Cassandra Voices

Tag: must

  • We Must Begin with the Land

    Review: We Must Begin with the Land: Seeking Abundance and Liberation through Social Ecology by Stephen E. Hunt (Zer0 books, 2025)

    Environmentalists find themselves in the paradoxical situation of living in a golden age of radical ecological thinking – even as our global economic system blasts through one climactic tipping-point after another, more or less guaranteeing the extinction of planetary life as we know it at present. A rich field of research and intellectual inquiry has sprung up from between the fault-lines of the emerging climate crisis, along with concomitant movements centred (among other aims) on food sovereignty, habitat protection, the democratization of land holdings, and anti-extractivist resistance. Joining in this spirit of stewardship and challenge, Stephen E. Hunt has produced a prospectus for what might be described as eco-socialist change, in an attempt to measure and mitigate “the profound reengineering of life on Earth” that capitalist food systems have wrought. In place of monopolistic land-hoarding and ever-expanding “agri-business” – which trace their roots to the era of settler colonialism – he makes the case for a not-for-profit, “circular economy”, based on the principle that “nutritious food” is “an essential human need.”

    If Hunt draws inspiration from “utopian” ideas – the notion, say, that local commoning could provide a vital food source for significant numbers of people in the U.K. (where he lives), in place of the corporate or commodified provisions they currently rely on – he is nothing if not clear-eyed about the scale and extremity of the climate catastrophe predicted to engulf our already warming world. The vitality of his analysis might be said to stem from its symbiotic pairing of transformative hopes with a deep-running awareness of natural necessities. It is simply not possible, he states, to reach or maintain “ecological integrity within planetary boundaries” without simultaneously “addressing profound social problems embedded in deep history.” Far from being inevitable, he argues in a similar vein, famine is “primarily a social problem that demands solutions founded on social justice.”

    If Hunt often focuses on the practicalities of ecological action – how to grow wholesome food, and nurture communal practices, in a durable way – he nevertheless situates his proposals within an internationalist horizon. His book draws as much on the lessons of the Kurdish revolutionaries in Rojava, say, or the grassroots agricultural labourers comprising La Via Campesina, as on the experience of local campaigners in Bristol, his home. We Must Begin with the Land is anything but parochial. In fact, by arguing for the radicalism of community gardening, foraging, the conversion of waste grounds into allotments, and the like, Hunt may find himself in the vanguard of progressive thinking. Some commentators – not without reason – have attempted to hitch the cause of ecological adaptation exclusively to the wagon of the nation-state, essentially envisaging climate adaptation as a matter of enlightened technocratic adjustments from on high. Hunt’s contrasting emphasis is on the importance of localised, grassroots environmentalism, with an anti-capitalistic edge – aligning him politically with the late Grace Lee Boggs, for example, whose campaigns for community-led ecological regeneration in Detroit offered a new model of labour agitation in that industrialised city.

    Hunt also invokes the “social ecology” of Murray Bookchin, a multi-faceted philosophy that advances a critique of “the historic turn towards hierarchy and patriarchy” within radical movements – often hampered, ironically, by rigid structures and internal power imbalances – as well as a diagnosis of the “statism” and “capitalism” that define wider social structures, particularly in the global north. By re-examining our conceptions of urban and rural, of agricultural production and consumption, Hunt observes (via Bookchin), reformers can “ensure that human and ecological well-being are at the heart of democratic initiatives”, bringing the grand ideals of socialist transformation down to earth – and into an actionable zone inhabited by actual communities. During the Occupy Wall Street protests, he recalls (perhaps with a tinge of nostalgic over-statement), the occupiers’ “self-managed food provision” merged into something of an improvised welfare service. The movement exposed the degree of social isolation in the twenty-first century’s metropolitan centres. One of the chief benefits of communal eating is to help to address alienation.

    Such schemes, of course, are driven as much by physiology as by psychological or socio-econonmic factors. Our ability not only to think beyond the present infrastructre of a capitalistic economy, but physically to survive, is directly connected to the attitudes we hold and the measures we take regarding food and the land it grows from. It was hunger, after all, and not just a spirit of experimentation and progressivism, that inspired the rebellious denizens of Kronstadt to cultivate the waste grounds of their city in 1921 – instituting a “horticultural commune”, according to the historian Voline, that the Bolsheviks, intent on centralization, were zealous in repressing, even after the famous mass of striking sailors there had been executed or dispersed. Then as now, democracy and ecology may be thought of as connected strands of any authentically revolutionary endeavour. As Kristin Ross has written:

    Land and the way it is worked is the most important factor in an alternative ecological society. Capital’s real war is against subsistence, because subsistence means a qualitatively different economy; it means people actually living differently, according to a different conception of what constitutes wealth and what constitutes deprivation.

    Such issues take on a palpable urgency in the age of climate change, as extreme weather events merge with the predicted decimation of habitats and food-chains. Whether or not we realise it, how we feed ourselves (and learn to live with one another) is a crucial question for communities everywhere – a question likely to turn into an existential dilemma if left unanswered. In Hunt’s words,

    as the food crisis worsens, it will be increasingly necessary to make productive use of urban or “peri-urban” land for local self-provisioning… it is wise to activate urban gardening as a collective form of commoning that transcends the atomisation of communities into clusters of individuals.

