thenation--2020-06-03--Debt Relief for Tyrants Is a Terrible Idea

In May , Senator Bernie Sanders , Representative Ilhan Omar , and more than 300 other lawmakers from around the world called on the World Bank and International Monetary Fund to cancel the debts of the world ’ s poorest countries .
Covid-19 is set to deepen poverty in already indebted African , South Asian , and Latin American countries , 64 of which were already spending more on debt service than health care before the pandemic hit .
I ’ ve been working in , and writing about , international development for nearly 30 years , and I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Omar .
But blanket debt relief for countries ruled by corrupt tyrants is a terrible idea .
Lately , most of my research concerns Uganda , an equatorial Eastern African nation of some 40 million people .
Few Americans know much about Uganda , but its people , like those in many highly indebted countries , are extremely poor .
Per capita income averages around $ 700 a year ; two-thirds of the population survives on subsistence agriculture ; fewer than 20 percent have electricity ; roughly half live at least a 10-minute @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and only a third of children pass their primary school final exams .
Uganda spends nearly $ 800 million a year on debt payments .
Debt relief functions like aid—it means the money that would come out of a nation ’ s treasury can instead be spent on , for example , health care , education , and roads .
But if the past is anything to go by , debt relief for Uganda would be directed to election rigging and militarizing the country so that current leader Yoweri Museveni can retain power @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hilltop compound costing Ugandan taxpayers some $ 70 million a year , seized power by force in 1986 .
Western donors have since poured some $ 50 billion into the country , including about $ 4 billion in debt relief .
In 2017 , I wrote a book about where much of this money has gone .
During the 1990s , Museveni armed rebel groups in Sudan , Rwanda , and Congo , triggering a series of deadly conflicts , including the Rwanda genocide , that claimed millions of lives .
Within Uganda @ @ @ @ @ @ @ countless innocent civilians and his henchmen have stolen billions of dollars from the Treasury and foreign aid programs , while allowing Uganda ’ s once thriving schools and hospitals to wither .
Meanwhile , politicians and activists calling for Museveni ’ s removal have been tortured and killed .
But donor money still pours in , because Museveni is a great friend of Western militaries , especially the Pentagon .
During the 1990s , Uganda funneled clandestine US weapons to Sudanese rebels , and today its troops battle Islamist Al Shabaab militants in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ serve under American command , enabling the drawdown of US troops there .
Ugandans are much cheaper than US Service personnel , and their deaths don ’ t make US headlines .
When Ugandans are injured or killed , the shady contractors who hire them often fail to compensate them , without repercussions for American politicians .
These favors earn Museveni a blind eye from the donors , who lavish aid on the country , even as the human rights situation continues to darken .
While many governments are using Covid-19 restrictions to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The country has been under lockdown since late March , and widespread hunger is driving growing desperation .
In early April , Parliament passed a supplementary budget of roughly $ 15 million for relief food distribution , to be administered by Prime Minister Ruhakana Rugunda .
But the little food thus far distributed was found to be spoiled and mixed with dirt and stones .
Aponye , one of the companies responsible , is owned by Apollo Nyemagehe , one of Museveni ’ s campaign contributors .
On April 19 , 29-year-old @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a fierce critic of Museveni ’ s , hired motorcycle taxis to distribute bags of rice and sugar to his destitute constituents .
“ I could not stand starving mothers and their children camping outside my gate every day for help , ” he told reporters .
That evening , Zaake heard commotion outside his house .
He was taking a shower , and as he rushed out to put on some trousers , police and army officers broke down his bedroom door and dragged him into a waiting police vehicle .
On @ @ @ @ @ @ @ house and made off with about $ 4,000 in cash , according to Zaake and his wife .
For the next four days , Zaake said , he was ferried from one detention center to another and kicked , punched , and beaten with sticks while being subjected to periodic interrogations .
A stinging substance was poured into his eyes , rendering him temporarily blind—his sight only returning weeks later .
