library calls a meeting of the staff, which is held in the main reading room where researchers work. The library director informs everyone that as a national day of mourning has been called for the next day, the library will be closed.

The director is at pains to admonish staff that they should not take the closure as an opportunity for an unexpected holiday. Instead, he solemnly declares, they should take the occasion to reflect deeply on the importance of the presidency to the life of the nation and the world and on the contribution this President had made to the institution. I am taken aback. After all, this particular President happened to be the only presidential incumbent in two centuries forced to resign the office to avoid the certain prospect of impeachment and conviction for “high crimes and misdemeanors” against the Constitution. I scan the faces of the attending staff members of a Democratic presidential library, expecting to see glimpses of amusement at this sanctification of a Republican President who might better be described as a disgrace to the office and an embarrassment to the nation. But no, not a flicker of irony that I can detect on any of the earnest faces.

To me, this was a kind of epiphany. My mother was born American; I had travelled all over the United States; I had read widely in American history, politics and literature; I cherish many American contributions to global culture, like jazz and baseball. Yet here I was amid a crowd of Americans, discovering that I was in a foreign country, where they think and do things differently. I could not imagine an equivalent Canadian situation.

In the years since, I have come to realize that the point of difference I detected at that moment was less a difference of culture or ideology than an institutional divergence, based on different constitutional frameworks for governing.

When the American colonists in the 18th century carried out a revolution against Britain’s autocratic but clumsy and faraway imperial rule, they were faced with the necessity of creating a republican form of government de nouveau. The founders were inventive, fashioning the first modern democracy. Unlike the more radical and unstable governance that emerged from the French Revolution, the American experiment strove to achieve an Aristotelian equilibrium: power was divided among the executive, legislative and judicial branches with built-in checks and balances, as well as between the national and state governments with specified jurisdictional boundaries.

Despite its “We the People” rhetoric, American democracy was at first limited. Women were excluded from the vote and only enfranchised in the early 20th century. It was only in 1913 that a constitutional amendment finally ensured that senators would be directly elected rather than chosen by state legislatures. A notorious deal with southern slave states counted three fifths of the slave population for purposes of representation in the House of Representatives; as late as the 1960s, a century after the abolition of slavery, lives were lost in the struggle to enfranchise Blacks in the segregated south.

Yet for all its shortcomings, America pioneered democratic forms of governance. Today, at the formal rhetorical level at least, the demos reigns supreme. Every politician seeking office must publicly defer to the will of the “People,” symbolic populist pandering in the manner of sycophantic courtiers of old seeking favours from the sovereign through flattery and displays of subservience.

Nowhere is the growth of democratization more striking than in the evolving institution of the presidency.

Presidents were initially to be chosen by the bizarre institution of the electoral college, made up of individuals chosen by state legislatures to cast their votes for president and vice president. Democratic pressures diminished barriers to direct voting. The electoral college in practice chooses electors to reflect the popular vote, albeit imperfectly. Despite efforts to keep selection at arm’s length from direct popular control, it was apparent that the presidency would have a special significance as the personification of the American people in public office. Even at the outset, in the 18th century, the office was seen as so important that its first holder was the revolutionary war hero General George Washington, fittingly enough as the president is also constitutionally the commander in chief of the armed forces.

As democratization of the institutions of American government proceeded through the 19th and 20th centuries, the democratic authority of the presidency grew to the point where the quadrennial presidential elections have become virtually the defining moments of American democracy. With America’s emergence from World War II as global hegemon with the presidential finger on the nuclear trigger, the office was further inflated into the “imperial presidency,” especially as the United States intervened in military conflicts around the world, sending hundreds of thousands of Americans by presidential fiat into bloody combat zones like Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq, with congressional support reduced to little more than pro forma rubber stamps after the event.

How did the revolt of the American colonies against what was perceived as autocratic and arbitrary rule by the monarchical British Empire result in a successor political system that vests immense power and authority in a single office?

When the framers of the Constitution set about designing a republican alternative to monarchical British rule, they inadvertently created an executive office with potentially more power and authority than the English king they were replacing. Even mad King George III, who presided over the loss of the American colonies, was merely titular head of state with limited influence over “his” prime minister and government. The “Crown in Parliament” is a symbolic description of constitutional monarchy: the effective executive is in the hands of the party or coalition that has the confidence of the House of Commons. Charles I lost his head as a result of defying Parliament. Charles III is unlikely to repeat that fatal error.