    Noting the explosion of factory farming and other for-profit models of meat production globally, he wonders: “Can the straight trajectory of relentless economic growth be bent into the spiralling plenty of truly regenerative production?” For readers in Ireland, these speculations hold special resonance. A nation-wide campaign centred on community-organised green spaces and vegetable allotments – such as Hunt envisions – could serve as an original, effective response to the expanding epidemic of dereliction afflicting Irish towns and cities (itself in part a symptom of the housing and cost-of-living crises that have caused concomitantly high levels of emigration and homelessness). As to the issue of food sovereignty, despite inspiring efforts by networks such as Talamh Beo to implement sustainable models of “agro-ecology” across the country, successive Irish governments seem to have remained in thrall to a meat (and dairy) industry operating on a commercial model hostile to workers’ rights and favouring large-scale operations that are emissions-intensive. Meanwhile, the goal of reaching even the minimum requirements for decarbonising our farming practices seems as illusory as it’s ever been. A dramatic re-set in local and national policy is needed – and soon.

    Among other things, there is arguably a risk of hubris in a progressive politics that centres its aims and actions solely on the state and its traditional organs of power. As Hunt suggests, in an era of drastic ecological and economic ruptures, a consumerist society that simultaneously “does not know how to feed and dress itself”, that destroys abundant eco-systems to make way for industrial-scale farming and vast monocultures, can hardly be taken as the sanest or safest of socio-environmental paradigms. We must begin with the land, he declares – and re-build our agricultural economy from the grassroots up. The change we need starts here and now.

  • A Grand Lady Must be a Hundred Years Old

    I owe my life to a bullet that pierced my father’s skull. The time was July 1942, the place, Staraya Russa.

    But Staraya Russa is not the way to begin this story; it belongs in the second part of the middle, closer to the end.

    The beginning was in Moscow, a few years before the October Revolution, yet I won’t begin this story in Moscow either. I’ll begin it in Riga, Latvia, with my grandfather Stephan taking my seven-year-old father to Old Town Riga. My young father was happy because he knew they would go to a stamp store after his father’s grown-up business appointments. My seven-year-old father loved nothing more than looking at stamps and nudging his father, “Look at this one!” or “This one, from England, is the most beautiful one ever!” There were also stamps from Russia, from the time before the Bolsheviks, and they were not at all old, as you might think, reading these lines in the 21st century, which is the only century in which you can read them. Stephan Kossman, my father’s father, didn’t like the Russian stamps, even though he had lived in the center of Russia’s capital for years, which was quite unusual for a Jew since in Czarist Russia, Jews were not allowed to live in the capital. My grandfather Stephan was a merchant of the First Guild, which was why he and his family could live in Moscow, in the very center of it, on Pervaya Meshchanskaya Street, in a ten-room apartment, which my young father remembered very well, no matter that he was only two and a half years old when, in February 1918, they had fled in a hurry, leaving everything behind, and made their way to Riga in a cattle train, commonly known as teplushka, which was not at all the way his parents used to travel, as his mother was an aristocratic lady who read Heine every night before bedtime; who dressed like a German countess, in beautiful floor-length dresses and elaborate hats, and treated her servants with that special gentleness, a sign of a very well-brought-up lady. They had three live-in servants in their Moscow apartment: his mother’s maid, a governess, and a cook. Sometimes his mother mentioned a fourth one – a maître d—but my father did not remember him, and he told us only of the ones he could remember himself. In London, where Stephan, my grandfather, lived before his marriage, with his father Leontii, his mother Rebeka, and his seven brothers and sisters, the number of servants must have been greater, but, as I said, my father told us only things he had remembered and seen with his own eyes.

    “Papa!” my seven-year-old father would say, pointing at Russian stamps from “that time,” as he called the time before the revolution when his family had still lived in Moscow, “Please Papa!” But when Papa said no, he seemed to become hard of hearing and, at the same time, very kind, as though by refusing, he was becoming aware of a debt he owed his son, and then he would buy all the new stamps in the store, the ones that came the week before, since their last visit. But he wouldn’t buy the Russian stamps for his son. “Why not the Russian stamps?” my seven-year-old father whined on their way out of the stamp store.  “Because … you know, Lyonia, if Mama sees them, she might become upset. She has memories of …” His voice trailed off.

    My seven-year-old father knew why his mother might become upset looking at the Russian stamps.

    ***

    My father’s sister Nora, who was just five years older than him, liked to pretend that he was just a little boy and that she was a grand lady.

    “Some grand lady! A grand lady must be a hundred years old,” my father (who was this little boy) would say to her, “Not seven!”

    She laughed and told him that he didn’t know a thing. She said almost no one lived to be a hundred. “You can be a grand lady at twenty, fifteen, or seven; all it takes is having enough of the grand-lady material inside yourself.” And she had it, she said, and he didn’t because he was just a little boy. “You’ll never be a grand lady,” she said.