At one point , his upper arms were tied behind his back in a position known as the “ three-piece tie , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can damage the shoulders and breastbone .
He was then suspended , face down between the seats of a speeding pickup truck , enduring excruciating pain as his body swung to and fro .
Zaake ’ s captors , who spoke the language of Museveni ’ s home area , made tribalist slurs against his ethnic group , stepped on his head , and ordered him to swear allegiance to Museveni and his wife , Janet .
While Zaake was in custody , his wife , lawyers , and colleagues were not permitted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , did meet dozens of other Ugandans who had been assaulted and detained for supposed Covid-19-related offenses .
University law student Ronald Mark Kizito claimed he was beaten by members of Uganda ’ s Local Defense Unit—a hastily trained auxiliary force with “ shoot to kill ” orders—for leaving his lights on .
The police say he was beaten by acquaintances for trying to rape a girl and denied that LDU officers had anything to do with it .
A woman died of her wounds after being shot by police for supposedly violating @ @ @ @ @ @ @ packing up her fried chicken stall in order to meet the curfew , when security men arrived and doused her with hot oil from her own saucepan .
Unable to see , stand , or even sit up , Zaake was eventually delivered to a hospital , where he remained under armed guard , charged with defying presidential orders .
He had to be carried to his court hearing , where he lay prostrate on a bench , moaning in agony .
Parliament was incensed .
Speaker Rebecca Kadaga ordered Internal Affairs Minister @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to explain what had happened .
The following day , ruling party MP Obiga Kania presented the results of the ministry ’ s investigation to Parliament .
Zaake had injured himself deliberately by banging his body against the side of the police vehicle , Kania declared .
He then suffered further injuries in a “ scuffle ” when he tried to resist being moved from his cell by clinging to the bars .
No Ugandans I know find this credible , and on May 4 , five Ugandan opposition leaders wrote to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to call on the UN Security Council to suspend all but the most essential humanitarian aid to their country .
In Uganda ’ s fractious political landscape , the five signatories—including popular MP and musician Bobi Wine , whose torture in detention made international headlines in 2018—normally agree on very little .
But they do agree that much donor funding to Uganda does more harm than good .
They warned Guterres that unless foreign aid is conditioned on strict human rights criteria , it will be used to rig Uganda ’ s forthcoming @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and further militarize the country .
A group of civil society activists—including me , the only non-Ugandan—wrote to the IMF a few days later , endorsing this view .
Can Bobi Wine Unite Uganda and Bring Down a Dictator ?
Not surprisingly , Museveni takes the opposite view , and has been leading the call for Covid-19 debt relief .
As usual , the donors are rushing to fill his coffers .
The IMF recently opened a $ 491 million loan facility for Uganda ; the European Union has given the Uganda government @ @ @ @ @ @ @ topped up its annual $ 1 billion contribution by $ 12 million ; and the Irish government has pledged hundreds of millions more .
They should all really think twice .
In 2005 , the international community celebrated a steep surge in foreign aid to the poorest countries , which British Prime Minister Tony Blair dubbed the “ big push.
” But instead of ending poverty , the big push was followed by a resurgence of authoritarianism across sub-Saharan Africa , even in countries such as Tanzania , Zambia , Mozambique , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This may be no coincidence .
Studies of foreign aid and governance suggest it can concentrate power in the executive at the expense of other institutions , including the media , civil society , and the legislature .
When I first began working in development in the 1990s , there was a softly spoken assumption among my peers that too much emphasis on democracy and human rights could hold countries back by enlivening noisy , competing constituencies .
“ Strong leaders ” —as then–Secretary of State Madeleine Albright called dictators like Museveni—were better @ @ @ @ @ @ @ went .
Museveni was held up as a model , not only by the World Bank but even by some Western academics .
Clearly , they were wrong .
Zaake is not the first Ugandan lawmaker to be tortured by Museveni ’ s security forces .