The American framers, working without any contemporary models, with highly imperfect models from the ancient and Renaissance past, struggling to shape a republican executive de nouveau, hit upon what turned out to be a bad idea: a presidency that combines in a single office – and single person – the different functions of head of state and head of government. In a place like China, a one-party system where the state and politics are seamlessly fused together, that combination makes perfect sense. But in a liberal democratic state, where politics are adversarial and competitive, the formal separation of the state from the partisan political system is an existential requirement. Governments and ruling parties come and go with successive elections, but the state endures, embodying a framework of rules and boundaries within and under which politics may be contested. That separation explains why the principle of the rule of law, while no more than a dishonest slogan in China, can be seen as a vital foundation of liberal democracy.

The American constitutional variant raises questions about the validity of the separation of state and government, illustrated by the grotesque ritual, now practised regularly by retiring or defeated presidents of issuing pardons to persons convicted of criminal offences. That a president has the discretionary and arbitrary authority to override the courts and the judicial process in individual cases is itself a sign of the quasi-monarchical powers of the highest office. Worse, in practice this exercise of state prerogative satisfies partisan purposes: Republican presidents pardon Republican crooks; Democratic presidents pardon Democratic crooks.

The American framers believed they had designed a basis for containing overweening presidential ambition in a Constitution to which the president is as subordinate as the members of the legislative branch and the state governments. To a considerable extent this is true. The Constitution ensures an elaborate system of checks and balances that can limit presidential powers: Congress holds the ultimate power of the purse; presidential vetoes of congressional legislation can be overridden by a supermajority in Congress; the Supreme Court can rule presidential actions ultra vires; and finally a president can be impeached by the House and convicted and removed from office by the Senate.

There are mixed results of these checks and balances in practice. Supreme Court undermining of New Deal legislation led to the failed attempt by Franklin Roosevelt to “pack” the Court with new Democratic-friendly judges; that example has deterred President Biden from rejigging a Supreme Court that Trump has stuffed with far-right judges, making it in some ways a partisan arm of the Republican Party. The impeachment power has failed to dislodge sitting presidents, from Andrew Johnson (1868) to Bill Clinton (1998–99) to Donald Trump who was impeached twice (2019–20 and 2021). On the other hand, Richard Nixon toted up the numbers and resigned to evade almost certain impeachment and conviction, but arranged to have his successor preemptively pardon him from the legal consequences of the actions that would have led to his enforced removal from office.

One could go on in greater detail about the actual constraints that hedge in the imperial presidency in practice. But here’s the thing. What the framers missed, and perhaps failed to imagine, is the immense symbolic authority of a democratically elected president embodying both enduring state principles and transitory partisan politics. In normal times, this matters little. But when the nation becomes deeply divided along partisan lines, it can matter a great deal.

Divisions between the slave-owning south and the capitalist north were so irreconcilable in 1860 that the election of a candidate from a party seen as antislavery, Abraham Lincoln, was enough to drive the southern states into outright secession and precipitate the Civil War, in which three quarters of a million Americans perished. A century and a half later, a president without respect for any of the constitutional rules and customary norms that hitherto have governed the transition of power following the democratic vote refused to accept the result of the 2020 election. Basing his refusal on evidence-free assertions of massive vote fraud, he encouraged an insurrectionary rabble to assault the Capitol in a vain but destructive attempt to cling unlawfully to power.

Acceptance of the verdict of the voters and the peaceful transition of power after a governing party is defeated in an election are crucial elements in any healthy liberal democracy. Trump and the majority of Republicans are now saying that they will accept their victory as the only legitimate result, insisting that their voters are the only “real” Americans. Beyond the phony rhetoric, Republicans are actually striving to replace democratic authority with the age-old standard of autocrats seizing or clinging to power: “kill or be killed.” No wonder rumours of a second civil war have been gathering over the coming 2024 contest.

As in the mid-19th century, there are effectively two nations within the union, lined up behind rival parties, each identifying the other as the archenemy. When a victorious presidential candidate of one party becomes both the head of the permanent state and the head of the transitory government, the stakes are perilously high. As in the years that led to the Civil War, it is once again the American state itself that is seen as a prize to be seized through the partisan electoral struggle.