    The little boy who someday would be my father countered, “Who wants to be a lady anyway?” He would be a grand lord instead of a lady because lords were in charge of things, and ladies weren’t.

    She said again that he was just a silly two-and-a-half-year-old little boy and didn’t even have a governess. “Our governess is just for me,” she said. She went on and on like this, teasing him and saying things she knew he didn’t want to hear like French was only for girls, and that’s why Mademoiselle gave French lessons only to her, not to him.

    He wanted to say: Mademoiselle teaches you French not because you’re a girl but because you’re older! But as soon as he opened his mouth to say this, he stopped his tongue and said to himself: don’t say this to your sister, or she will win, and you don’t want her to win, do you? You don’t want her to say that you admit you’re just a little boy, that you’re only two-and-a-half.

    So, he bit his tongue and didn’t say anything. Sure, he could say all sorts of things to her, for example, that he may be only two and a half, but someday he would be a journalist! But then she’d say, “No one becomes a journalist at two and a half!” And then he would say, “And what do you know, you’re just a little girl yourself! Uncle Nikolay promised to take me to the scary places he wrote about! And Uncle Nikolay is a real journalist! He says he might go to jail for that! He says in our country, they put only real journalists in jail, not just anyone! Only if you write the truth! He says that going to jail for journalism is like a batch of honor in our country! That’s what Uncle Nikolay says, and he can’t be wrong!”

    His sister would laugh at him. “A badge of honor, not a ‘batch,’” she’d say, and that’s why the little boy who someday would be my father didn’t say anything about Uncle Nikolay this time.

    ***

    My father (who was still a child, remember?) admired Uncle Nikolay because he was a journalist and a traveler. Yet, he was not the only one in the family who admired Uncle Nikolay for being a journalist.  Uncle Zhenia also admires Uncle Nikolay for being a journalist.  Although both Uncle Zhenia and my father looked up to Nikolay for being a journalist, there was a big difference between the two, my father and Uncle Zhenia, simply because Uncle Zhenia was Uncle Nikolay’s brother. Besides, Zhenia was an adult, and my father was a child – a little child, as all members of his loving family loved to repeat. And every time he said, “Don’t call me little! I’m not a child,” they just smiled and touched his head in that caring gesture they called “гладить,” which means “to stroke” in Russian, my father’s third native language. His second native language was Latvian, while his first language was German. He knew German better than Russian or Latvian because he spoke it with his mom. She was from Riga, where the educated class spoke German as their first language, and she wanted her children to know it; therefore, she spoke only German at home, and everyone understood her, even if they replied in Russian. Mademoiselle was the only exception: she was the only one who responded to his mom in French. The little boy (who someday would be my father) didn’t like French.  If you asked him why, he’d say only Nora, his older sister, got to learn French at home, that’s why. It’s not that he wanted to learn French, he just didn’t like being left out. He heard so often that he was just a little child and that, as such, he couldn’t understand grown-up things that sometimes he began to believe it, and to stop believing it, he made up stories in his mind about the future, about knowing what will happen someday. And the strange thing is that some of these stories came true, not because he had foreseen them but because they had already been written into the fabric of reality when they had occurred to him! For example, he knew that his Uncle Nikolay would emigrate to Austria and that he would write for a newspaper called Neue Freie Presse. He also knew that Uncle Nikolay’s first book would be titled “Uncle Joe,” the first book ever to tell the naïve Westerners that a monster ruled Russia. He knew this book would become famous in Austria and Germany in the period between the wars. Years later, as an adolescent living in independent Latvia, my father learned that poor Uncle Zhenia called his brother Nikolay from a Moscow phone booth and paid with his life for a few plain words he said to his brother. Like many phones in Moscow in those years, the phone had been bugged. Uncle Nikolay would continue writing for Neue Freie Presse, while poor Uncle Zhenia, who loved him so much, would be shot v zatylok – in the back of his head – at Lubianka prison, where tens of thousands were shot v zatylok in those years. As an adolescent in Riga, my father would think of his Uncle Zhenia, who was not a journalist, a writer, a politician, or an artist––just a regular guy, a bit of a drifter, a bit of a dreamer, and my adolescent father would ask myself why Uncle Zhenia was killed for a simple phone call to his brother Nikolay. Many more years would pass, and, as an adult living, once again, in Moscow, he would be given only silence to answer his old questions. The silence was useless to his intellect and to that deeper part of him which the nineteenth-century Russian poets called “soul,” which had fallen into а strange disuse by the middle of the twentieth century.