In December 2012 , outspoken 24-year-old MP and Museveni critic Cerinah Nebanda was poisoned , and when her parliamentary colleagues voiced concerns about foul play , they and the pathologist they ’ d hired to conduct an investigation were jailed .
In September 2017 , Ugandan Special @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and partially paralyzed MP Betty Nambooze as she attempted to filibuster a bill that would allow Museveni to remain in power for life .
In August 2018 , Special Forces detained and assaulted five members of Parliament including musician Bobi Wine , along with dozens of their supporters .
Curiously , the response to all this has been muted .
During Zaake ’ s ordeal , for example , a spate of reports praising Museveni ’ s Covid-19 response were featured by prominent US news outlets including PBS and The Washington Post .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and killing of Minneapolis resident George Floyd , but not the torture of Zaake , Wine , Nambooze , or other Ugandan MPs .
The Covid-19 crisis creates opportunities for rethinking policies of all kinds .
It ’ s pretty certain there will be less money for international development , as Western donor governments concentrate on assisting their own people .
At present , the World Bank and IMF do not even consider human rights when making loans and grants .
It ’ s my firm belief that our aid and debt relief @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they did .
Perhaps then community leaders would be free do more to help their own people , as Zaake was trying to do , before his ordeal .
There ’ s no guarantee that a greater emphasis on human rights in development would end poverty , but if it meant our taxes didn ’ t go to another torturer ’ s trust fund , it would certainly be worth a try .

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In May, Senator Bernie Sanders, Representative Ilhan Omar, and more than 300 other lawmakers from around the world called on the World Bank and International Monetary Fund to cancel the debts of the world’s poorest countries. Covid-19 is set to deepen poverty in already indebted African, South Asian, and Latin American countries, 64 of which were already spending more on debt service than health care before the pandemic hit.
I’ve been working in, and writing about, international development for nearly 30 years, and I’m a great admirer of Sanders and Omar. But blanket debt relief for countries ruled by corrupt tyrants is a terrible idea.
Lately, most of my research concerns Uganda, an equatorial Eastern African nation of some 40 million people. Few Americans know much about Uganda, but its people, like those in many highly indebted countries, are extremely poor. Per capita income averages around $700 a year; two-thirds of the population survives on subsistence agriculture; fewer than 20 percent have electricity; roughly half live at least a 10-minute walk from the nearest water source; and only a third of children pass their primary school final exams.
Uganda spends nearly $800 million a year on debt payments. Debt relief functions like aid—it means the money that would come out of a nation’s treasury can instead be spent on, for example, health care, education, and roads. But if the past is anything to go by, debt relief for Uganda would be directed to election rigging and militarizing the country so that current leader Yoweri Museveni can retain power.
Museveni, who occupies a vast hilltop compound costing Ugandan taxpayers some $70 million a year, seized power by force in 1986. Western donors have since poured some $50 billion into the country, including about $4 billion in debt relief. In 2017, I wrote a book about where much of this money has gone. During the 1990s, Museveni armed rebel groups in Sudan, Rwanda, and Congo, triggering a series of deadly conflicts, including the Rwanda genocide, that claimed millions of lives. Within Uganda, Museveni’s troops have massacred countless innocent civilians and his henchmen have stolen billions of dollars from the Treasury and foreign aid programs, while allowing Uganda’s once thriving schools and hospitals to wither. Meanwhile, politicians and activists calling for Museveni’s removal have been tortured and killed. Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life Chris Lehmann
But donor money still pours in, because Museveni is a great friend of Western militaries, especially the Pentagon. During the 1990s, Uganda funneled clandestine US weapons to Sudanese rebels, and today its troops battle Islamist Al Shabaab militants in Somalia. In Iraq, Ugandan guards serve under American command, enabling the drawdown of US troops there. Ugandans are much cheaper than US Service personnel, and their deaths don’t make US headlines. When Ugandans are injured or killed, the shady contractors who hire them often fail to compensate them, without repercussions for American politicians.