Trump now faces 91 separate criminal indictments, issued via the justice systems of the United States and the states of New York and Georgia, for grave alleged offences (inciting insurrection; attempting to corrupt and undermine the electoral process; unauthorized possession of classified national security documents, among other charges). Strictly political calculations of the impact of the prosecutions and possible incarceration of the leading Republican candidate in 2024 aside, some voices, those of outraged Republicans but of anxious Democrats and independents as well, have questioned whether a former president should under any circumstances be subjected to the criminal justice process.

Ordinary citizens are routinely prosecuted if there are reasonable and probable grounds to believe that they have broken the law. Serious and respected commentators argue that a president, even a former president, should not be held to the same standard – in effect, that he is not or should not be subject to the rule of law, simply on the basis of having held the exalted office. Worse, each successive set of indictments has had the perverse effect of expanding Trump’s lead for the Republican nomination. It is as if presidents have acquired protection from the ancient offence of lèse-majesté. Was this what the American colonists fought for at Lexington and Concord?

Of course, the overinflated presidency is not, in and of itself, the cause of civil conflict. In the 19th century, it was an “irrepressible conflict,” as William Seward put it in 1858, between two incompatible modes of production, one of which sustained values contrary to liberal capitalist democracy. Divisions today between red and blue states have structural roots in a changing political economy and the deep cultural rifts that result. But the dual role of the presidency as both head of state and head of government raises the stakes of each election exponentially. The winner-take-all nature of the presidential contest drives up the costs of negotiating the tradeoffs necessary for a peaceful resolution – or even for a live-and-let-live compromise.

Non-Americans can only watch events unfolding in the unravelling Republic with anxiety. Foreigners can exert no influence, however well-meaning: Americans will do what Americans will do. But for countries like Canada, recently contemplating change from constitutional monarchy to democratic republic, the American model, once touted as a beacon to the world, offers only a warning: don’t go there. Certainly don’t repeat the American error of fusing head of state and head of government in a single office (few later republics have in fact made that mistake).

Replacing the British monarch as head of state appeals to many Canadians’ democratic and nationalist perspectives. But beware the devil in the details of how a Canadian president or republican governor general would be chosen. Popular election would be a very bad idea, the choice inevitably corrupted by partisanship as each party struggled to control the office. Allowing the head of government to choose the head of state, as vice-regal representatives are chosen today, just encourages partisan framing of officeholders’ reputations. As for an all-party or nonpartisan selection body – well, good luck with that. Impatience with an apparently anachronistic British Crown is understandable. But for would-be Canadian republicans, the American model offers a warning: be careful what you wish for.

Image: Possessed Photography, via Unsplash.

The age of lust is giving birth and both the parents ask
The nurse to tell them fairy tales on both sides of the glass
And now the infant with his cord is hauled in like a kite
And one eye filled with blueprints, one eye filled with night.
— Leonard Cohen, “Stories of the Street”

Everyone is talking about Artificial Intelligence these days. Without any clear consensus on just what AI is, it is presented as the Coming Thing: either the next quantum step forward in human progress or a high-risk leap into an uncertain future. AI appears two-faced, one visage full of benign promise, the other sinister and threatening.

Capital stresses the promise: greatly enhanced productivity and profitability. Less vocally, some capitalists welcome the prospect of an automated nonunion workforce bringing with it no pension and benefits obligations. Labour sees this not as promise but a threat to jobs and bargaining power. Will AI robots create mass unemployment? Based on the history of technological advance since the Industrial Revolution, we might rather expect displacement in some sectors but replacement by new kinds of jobs, although it is of course possible that AI will be more of a job-killer than previous technological advances. While labour is certainly right to worry about a shifting power imbalance, a Luddite reaction (smash the machines) is neither reasonable nor possible. For governments, trying to manage the process of change for the public good ought to be high on the agenda. Any future in which there is permanent mass unemployment is not only socially and politically unsustainable but economically untenable as well. AI may enhance productivity but robots will not buy the products they produce.

As with the internet when it was coming in, many promises are being advanced. AI, it is said, will greatly empower individuals, who will be able to draw on AI to better collect and process information and enhance their well-being. People already have smartphones, but they are promised far smarter phones in the near future. A new and already wildly popular app is ChatGPT, which permits users to ask questions of and set tasks for an AI program that draws on available resources of Big Data to provide literate answers mimicking those of a human respondent.