    ***

    As I said, my grandparents’ apartment in the center of Moscow had ten rooms, no matter that more than half a century later, my father remembered only three of them: his nursery, the dining room, and the kitchen, which could have accommodated some twenty people and was ruled by the family cook Dasha’s iron hand. That dining room had stained glass windows or, as everyone called them, vitrazhi––a French word with a plural Russian ending. My father (who was still a child, remember?) spent hours looking at them, not only during family meals but whenever he had nothing else to do, and as a very little boy, he had days with nothing to do. Vitrazhi were made of many colorful pieces of glass that formed a picture in which images shifted depending on where in the room he was sitting or standing when looking at them.  In the center of the main vitrazh, was a horse which changed into a wolf, but the wolf appeared only when my father was in a bad mood after hearing his parents talk about scary monsters they called “Bolsheviks” who would kill them if they stayed in Moscow. Most of the time, though, it was just a horse with muscular legs that were a different brown shade of than the rest of its body. On top of it sat a man. A horseman. Mother said he was St. George – Georgii Pobedonosets—and Mademoiselle Duzhar said, “Ce n’est pas Georges Pobedonoset. It’s a headless horseman who appears in times of trouble”. Mother said, “S’il vous plaît, Mademoiselle, don’t scare the children! How can he be headless? There, I see his head. It’s where it’s supposed to be. On his shoulders.” Sometimes my father (who, as we pointed out earlier, was a child at the time) could see the horseman’s head, just like his mother did, where it was supposed to be, sometimes he couldn’t, like Mademoiselle Duzhar, who was so scared of the “Bolsheviks” that she acted like a kid herself, or like little Lyonia, my father, who saw scary things instead of beautiful horses and horsemen in the dining room vitrazhi. Poor Mademoiselle was so terrified of my grandparents’ plans to leave Russia that whenever she thought she was alone where no one could hear her, she talked to herself, which was how my father and his sister Nora learned that she would have nowhere to live and nothing to live on if they were to abandon her. She whispered furiously, “Who needs a French governess in this terrifying city now? Who will take me in? I can’t flee anywhere, where can I go? Où, où mon Dieu?” Many years later when my father came back to Moscow after the war, no one knew what happened to Mademoiselle Duzhar. She disappeared like so many others in that time and place.

    ***

    In this part of my story, my father is no longer a small child in his parents’ Moscow apartment on the eve of their escape from Russia in February 1918.  He is a young man in Riga, trying to talk his mother into escaping back to Russia before the Germans enter Riga. She said no, she would not leave Riga.  He knew she would say no, and she did, but he wanted to try one more time to talk her into escaping. She remembered too well fleeing from Moscow on that teplushka train and had ample reason to believe that the Bolsheviks would be after her, not only for being a “burzhuika” (a lady bourgeois) but, most importantly, for leaving Russia twenty-three years ago. That is why, in the summer of 1941, she opted to stay in Latvia. Like many others who chose to stay, she believed the Germans were a civilized nation, especially compared to the Bolsheviks, and she feared them less than the Soviets. My father thought he was the only one in real danger because his work as a reviewer of Riga’s Jewish Theater productions for Cīņa, a Communist Latvian newspaper, made him a prime target. He thought he had missed the right moment to leave because boarding a train to Russia was getting harder each day. The place was empty when he walked into the editorial offices of Cīņa with an article about a recent production at the Jewish Theater. He thought everyone had already escaped; why else would it be so empty?  Yet when he left the building, he saw a car parked in a side street, and there was the whole staff of Cīņa, about to depart. This was his last chance to leave Riga before the German army entered it, but he couldn’t leave without trying, one last time, to talk his mother into leaving. He went back into the building and made one last phone call. As before, he was expecting her to say no and wasn’t surprised when she did. If she could have seen the future, her no would have turned into a yes in a split second. But the terrible future would not reveal itself to her, and even if it did, she would not have believed it. He went back outside. Cīņa editors made room for him in the back seat, and as soon as he got in, they drove off, past buildings set on fire in anticipation of the Nazi takeover. They spent three days in that car, driving past Latvia’s forests and villages, crossing borders – first the Estonian border, then the Russian one. On July 1, 1941, the day the German army occupied Riga, they made it into Russia, abandoned the car, and boarded a train going east.

    There was not much to do on the train, and the editor-in-chief of Cīņa entertained his friends with antisemitic jokes. He had spent many years in jail for political activities where the daily fare of antisemitic jokes was simple entertainment. He should have known better, but he didn’t, and neither did his colleagues. My father didn’t miss an opportunity to part from them, and when the train stopped in Nizhny Novgorod, and everyone got a chance to stand on the platform for some ten minutes, he left the station and walked to the city. His Russian wasn’t so good yet, but he hoped it would suffice for simple communication. In Nizhny Novgorod, he developed a terrible headache, and since he didn’t know anyone there and had nowhere to go, he went to a police station. He just walked in and asked for help. A militsioner* promptly took him to a nearby hospital where he spent the next few days. He was discharged with two young men from Riga who, like him, had nowhere to go and nothing to eat. They didn’t have a lot of options, and after weighing what little they had, they decided they had more chances of finding a place to stay in a small town rather than in a big city like Nizhny Novgorod. They each went to a small town of his choosing, and my father went to Chkalovsk, a small town not far from Nizhny. Its small size was helpful: wherever he went, he was still in the center, so he had no trouble finding Ispolnitelnyi Komitet*. He was promptly given coupons for dinner at a local dining place and an address to get a bed for the night. Several families lived there, and an elderly couple took him in. My father ate from a common pot with his hosts. There were no plates; everyone put their spoons in the common pot. That common pot was my father’s first encounter with Russia. He stayed with the couple for two weeks until one fine day when he walked to the pier and boarded a ship to Astrakhan, an old Russian city on the Volga. He was young and wanted to see the world, even if the world was in the middle of the biggest war ever. Onboard the ship, he met a kind lady. They talked, and although he didn’t mention it, the lady understood that he had nowhere to go and nothing to eat. She spoke with a cook, and my father was given free meals in the ship’s dining hall. Another woman on the ship gave my father her address in Astrakhan. When he got off the ship in Astrakhan, he went to her place, hoping to get a place to sleep, but soon enough, he realized that the woman expected him to become her lover. He thanked her for offering him a place to sleep and returned to the pier to wait for a ship back to Nizhny Novgorod.