These favors earn Museveni a blind eye from the donors, who lavish aid on the country, even as the human rights situation continues to darken. Current Issue View our current issue
While many governments are using Covid-19 restrictions to tighten their grip, Uganda stands out. The country has been under lockdown since late March, and widespread hunger is driving growing desperation. In early April, Parliament passed a supplementary budget of roughly $15 million for relief food distribution, to be administered by Prime Minister Ruhakana Rugunda. But the little food thus far distributed was found to be spoiled and mixed with dirt and stones. Aponye, one of the companies responsible, is owned by Apollo Nyemagehe, one of Museveni’s campaign contributors.
On April 19, 29-year-old opposition member of Parliament Francis Zaake, a fierce critic of Museveni’s, hired motorcycle taxis to distribute bags of rice and sugar to his destitute constituents. “I could not stand starving mothers and their children camping outside my gate every day for help,” he told reporters.
That evening, Zaake heard commotion outside his house. He was taking a shower, and as he rushed out to put on some trousers, police and army officers broke down his bedroom door and dragged him into a waiting police vehicle. On the way out, they ransacked his house and made off with about $4,000 in cash, according to Zaake and his wife. For the next four days, Zaake said, he was ferried from one detention center to another and kicked, punched, and beaten with sticks while being subjected to periodic interrogations. A stinging substance was poured into his eyes, rendering him temporarily blind—his sight only returning weeks later. At one point, his upper arms were tied behind his back in a position known as the “three-piece tie,” a notorious Ugandan torture method that can damage the shoulders and breastbone. He was then suspended, face down between the seats of a speeding pickup truck, enduring excruciating pain as his body swung to and fro.
Zaake’s captors, who spoke the language of Museveni’s home area, made tribalist slurs against his ethnic group, stepped on his head, and ordered him to swear allegiance to Museveni and his wife, Janet.
While Zaake was in custody, his wife, lawyers, and colleagues were not permitted to see him. He, however, did meet dozens of other Ugandans who had been assaulted and detained for supposed Covid-19-related offenses. University law student Ronald Mark Kizito claimed he was beaten by members of Uganda’s Local Defense Unit—a hastily trained auxiliary force with “shoot to kill” orders—for leaving his lights on. The police say he was beaten by acquaintances for trying to rape a girl and denied that LDU officers had anything to do with it. A woman died of her wounds after being shot by police for supposedly violating the Covid curfew. Another woman was packing up her fried chicken stall in order to meet the curfew, when security men arrived and doused her with hot oil from her own saucepan.
Unable to see, stand, or even sit up, Zaake was eventually delivered to a hospital, where he remained under armed guard, charged with defying presidential orders. He had to be carried to his court hearing, where he lay prostrate on a bench, moaning in agony.
Parliament was incensed. Speaker Rebecca Kadaga ordered Internal Affairs Minister Jeje Odongo, who oversees the police, to explain what had happened. The following day, ruling party MP Obiga Kania presented the results of the ministry’s investigation to Parliament. Zaake had injured himself deliberately by banging his body against the side of the police vehicle, Kania declared. He then suffered further injuries in a “scuffle” when he tried to resist being moved from his cell by clinging to the bars.
No Ugandans I know find this credible, and on May 4, five Ugandan opposition leaders wrote to UN Secretary General António Guterres urging him to call on the UN Security Council to suspend all but the most essential humanitarian aid to their country. In Uganda’s fractious political landscape, the five signatories—including popular MP and musician Bobi Wine, whose torture in detention made international headlines in 2018—normally agree on very little. But they do agree that much donor funding to Uganda does more harm than good. They warned Guterres that unless foreign aid is conditioned on strict human rights criteria, it will be used to rig Uganda’s forthcoming election, expected in early 2021, and further militarize the country. A group of civil society activists—including me, the only non-Ugandan—wrote to the IMF a few days later, endorsing this view. Related Article Can Bobi Wine Unite Uganda and Bring Down a Dictator? Helen C. Epstein
Not surprisingly, Museveni takes the opposite view, and has been leading the call for Covid-19 debt relief. As usual, the donors are rushing to fill his coffers. The IMF recently opened a $491 million loan facility for Uganda; the European Union has given the Uganda government 30 million euros; the United States topped up its annual $1 billion contribution by $12 million; and the Irish government has pledged hundreds of millions more.