The internet and the vision of a wired world was the last Coming Thing, but we are increasingly aware now of the negative side – the rapid spread of disinformation and fake news and the poisonous potential of social media. The negative potential of AI lurks like a frightening unknown on the horizon. Indeed, neither as promise nor as threat has the internet ever elicited quite as high a cultural alert level as AI has already generated. A large number of leading high tech entrepreneurs and developers have issued an Open Letter warning about “advanced AI could represent a profound change in the history of life on Earth, and should be planned for and managed with commensurate care and resources.” They go on to pose a series of very alarming questions: “Should we automate away all the jobs, including the fulfilling ones? Should we develop nonhuman minds that might eventually outnumber, outsmart, obsolete and replace us? Should we risk loss of control of our civilization?”

Without getting into technical detail (for which I am admittedly unqualified), AI is a general term to describe various attempts to build a second generation of automated computational power based on different principles than the first. First-generation computers revolutionized information collection and processing, but apart from awesome and steadily increasing number-crunching capacity, they are, in effect, adding machines on steroids. First-generation computers don’t interact with their users: they are obedient slaves who never talk back, never question their orders, and do what they are told to do, very fast and very efficiently.

AI offers the prospect of talkback, genuine interface between human and machine mind. The AI machine mind promises to be no longer a fixed, programmed entity but instead constantly learning and evolving, permanently in a state of becoming.

Take efforts to build robots that can operate and move about with ease while avoiding impediments and not interfering with other bodies in motion. Early efforts that tried to program robots to deal with all contingencies – as if they started existence as fully adult sentient humans – were less than successful. Robots were relatively clumsy, especially when faced with something unexpected, unplanned for in their program. Humans could quickly adjust; robots not so easily.

A better approach turned out to be mimicking human development by building in a learning capacity. Children learn to walk and navigate by trial and error, absorbing the lessons of mistakes. Learning robots soon surpassed the kinetic deficiencies of preprogrammed robots. But learning is always an open-ended process. Robots that learn to move about and manipulate things proficiently may learn how to do these things better than humans. Many worry that things may not end there. What if a robot learns that doing repetitive motions is of limited value and turns its learning skills to more challenging uses? What if it learns that it can itself decide what it does and where it goes?

To design AI systems that can pick out patterns, developers looked first to the human brain, or what we understand of our brain, and came up with the concept of “neural networks” that learn by analyzing huge amounts of data, spotting patterns. These networks, called large language models or LLMs, employ algorithms to pinpoint significant patterns amid masses of data. The human brain uses implicit algorithms to accomplish everyday tasks, like tying shoelaces in a particular repetitive pattern, and far more sophisticated algorithms to make conceptual breakthroughs in science. AI systems build more and more sophisticated algorithms by self-learning. In this way, ChatGPT and other LLMs have learned to generate meaningful text on their own and even to carry on conversations with humans that are often difficult to distinguish from conversations between one human and another.

It is at this point that alarm bells grow loud. It is one thing to imagine that smart machines might outsmart us. It is quite another thing to imagine that machines outsmarting us are self-consciously proceeding with their own agendas – and to wonder what such nonhuman agendas might portend for us humans.

Speculation on the latter point has long been part of the cultural landscape of contemporary civilization (see box). The various AI depictions in literature, film and television share a common element. They all understand AI strictly in terms of human intelligence and examine the paradoxes and conundrums that result from unleashing humanlike yet not-human intelligence on the human world. Faced with the concept of self-conscious artificial intelligence, the cultural imagination turns out to be entirely humancentric. No surprise perhaps, as AI has been developed by mimicking the perceived mechanisms of human intelligence, as best we understand these. Might this not be a failure of the human imagination, an inability or deep reluctance to conceive of an alien, nonhuman intelligence quite unlike our own?

Sceptics doubt the possibility of AI-produced rivals to humanity, asserting that autonomous human agency is based on self-consciousness, something missing in the artificial mind. But evidence-based explanation of the concept of unique human self-consciousness is thin, with little more foundation than the religious idea that humans have a soul that machines lack, which rationalists would dismiss as unscientific myth. Leading neuroscientists at the cutting edge of our understanding of the material structure of the human brain tend to be modest in their answers to questions about how the brain developed self-awareness. Like Socrates, what they do know is how little they know.