    In Nizhny Novgorod, he met the dean of the law department of the University of Riga, where he had studied before the war. Of course, the dean was no longer the dean but a refugee, like my father. They spoke German with each other, and the former dean showed my father where he lived and invited him to visit. That night my father slept in the park. At about 10 am, he decided to visit the dean. Just as he rang the dean’s bell, he was approached by a militsioner, told he was under arrest, and given a German newspaper. “Read it aloud!” said the militsioner. My father had no time to think this over and decide what to do.  If he read the German text aloud, the militsioner would think he was a German spy. Therefore, he said, “I can’t read this because I don’t know the language it is written in.” A couple of minutes later, he was free again.

    He spent the rest of the day searching for a place to stay, but he didn’t know the city and found nothing.  Finally, he asked two female passersby where he could find a room. They said, “Take streetcar 12 and get off at the last stop.” So he took streetcar #12 and got off at the last stop. It was a good neighborhood, with many new apartment buildings and trees. Nearby he saw a group of boys playing soccer. My father was wearing a Belgian jacket, and it was this Belgian jacket that got him in trouble. A Soviet citizen would not wear a Belgian jacket. A Soviet citizen would not even have a Belgian jacket! A Soviet citizen would denounce a capitalist jacket! Soon, he was surrounded by a crowd of some fifty people shouting, “Take the German spy to the police station!”  The crowd made way for a militsioner who told my father to follow them. When they arrived at the police headquarters, the militsioner said,
    “You must understand that telling us what brought you here is in your own interest.”
    My father said he had nothing to tell except that he was a Latvian refugee looking for a room and had been told to take streetcar #12.  But the militsioner didn’t believe him and demanded to see his documents. The only document my father had on him was a letter from the Latvian newspaper he had worked for. It was written in Latvian and had a hammer and sickle on top. To verify my father’s identity, the militsioner called the Evacuation Committee, where all refugees had to be registered on arrival, and gave my father’s name. It took them half an hour to find my father’s registration card. “Next time, be more careful,” the militsioner said. When my father left the police precinct, it was late evening, and he still had nowhere to stay for the night.

    Finally, he realized there was nothing for him in the Volga region and that the army was the only place where he would have a place to sleep. It was evening when he arrived at the Latvian division headquarters. He was given a uniform and sent to his unit. Soldiers slept in tents. My father found a tent where he would spend his first night.

    ***

    I owe my life to a bullet that pierced my father’s skull. The time was July 1942; the place, Staraya Russa. My father was taken to a field hospital where a young surgeon from Moscow drilled a hole in his skull, without anesthesia, to extract a bullet that, if it had gone just one-tenth of a millimeter deeper, would have been fatal. After the bullet had been extracted, he was put on a train for wounded soldiers and taken to the Far East.

    My father’s only words were, “Am I going to die now, tovarish lieutenant?” “You’ll live, Kossman!” was the response of the lieutenant, who would be killed in battle two days later, together with most men of the Latvian division. (Only six survived).

    My father’s inadvertent savior was Gottlieb, a fellow soldier whose tobacco my father had borrowed for a minute. Several things happened simultaneously: Gottlieb was cleaning his gun; my father was returning Gottlieb’s tobacco; Gottlieb leaned on his gun to take back the tobacco from my father; Gottlieb’s gun fired; my father fell, bleeding from the head. That same day, Gottlieb was sent on a reconnaissance mission as punishment for endangering his comrade’s life through negligence. Sending a man on such a mission in Staraya Russa, a town in the Novgorod area, where hundreds of thousands of Soviet soldiers fell between 1941 and 1943, and where even today, more than eighty years later, kids stumble upon skulls and rusting helmets in local forests, was an equivalent of a death sentence. It goes without saying that Gottlieb never returned from his mission. His name is absent from the Book of Memory, which lists the names of Latvian Jewish soldiers who perished in the war. (I was asked to translate these lists a few years ago here in New York). Perhaps Gottlieb’s body had never been found and is awaiting one of those nostalgic youngsters who join an annual search for soldiers’ remains. If found, the remains are reburied with Soviet-era pomp, usually without a name, because only the lucky few are discovered with their papers, still legible, on them.

    Wherever you are now, Private Gottlieb, greetings from the daughter of the man you saved with that stray bullet.