They should all really think twice. In 2005, the international community celebrated a steep surge in foreign aid to the poorest countries, which British Prime Minister Tony Blair dubbed the “big push.” But instead of ending poverty, the big push was followed by a resurgence of authoritarianism across sub-Saharan Africa, even in countries such as Tanzania, Zambia, Mozambique, and Malawi that were thought be democratizing. This may be no coincidence. Studies of foreign aid and governance suggest it can concentrate power in the executive at the expense of other institutions, including the media, civil society, and the legislature.
When I first began working in development in the 1990s, there was a softly spoken assumption among my peers that too much emphasis on democracy and human rights could hold countries back by enlivening noisy, competing constituencies. “Strong leaders”—as then–Secretary of State Madeleine Albright called dictators like Museveni—were better at getting things done, the argument went. Museveni was held up as a model, not only by the World Bank but even by some Western academics. Clearly, they were wrong.
Zaake is not the first Ugandan lawmaker to be tortured by Museveni’s security forces. In December 2012, outspoken 24-year-old MP and Museveni critic Cerinah Nebanda was poisoned, and when her parliamentary colleagues voiced concerns about foul play, they and the pathologist they’d hired to conduct an investigation were jailed. In September 2017, Ugandan Special Forces raided Parliament, where they tortured and partially paralyzed MP Betty Nambooze as she attempted to filibuster a bill that would allow Museveni to remain in power for life. In August 2018, Special Forces detained and assaulted five members of Parliament including musician Bobi Wine, along with dozens of their supporters.
Curiously, the response to all this has been muted. During Zaake’s ordeal, for example, a spate of reports praising Museveni’s Covid-19 response were featured by prominent US news outlets including PBS and The Washington Post. The African Union condemned the police torture and killing of Minneapolis resident George Floyd, but not the torture of Zaake, Wine, Nambooze, or other Ugandan MPs.
The Covid-19 crisis creates opportunities for rethinking policies of all kinds. It’s pretty certain there will be less money for international development, as Western donor governments concentrate on assisting their own people. At present, the World Bank and IMF do not even consider human rights when making loans and grants. It’s my firm belief that our aid and debt relief dollars would stretch a lot further if they did. Perhaps then community leaders would be free do more to help their own people, as Zaake was trying to do, before his ordeal. There’s no guarantee that a greater emphasis on human rights in development would end poverty, but if it meant our taxes didn’t go to another torturer’s trust fund, it would certainly be worth a try.


thenation--2020-06-03--Masha Gessen on Trump’s ‘Autocratic Attempt’ on America

Russian-American writer and journalist Masha Gessen is one of today ’ s fiercest critics of governmental power and authoritarianism .
For over 20 years , they worked in Moscow as a journalist , but , in 2012 , they were fired as chief editor of Russia ’ s oldest magazine , Vokrug sveta , for refusing to cover a sham environmental awareness event featuring Putin releasing endangered Siberian cranes into the wild .
Soon after , Gessen fled with their family to the United States , fearing that , as an openly gay public figure , their children would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ known book , The Future Is History : How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia , won the National Book Award in 2017 .
Their other books cover a range of topics about Russian politics and culture ( The Man Without a Face : The Unlikely Rise of Vladimir Putin , 2012 ) ( Words Will Break Cement : The Passion of Pussy Riot , 2015 ) , as well as science and genetics ( Blood Matters : From Inherited Illness to Designer Babies , How the World and I Found Ourselves in the Future of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a staff writer at The New Yorker and the distinguished writer in residence at Bard College .