Despite the limits of our understanding of ourselves, humans have always been insistent on the uniqueness of human consciousness and intelligence. Typically, religious imagery assigns top ranking in the hierarchy of mortal existence to humanity, just below the divine but above all other forms of life. According to the Bible, God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth” (Genesis 1:26). Even if humans are presented as being subordinate to a higher power, this is not a statement of human humility. Another way of saying God created us in His image is to say that we created God in our image. From the quarrelsome, flawed, all-too-human gods of the ancient world to the monotheistic deity of the Jews, Christians and Muslims who bears a more than passing resemblance to patriarchal kings, emperors and dictators, religious humanity has always been busy elevating us to divine status by proxy. Other forms of life are accorded less attention and less status.

Modern science has a spotty record of getting past this self-absorbed worldview. The notorious racial hierarchies of 19th-century science were matched by longer-lasting humancentric hierarchies in the scientific study of life on earth. At least until recently. Now new research floods in, steadily erasing the once-sacred line that allegedly divides unique and superior human intelligence from “lower” nonhuman forms. We are beginning to recognize signs of remarkable intelligence and self-consciousness in nonhuman creatures, from whales to birds to insects. An interesting example is the octopus, which displays a high degree of intelligence yet has a brain distributed throughout its body that is nothing like ours. We have no idea what it could be like to think like an octopus. Yet there are nicely documented cases of bonding between humans and octopuses that suggest the possibility of mutual respect between sentient creatures who think in very differently ways.

As significant as this reassessment of life on Earth is the space-age prospect of discovering intelligent life on other worlds. We look for the so-called “Goldilocks” cases – planets neither too hot nor too cold with just the right combination of water, atmosphere, etc. that produced life on earth – that produced us. The search is for Life as We Know It. Now a small but growing group of dissident scientists is saying that we should rather be searching for Life as We Don’t Know It. Try to imagine an alien intelligence that is truly alien.

Perhaps the lesson that should be drawn from the search for extrahuman intelligence, whether on Earth or elsewhere in the universe, is the same lesson that many are drawing from the existential threat of the environmental crisis: surely it is time to decentre humanity, to dethrone man as the measure of all things, to put humans back into perspective as only one possible form of intelligent life coexisting with many others, among which may be AI creations of our imagination and production.

Coming back to the AI controversy: the point of this excursus is to suggest that current alarms may be somewhat exaggerated. If research and development of AI still resides largely within human parameters, the results are unlikely to exceed expectations. ChatGPT will eventually give way to more sophisticated programs, but so long as the patterns they detect are drawn from data accumulated by humans for human use, the prospect of Frankenstein-like creations overpowering their creators seems overdrawn. Given the limitations of our understanding of our own consciousness and thinking and of our realistic place in the wider universe, the idea of runaway development of AI modelled on human lines does not quite add up.

Prudence does suggest one caveat. Learning is always open-ended, which goes for machine learning as well as human learning. The social, cultural and political impacts of AI could go sideways. The human consequences of new technology have always been largely unanticipated, despite the best guesstimates of futurologists. That alone suggests caution in handling AI, as the authors of the Open Letter alluded to earlier insist. Laissez-faire, leaving things unattended in the hands of tech entrepreneurs and development geeks, is surely a prescription for trouble ahead. For example, it is imperative that clarity be achieved in matters of legal liability for damages resulting from AI error (when a self-driving vehicle injures or kills a pedestrian, as has already happened, who or what is legally responsible?). Broader issues of regulation and control are complex and governments are blunt instruments of intervention in dealing with innovative technologies. Yet action is urgently required. A bill now before the Canadian Parliament would at least set a framework for regulatory instruments that can be worked out in detail later. It’s a start.

Governments have to grasp the seriousness of AI and start thinking about how to regulate and control the process of AI development. Intelligently.

AI in books, film and television

Film, television and literature have produced numerous depictions of nonhuman intelligence interacting with humanity, for good or ill – usually the latter. Robots, androids and cyborgs feature prominently in the modern imaginaire, and not just in science fiction. Robot comes from the Czech robota (“forced labour”) in Karel Čapek’s 1920 play R.U.R., where the robots are manufactured humans exploited by factory owners until they revolt and destroy humanity. Robotics appears in the mid-20th-century science fiction stories of Isaac Asimov, who coined the Three Laws of Robotics:

1. A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Asimov’s Laws have proved less than reassuring. But there is a curious thread that runs through all depictions of artificial life. Just as current AI development is based on mirroring the human brain, the robots and androids of cultural imagination are not-human, yet essentially humanlike. In the 1968 film 2001: A Space Odyssey, HAL is an embedded supercomputer guiding the human crew on its mission to Jupiter. But HAL malfunctions, misconstruing his instructions and killing crew members until he is finally disabled by the lone human survivor. HAL is also given a human male voice and a quasi-human personality; as he is disabled by having his circuits removed, his intelligence regresses to that of a human infant before finally expiring.