    NOTES

    *Militsioner – a Soviet policeman
    *Ispolnitelnyi Komitet – an executive committee, usually known as “ispolkom.” Every Soviet city and town had one.

    Feature Image: Soldiers of the Soviet Red Army in front of the Freedom Monument in Riga in 1944

  • Socio-Economic Rights Must Be Vindicated

    The noted American historian, and Putin critic,Timothy Snyder’s recent text Our Malady: Lessons in Liberty and Solidarity (2020) is a cri de coeur against almost non-existent healthcare rights in the U.S. – which the pandemic brought into sharp focus. The cossetted Yale professor saw the light, as his country failed to cope.

    Our Malady is about health care, but it is also an example of confessional literature about how health care provision, or lack thereof, begins to affect even those that are putatively privileged. The pandemic laid bare the limitations of the neoliberal order. But it is not just about healthcare, and not just about the United States, as the pandemic lays waste to income structure, life expectancies and perhaps a whole species’ expectations of the good life.

    We urgently require legal arguments in terms of justiciability, resource allocation and clarification of the limits and extent of judicial powers to enforce social and economic rights.  These arguments are no longer of cautious relevance given the gathering storm we confront. This is not the time for legal casuistry, or politeness either.

    https://vimeo.com/426871719

    In terms of the consensus as to what these rights are let me sketch a list, all of which are denuded or under threat:

    1. A right to adequate nutrition.
    2. A right to clean drinking water, and for bathing.
    3. A right to basic health care and, in particular, to emergency treatment.
    4. A right to housing or shelter; alongside a complimentary right to resist arbitrary eviction.
    5. A right to a minimum or adequate standard of living.
    6. A right to social security, leading to universal basic income.
    7. A right to a healthy environment, including air quality.
    8. A right to education, up to third level.
    9. A generalised right to dignity and self-expression in terms of expressing one’s identity.
    10. A right of a country to development.

    Crucially, there is a lively discussion as to which of such rights must be progressively realised, and which have a minimum content that are immediately realisable. Thus, the right to health care, both domestically and internationally, is progressively realisable, subject to resources.

    A right to emergency health care, however, is a minimum content right with direct enforceability, if justiciable.

    Similarly, the right to shelter is progressively realisable, but the international consensus is that forced or arbitrary evictions are directly enforceable again, if justiciable.

    Social and economic rights, in fact, have a long intellectual pedigree. Indeed, they are even evident in Thomas Hobbes’s enumeration of Natural Rights. Ancient Greek philosophers also identified such fundamental natural rights as inherent to membership of a polity.

    Eleanor Roosevelt with the UN Universal Declaraion of Human Rights.

    The proposal to include them in the UN Charter was aborted by representatives of the developed world. They were reconstituted in the 1966 UN Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, but with limited effectiveness, even allowing for recent rights of individual petition. Now amidst a growing convergence between developed and developing societies in the neoliberal order, we are increasingly all in the same boat.

    Right to Life

    The Indian Supreme Court decision in Olga Tellis v. Bombay Municipal Corporation concerned public interest litigation by thousands of pavement dwellers of Bombay city.

    The plaintiffs argued that they could not be evicted from their squalid shelters without being offered alternative accommodation. They further argued that they had chosen a pavement or slum to live because it was nearest to their place of work, and that evicting them would result in deprivation of a right to a livelihood.

    The petitioners were to be evicted under the Bombay Municipal Corporation Act, which empowered the Municipal Commissioner to remove encroachments on footpaths or pavements over which the public have a right of passage or access.

    Olga Tellis, Ex Editor of Sunday Observer & Asian Age. Source YouTube.

    The relevant article of the Indian Constitution (modelled on Article 45 of the Irish Constitution) excludes the Directive Principles from judicial cognisance, yet the court opined, in finding that the right to life itself was informed by the Directive Principles; that Article 39(a) of the Constitution, which is a Directive Principle of State Policy, provides that the State shall, in particular, direct its policy towards ensuring that citizens have the right to an adequate means of livelihood.

    The court concluded that if there is an obligation upon the State to ensure citizens enjoys an adequate means of livelihood and the right to work, it would be an exercise in pedantry to exclude the right to livelihood from the content of the right to life.

    The judgement thus expanded the right to life guaranteed under Article 21 of the Indian Constitution to include within its scope the right to livelihood, which in this context translated into the right to be allowed to remain on the pavements.

    More remarkably in People’s Union for Civil Liberties v. Union of India & OR’s (2003), India’s Supreme Court derived the right to food from the right to life and ordered that that the Famine Code permitting the release of grain stocks in times of famine be implemented.

    The court ordered that the grain allocation for the food to work scheme be doubled and financial support for schemes be increased; that ration shop licensees stay open and provide the grain to families below the poverty line at a set price; that publicity be given to the rights of families below the poverty line to grain; that all individuals without means of support (for example older persons, widows, disabled adults) be granted an Anthodia Anna Yojana ration card for free grain; and that State governments should progressively implement the mid-day meal scheme in schools.

    In terms of stretching the bounds of acceptable judicial intervention this case could not be more dramatic, as the Court utilised mandatory policing orders and even inspectors in the field to ensure compliance with their orders, which have spread nationwide.