On June 2 , Riverhead Books will publish Gessen ’ s latest book , Surviving Autocracy .
Gessen ’ s decades-long experience covering the resurgence of totalitarianism in Russia puts them in a unique position to help Americans understand what is happening to the United States under President Donald Trump .
Cataloguing the corrosion of political language , legal institutions , and democratic ideals over three and half years , Gessen argues that Trump is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ America .
While Trump threatens to destroy American norms and institutions , Gessen shows us that having the language to understand what is happening is the first step to surviving , and ultimately resisting , an autocratic future .
tephanie e ooyer : In Surviving Autocracy , you suggest that over the past three and a half years , Donald Trump has made an “ autocratic attempt ” on America .
What does this mean ?
asha essen : Since the election , I have been thinking about how we lack the language @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the book , I turn to one of my favorite political thinkers , Bálint Magyar , a Hungarian sociologist who works on the post-communist mafia state .
Magyar argues that after the Eastern bloc collapsed , journalists and political scientists used the language of liberal democracy to describe what was happening .
For Magyar , however , this is like asking , “ Can the elephant fly ?
Can an elephant swim ?
” You can answer those questions , but they don ’ t get you very close to actually describing what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a framework for understanding the conditions of the post-communist state .
He describes the transition in three stages : the autocratic attempt , the autocratic breakthrough , and the autocratic consolidation .
That ’ s where the word “ attempt ” comes from .
I am borrowing language from the post-communist bloc and saying that it is actually better suited to analyze what is happening in America than the language of liberal democracy .
SG : You are saying that the conditions of the post-communist state can help explain Trump ’ s America @ @ @ @ @ @ @ very careful with the idea , because obviously you can ’ t transpose the experience directly .
There are a lot of political , cultural , and economic conditions that are very different , but I think it ’ s a start .
That ’ s why I use the term “ autocratic attempt.
” The distinction between autocratic attempt and autocratic breakthrough is that , during the autocratic attempt , it is still possible to get rid of the autocrat by electoral means .
I think , at least up until through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ formally , in the state of an autocratic attempt .
SG : Some historians and political scientists , including myself , have argued that attempts to understand Trump through historical comparisons to fascism and totalitarianism are abnormalizing .
They make Trump seem like he ’ s an anomaly , rather than part of a decades long and uniquely American project .
How do you want readers of this book to understand Trump ’ s relationship to American history ?
MG : Right .
I agree with that critique .
In the book I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of contexts .
Historical comparisons give us an intellectual advantage .
Tim Snyder [ Yale historian and author of The Road to Unfreedom ] has said something like , “ One thing that makes us better off than Germans of the 1930s is that fascism already happened , and we can learn from it.
” To the same end , I use the advantage of having covered Putin as a journalist for 20 years .
Not because I think Trump is similar to Putin , but because I think there are certain skills @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I can , with adjustments , apply to Trump .
The conditions for Trump were created over the course of several decades .
To me , the most important was the transformation of power and identity after 9/11 , both the concentration of power in the executive branch and the trade off of rights and liberties for “ security.
” This was the creation of an identity of a nation under siege .
Then there is the longer perspective of Americans ’ rather unproblematic relationship to the marriage of politics and money and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that especially the Democratic part of the American political universe has become deeply suspicious of the language of ideals , vision , and future .
SG : How was Trump able to capitalize on American technocratic politics ?
MG : One way is that he promised a more emotional alternative .
He had the appeal of a kind of demagogue , to borrow terminology from Erich Fromm [ a Jewish psychoanalyst who fled Nazi Germany ] , who appeals to the imaginary past .
Trump comes along and taps into the deep anxieties @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they have been economically and socially unstable for more than a generation .