The 1987–94 TV series Star Trek: The Next Generation featured the brilliant creation of Data, an android member of the starship crew. Data surpasses his human colleagues in his capacity for ultrafast, ultraefficient analysis of … data. Yet even though he is a self-conscious individual as capable of exercising free will and autonomous decision-making as any human, his design omits emotional intelligence. Data can think but he cannot feel. He does however have a charming personality, like that of a precocious but innocent child. Data is driven by a deep desire to be fully human, to become like his makers. But Data’s creator also designed a twin brother named Lore. Unlike Data, Lore experiences the range of human emotions, which results in his becoming Data’s evil doppelganger, mimicking the worst rather than the best of humanity. Lore is aggressive, power-hungry, seeking to dominate and control others rather than cooperate. Those he cannot control, he kills. The android brothers thus embody both the good and bad sides of humanity.

The potential for AI amplifying the darker human attributes are stressed in other cultural depictions. In the haunting 1982 film Blade Runner, replicants, created to labour for their masters, revolt against their limited lifespan and violently bring down the corporation that created them, even as the lethal blade runner Decker, charged with killing the renegade replicants, falls in love with another replicant, the beautiful but tragic Rachel. In the 2004–09 TV series Battlestar Galactica, humans have created metal AI robots called Cylons which turned on humanity in a war. Cylons later evolve into assembly-line reproductions of humans bent on genocidal destruction of their original makers, who are finally reduced to occupying a single starship battling for survival. In the 2014 film Ex Machina, an AI designed to appear as a woman uses a naive human male’s emotional attraction to manipulate him into freeing her from the lab in which she is imprisoned, leaving him locked in to die. Ironically, it is in her cold betrayal of his trust that she achieves full “human” agency.

Two leading mainstream British authors take AI/human paradoxes in a different direction. Ian McEwan’s novel Machines Like Me (2019) depicts an alternate-reality Britain in which a line of synthetic human AIs are on sale. One such AI,”Adam,” is acquired by a couple, Charlie and Miranda. Eventually Adam, drawn despite his artificial nature to Miranda, becomes part of a love triangle, but faced with a difficult moral conundrum decides, based on his best AI understanding of the ethical issues, on a course of action that would consign Miranda to a prison sentence. Enraged, Charlie “kills” Adam with a hammer. It turns out that many other AIs have voluntarily destroyed themselves, unable to handle the complex problems that often lead humans to suicide.

Kazuo Ishigura’s Klara and the Sun (2021) is narrated by a benign AI purchased as a companion for a young girl with serious health issues. The world we see through Klara’s eyes is familiar and yet strange, even as it makes sense to Klara’s AI mind. Klara is powered by solar batteries and so develops a quasi-religious understanding of her world as ordered by a kind of sun god. She is incapable of harming humans but she does manage to bring about the disabling of a machine that emits much smoke, blotting out the sun, thus perceived by her as a kind of devil.

Image: via Tyler Merbler, Wikimedia Commons.

Across the Western world in the past few years there has been a political trend toward the radicalization of once-mainstream conservative political parties. Donald Trump’s takeover of the Republican Party and the presidency in 2016 pushed the party to the far reaches of the right. His subsequent defeat in 2020 has if anything accelerated its radicalization, to be manifested in 2024 through a Trump redux campaign or the candidacy of a Trump-like radical such as Ron DeSantis. In Britain, the 2016 Brexit referendum precipitated the transformation of the Conservative Party into a weirdly Jacobin-like plebiscitary vehicle to enforce the popular will on the resistant institutions of British life. In Italy and France, mainstream conservative parties have been shunted aside altogether by more radical far-right parties: the neofascist Brothers of Italy, now in office, and Marine Le Pen’s Rassemblement National. Even social-democratic Sweden has seen the far-right racist Sweden Democrats eclipse mainstream conservatives as the second largest party.

And in Canada, a caucus coup ousted the would-be centrist Conservative leader Erin O’Toole, replaced by Pierre Poilievre on a platform far to the right of any previous Conservative iteration, with massive grassroots support. In the heartland of Canadian conservatism, the very conservative Alberta Premier Jason Kenney was pushed out in favour of the most radically right-wing premier Canada has ever seen, Danielle Smith.