    With inflation in food prices already evident in the wake of the pandemic, will our judicial authorities oblige often reluctant, and even compromised, executive authorities to intervene in the market, and avert shortages? And in Ireland will the Court overcome a reluctance to vindicate a right to housing as part of a generalised right to life?

    Canadian Dissenting Opinion

    In Canada a similar conclusion that social and economic rights inform the content of the right to life is evident in a dissenting opinion in the Canadian Supreme Court case of Gosselin v. Attorney General of Quebec (2004).

    The case concerned the denial of unemployment assistance to those under thirty-five, who could do a form of workfare in lieu. The court addressed issues pertaining to discrimination and the right to life and security of the person under the Canadian charter. The majority found the law justifiable and in Thatcherite terms as an incentive for the young to work. “Get on your bike”, as Norman Tebbit would put it.

    Judge Louise Arbour dissented however, as indeed did Mr Justice Lahreux Herbe. Arbour J. derived a right to minimum social assistance from the right to life and indeed security of the person under Section 7 of the Charter, and drew a prudential distinction between corporate-commercial economic rights and economic rights fundamental to health and human survival.

    He indicated that the appeal makes it obvious why ‘those economic rights fundamentals to human life or survival’ should not be treated as akin to corporate commercial economic rights.

    Simply put, the rights at issue here are so intimately intertwined with one’s basic health (and hence ‘security of the person’) – and, at the limit, even of one’s survival (and hence ‘life’) — they could readily be accommodated under section 7 rights of ‘life, liberty and security of the person’, without the need to constitutionalize ‘property’ rights or interests.

    Notably, Arbour J also links the right to health to the guarantee of security of the person. He argued the expansion of the right to life in this fashion gave content to this right, which is to be protected in such a fashion so as to invest the State with a positive duty to protect life.

    Little shop on the main street of Dukathole, South Africa.

    South African Experience

    It might be noted that the South African experience is different in that social and economic rights are textual and thus inherently justiciable, with the word dignity mentioned in several places.

    The relevant housing provision explored in Government of the Republic of South Africa v Grootboom (2000) is Article 26 whereby:

    Everyone has the right to have access to adequate housing. The state must take reasonable legislative and other measures, within its available resources, to achieve the progressive realisation of this right. No one may be evicted from their home, or have their home demolished, without an order of court made after considering all the relevant circumstances. No legislation may permit arbitrary evictions.

    The South African Constitution also specifies an immediately enforceable specific minimum right against forced or arbitrary evictions. Such a right entails:

    1. Meaningful consultation prior to eviction.
    2. Alternative relocation if eviction proceeds.
    3. No eviction to proceed unless the land is being put to productive use.

    Nonetheless, the South African Courts have set down limits for their review and in general such rights are in the text of the document to be progressively realised.

    In Subramani v. Minister for Health (1997) for example the South African Supreme Court was very explicit about the large margin of discretion it would give to the State to set its budget.

    It also states that the court: ‘will be slow to interfere with rational decisions taken in good faith by the political organs and medical authorities.’

    Sachs J went further stating that:

    In open and democratic societies based upon dignity, freedom and equality, the rationing of access to life-prolonging resources is regarded as integral to, rather than incompatible with, a human rights approach to health care.

    However, if decisions taken are deemed unreasonable then the South African courts will step in. Thus, in the Minister of Health v Treatment Action Campaign (2002) and in Azbuka and Others v City of Johannesburg (2009) the extent of the right to water was litigated in South Africa after the case arose in Soweto.

    Justice Oregon writing for the Constitutional court found the City’s free basic water policy of twenty-five litres per person per day to be reasonable under section 27(1) of the Constitution, and that the introduction of prepaid water meters to be lawful, procedurally fair, and not unfairly discriminatory.

    The Court noted that the City was under no constitutional duty to provide any amount of free water, but merely to take reasonable measures to progressively realise that right. It said it could not fix a minimum core amount, as this would vary in terms of personal and local circumstances and would prevent context being considered.

    It also argued that this was not a determination for a court to make, as it was properly the role of the democratic branches of government to investigate conditions, having regard to the availability of resources, and to determine achievable targets.

    Irish Housing

    In Ireland, the housing market is chronically under-supplied with affordable units, particularly in Dublin, but increasingly elsewhere too. Many local councils appear reluctant to countenance building modular homes, and the rental market is out of control and extortionate.

    David McWilliams blithely advises homeowners to step away from the market, as there is no security for the mortgaged or rentier class, but for most finding a home to live in is not an investment.

    The Irish State is also tolerating rampant evictions by banks and Vulture Funds and negligently permitting unfair commercial practices to occur, often in breach of consumer protection.

    Thus, lenders have reneged on agreements bartered with consumers at a time of high ostensible economic prosperity by neglecting a contractual obligation to revert the consumer to a tracker mortgage after the expiry of a fixed rate period, or upping interest rates to the highest in the Eurozone, often aimed at those seeking to exit the country.