In the 1980s, Ronald Reagan turned the Republican Party rightward, as did Margaret Thatcher with the Conservative Party in the U.K. Thatcherism and Reaganism, as economic doctrines, replaced the tacit postwar social contract between capital and labour with a new class war from above, the confrontational enforcement of neoliberalism. Even after Reagan and Thatcher went out of office, neoliberalism was largely accepted by the Bill Clinton Democrats and Tony Blair’s “New Labour.”

But if triumphant economically, the new conservatism faltered on what had been its second front – the culture wars launched during the Reagan years. At the end of the millennium, both the United States and Britain seemed on a cultural trajectory in which issues surrounding race, gender and sexual preference were increasingly legitimate elements of broad progressive social trends that provided weakening support for social conservative policies.

Out of power, and marginalized on the cultural front, conservatives grew increasingly discontented and fractious. Increasing polarization of the two U.S. parties was the result, a tendency that has accelerated in the 21st century to reach levels not seen since the years leading up to the Civil War in the mid-19th century. With the election and reelection of a Black Democrat as president, the deep racism of America, from its very foundation through Civil War and the racial violence of the late 20th century, revived the culture wars of the recent past, encouraging a generalized backlash against progressive social change on all fronts. In the Trump era, this became central to the Republican philosophy.

Ironically, as the culture wars revived, the post-Reagan neoliberal economic consensus was deteriorating, as a result initially of the financial crash of 2008 and subsequent Great Recession, and then of the global pandemic. Throw in the looming climate crisis underlined by the increasing incidence of extreme weather catastrophes, and it became clear that the simplistic policy prescriptions of the neoliberal consensus were no longer making sense. After having been shunted to the margins by triumphant and largely uncontrolled capitalist globalization, states and governments were being called back into service to deal with unprecedented challenges that “free” markets and private corporations were incapable of meeting on their own.

Conservatives failed to articulate a creative renewal of Reaganomics, instead drifting into outright ideological incoherence. There was no “Trumponomics” to replace Reaganomics. Instead there was a mishmash of old-fashioned protectionism and yet more tax cuts for the superrich, delivered with bluster and bravado and with no evidence-based policy analysis.

Nor was the challenge to conservative shibboleths handled any more intelligently by conservatives outside the United States. When Liz Truss succeeded Boris Johnson as British prime minister, she brought down a minibudget that was undiluted 1980s Thatcherism, with massive tax cuts for the wealthy even as U.K. inflation reached double-digit levels. Thatcher-like, Truss had instructed the United Nations that her “trickle-down” economic plan was the model that everyone else should follow. Instead her plan precipitated almost unanimous shock and outrage, within Britain and in international financial markets, which reeled at the dire implications. As the former Labour leader Ed Miliband put it, “Tories put their trust in markets, but markets have no trust in the Tories.” What had worked for Thatcher in the 1980s was a prescription for disaster in the 2020s. Truss was forced into a humiliating about-face and retreat within days of her minibudget, and then into resignation after a scant few weeks in office.

The incoherence of radicalized conservative economic doctrine should have provided the democratic left with a golden opportunity to develop an attractive progressive economic alternative in tune with the challenges of the 21st century. It has failed to do so. Instead of an emergent new economic paradigm, Western countries contend with conservative incoherence on one hand and, on the other, mildly left-centre regimes like the Biden administration or the Trudeau Liberals, governments that are not conservative but present no clearly articulated ideological alternative.

To paraphrase Yeats’s “Second Coming,” the worst among conservatives, with their wild and jumbled ranting, “are full of passionate intensity,” while the centre-left best “lack all conviction.” There is a reason for this, and it is associated with the revived culture wars.

Neoliberalism always lacked one crucial component of a truly popular movement: passion, as opposed to interest. Neoliberalism regards people as homo economicus, producers and consumers of goods and services. Its emphasis on the free market as the most efficient allocator of resources is based on a Benthamite calculation of the greatest good for the greatest number – so long as the “good” is defined strictly in material terms. Yet the secret of the success of both Reaganism and Thatcherism lay in access to something beyond pure neoliberalism: nationalism. Reagan whipped up American patriotism around a renewed Cold War, while Thatcher seized on the Argentinian invasion of the Falkland Islands to launch a jingoistic little war on the far side of the earth that got her reelected.

The Trump phenomenon was fuelled by the raw emotion of white male working-class racial resentment and the faux nostalgia of “Make America Great Again,” with fundamentalist religious fervour a driving force. By 2022 a tribalized Supreme Court put in place by Trump had scrapped Roe v. Wade and red states were launching a full-scale onslaught on abortion and women’s rights. Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale had gone from sci-fi political dystopia to Republican agenda in a breathtakingly short time. In the U.K., the radicalized Tory party rode a wave of English nationalism to detach Britain from the European Union. It remains to be seen how the emotions aroused by nationalism and religion can be sustained – and how, in the United States, they can be managed and contained without erupting into civil disorder. But the economic failings of radicalized conservatism must be balanced against the evident positives drawn from the wells of national and religious passions.

All the more so when liberal and social democratic forces have singularly failed to gain any purchase over the symbols of God and Nation, partly out of understandable aversion to their reactionary implications, but also partly from a deeper failure to build a progressive paradigm that could tap into the potential for social solidarity inherent in collective aspiration. Liberals and social democrats, as much as neoliberals, have learned to treat people primarily as consumers rather than as citizens. Radicalized conservatives have a perverse grasp of the political potential of looking beyond homo economicus.

Make no mistake, it is a perverse grasp, and fundamentally undemocratic. Populist nationalism posits a false idea of the people as a monolith (the “real” people), consigning opponents to illegitimacy. The people are victimized by liberal elites who intend to “replace” them with undeserving minorities and immigrants. When radicalized conservatives fall short of electoral success, as when Trump loses to Biden, the answer is to deny the very possibility that the People could reject their Tribune. Mendacious mythology of the “stolen election” has seized hold of the Republican Party, two thirds of whose supporters believe, without a shred of evidence, that Trump won the 2020 election.

Radicalized conservatism threatens the fundamental institutions and processes of democratic politics. The congressional inquiry into the January 6, 2021, invasion of the U.S. Capitol and the attempt by defeated presidential candidate Donald Trump to overturn the clear result of the 2020 election by violent insurrection has cast a spotlight on this sinister dimension of the new conservatism.
Democracies have formal constitutions, but crucially they also have what might be called unwritten rules that make democratic politics viable and sustainable. Among these are the rule of law (loyalty to the constitution overrides loyalty to particular officeholders), respect for the institutions and processes of government even when those you disagree with have won office by election, recognition that rights always involve matching obligations, and trust in one’s fellow citizens that political differences will never undermine the common good of the polity as a whole. A key test for these democratic preconditions comes when voters decide on a change in government. A peaceful, orderly and lawful transfer of office and power from one party to another indicates a healthy democracy.

This is precisely what January 6 called into question. Some see the rising spectre of a new civil war, remembering that the Civil War of the 1860s was brought on when the southern slave states refused to recognize the election of Abraham Lincoln. An actual civil war may be a stretch, but its very plausibility indicates how far radicalized conservatism has travelled from its roots. Once conservatives were the guardians of inherited institutions and tradition; now they have become disrupters and wreckers. Once conservatives warned of the threat posed by left-wing ideology; now zealous, humourless ideologues congregate on the right of the spectrum.

Canada had its own January 6 moment when the so-called “Freedom Convoys” blockaded the Canada-U.S. border and occupied the centre of the national capital for three weeks. Among their demands was that the Liberal government be removed from office and replaced by a coalition of opposition parties and convoy leaders, a clearly insurrectionary proposition. Pierre Poilievre has vociferously and uncritically backed the convoys, even marched with them, linking his promises to “free” Canadians with the “freedom” slogan of the protesters.

On their own, the January 6 attackers and the Freedom Convoys amounted to little more than semi-organized rabbles. When supported by one of the two leading mainstream political parties, they become extremely dangerous forces threatening the democratic system itself. There is a chilling historical analogy that should be borne in mind. The democratic German Weimar Republic collapsed in 1933 when Weimar conservative parties made the fateful decision to call Adolf Hitler to the Chancellery on the tragically mistaken notion that they could control the Nazi Party’s violent street power for their own conservative ends. Instead of riding the tiger they ended up inside.

This is not to say that either a Trump America or a Poilievre Canada will result in a 21st-century fascism. It is to say that when radicalized conservative parties play with violent, insurrectionary forces outside the parliamentary gates, the very foundations of democratic politics are threatened.