    Thus, lending institutions with no interest in Ireland such as Danske Bank and The Bank of Scotland simply left the room and disposed of their assets, hiking up the mortgage interest rate payments as they left and/or selling assets off to Vulture Funds.

    Ulster Bank has followed them out the door, while citizens are thrown out on the streets in spite of the pandemic.

    The old cry of the tenant farmer for the 3Fs: Fixity of Tenure; Free Sale and a Fair Rent falls on deaf ears in the era of the Vultures.

    The Sinnott Case

    In the Sinnott case (2001), comprising judgments from all seven members, the Supreme Court was asked inter alia to adjudicate on the legality of mandatory orders made in the High Court by Judge Peter Kelly. This precedent remains an important brake on the capacity of the Court to vindicate the right to life – which includes a right to shelter – of Irish citizens.

    In a leading judgment for the majority Adrian Hardiman, following a High Court decision of Justice Declan Costello in O’Reilly v Limerick UDC (1989) distinguished between commutative and distributive justice, the former bearing on relations between individuals such as found in contract and tort, with the latter involving the distribution of the resources of the State.

    In contrast to commutative justice which Hardiman considered central to the Court’s function, he held that the exercise of the Court’s jurisdiction over distributive justice was repugnant to the Separation of Powers.

    Despite Justice Costello demonstrating a willingness to countenance distributive justice in the subsequent case of O’Brien v Wicklow District Council (1994) Hardiman only brought to bear his arguments in O’Reilly, and sought to elevate non-justiciability to a constitutional principle.

    He said that the apportionment of resources ‘would lead the Courts into the taking of decisions in areas in which they have no special qualification or experience’; and were a judge to engage in ‘designing the details of policy in individual cases or in general, and ranking some areas of policy in priority to others, they would step beyond their appointed role.’ He did, however, allude to generalised ‘human rights to earn a livelihood and hold property.’

    It would appear to have been disingenuous for Hardiman to deny jurisdiction on the grounds of judicial incompetence in budgetary affairs. Detailed financial resolutions are, after all, already executed in the commercial arena. The test is one of proportionality, as the South African case law demonstrates.

    A paramount right to life under Article 40.3 should now require the Court to make mandatory orders, interceding on behalf of citizens whose health and life is threatened by this Housing Crisis, particularly in the presence of contagious disease. Where the executive and legislature fail to vindicate a right to life the Court must surely assume responsibility.

    The Harp needs more than tuning…

    A Constitutional Challenge

    To deal with homelessness and affordable housing a challenge needs to be made through the courts to establish a right to housing.

    The Irish Constitution through Article 45 and a generalised right to life contains minimum rights against forced or arbitrary evictions.

    Such a right should lead inter alia: to meaningful consultation begin given prior to any eviction; alternative relocation if eviction proceeds; no eviction proceeding unless the land is being put to productive use.

    An arbitrator should also be able to probe into what banks or Vulture Fund intend to do with this vital infrastructure, fundamental to the lives and livelihoods of citizens.

    Any arbitrator would of course reject spurious defences involving colossal amounts of borrowings, but should achieve a re-calibration of the system. establishing some equality of arms in the process, now desperately needed.

    Shelter from the Storm

    Without adequate shelter no one can live a dignified existence. A home – a place of one’s own – is intrinsic to the good life we have a right to expect. But housing is only one issue.

    Our social structure is unravelling through the hidden hand of American and Canadian Vulture and Cuckoo Funds. In the dystopian aftermath of the Pandemic, and Screen New Deal, once vibrant communities are fracturing, and social atomization is increasing apace.

    In the urban wastelands, we have entered the territory of Chile under Pinochet during the 1970s as Ireland becomes a test case for how much a people can endure.

    Salvador Allende in 1972.

    In her recent novel A Long Petal in the Sea (2019), Chilean novelist Isabel Allende – a distant cousin of the murdered President Salvador Allende – describes the scene in Chile at the time, bearing increasing resemblance to our increasingly dysfunctional society:

    He called to tell them that on the surface the country was modern and prosperous, but one only had to dig down a little to see the damage underneath. The degree of inequality was staggering: three-quarters of the wealth was in the hands of twenty families. The middle class survived on credit; there was poverty for the many and opulence for the few; shantytowns contrasting with glass skyscrapers and mansions behind walls. Wellbeing and security for some; unemployment and repression for others. The economic miracle of recent times, based on absolute freedom for capital and a lack of basic rights for workers, had burst like a bubble.

    Similarly:

    The military government had decided public services should be in private hands. Health was not a right, but a consumer good to be bought and sold. In those years when everything that everything had been privatized had been, from electricity to airlines, a plethora of private clinics had sprung, with state-of-the art buildings and facilities for those who could afford them.

    One thinks of The Beacon Hospital and other facilities reserved for Ireland’s wealthy health consumers.

    Life depends on livelihoods, now threatened by disproportionate measures. There must be an alternative. Otherwise, suicide, shortened lives, poverty, inequality, social exclusion, and social fragmentation await, leading to fascism and extremism. In this respect, COVID-19 has been the perfect storm of opportunism, or a coalition of interests.