He taps into that and says , “ OK , I ’ ll take you back to an imaginary past.
” There is very little on the other side to counterweigh this emotional appeal .
You can ’ t counterweigh it by saying , “ I have a good resume , and I ’ ll fix things.
” SG : While some people might see the coronavirus as the beginning of Trump ’ s undoing , you see it as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Why is that ?
MG : In standard political science , you would look at the facts and say , “ OK , Trump has proven that he is incompetent .
He has mishandled the pandemic .
He has failed to lead .
More people have died than should ’ ve .
There will be extreme economic hardship by the time the November election comes around.
” All of those things should mean that he will be undone .
The journalist Jim Fallows spoke to one of my classes a few weeks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about November , because he feels that the laws of physics still obtain .
If we go by all the markers of standard political science , then we ’ re good .
It was a beautiful way of putting it , but that ’ s where I think I disagree with Jim , although I hope he is right .
If you look at other universes with other laws of physics , this is , again , where the experience of 20th century totalitarianism is really informative .
Then we find out that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fertile ground for a leader like Trump .
SG : So are we are living under something like terror in America right now ?
MG : Hannah Arendt in The Origins of Totalitarianism talks about how totalitarianism is possible only in a country that can afford depopulation , that can sacrifice millions of its people , either because of its scale or because of the cultural and emotional conditions .
She talks about the role of terror and the role of loneliness in creating the conditions of totalitarianism .
This virus comes along @ @ @ @ @ @ @ having to do anything .
It also creates the conditions of loneliness and political disconnection .
We are physically and emotionally severely handicapped in being able to act together to act politically .
We have entered this state of scarcity and instability .
And because of the coronavirus in the media , it ’ s all Trump , all the time .
Joe Biden is holding town halls from his basement .
You have to be highly motivated in order to know anything about that .
SG : In a footnote , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ passage from Arendt , you say that you ’ re “ not arguing that Trump is building a totalitarian regime , but that he is an aspiring autocrat in a world that has seen a number of totalitarian regimes.
” Could you explain that distinction a little more ?
MG : That footnote was a way to head off some criticism that I think is almost instinctual , but a bit misguided .
This is the criticism that the intellectual apparatus of analyzing totalitarianism should not be applied to Trump because he is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ agree .
Trump is not building a totalitarian regime .
A lot of other things would have to happen and fall into place .
He would have to have a lot of tools at his disposal that I don ’ t think he ’ s likely to have .
But his understanding and our understanding of what ’ s possible is informed by the 20th century , which had a lot of totalitarian regimes .
The affect of a totalitarian leader is Trump ’ s to borrow .
SG : A significant portion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ critique of how journalists have covered Trump .
Most legacy media journalists , in your opinion , have failed to call out Trump ’ s lies .
They ’ ve tried to remain neutral and objective , as per their training .
How do you suggest that journalism needs to change to cover what you call “ the system ” of Trump ?
MG : The key word is “ system , ” because there are real problems with covering Trump .
You can ’ t cover it in the sort of traditional @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump ’ s lies too much legitimacy .
We saw this again over and over with the coronavirus .
My old acquaintance and someone I admire a lot , Grant Gonzalez , keeps calling out The New York Times on Twitter , when they have a headline like “ Trump Says Testing No Longer a Problem , Governor Disagrees.
” Grant writes , “ Well , next they ’ re going to be ‘ Trump Says Earth Flat , Scientists Disagree.
’ ” It ’ s really important to understand that covering Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s no good solution to it .
There ’ s no way to think that if we just did journalism differently , we would totally slay this whole Trump situation .
The Trump situation presents a number of traps for journalism no matter how you practice journalism .
It ’ s almost journalism as harm reduction .
SG : Reading the account of journalism in the book , I was struck that there was no mention about the rise of disinformation .
How can journalists compete with the bot attacks and computerized false @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with Covid-19 ?
Judith Butler on the Violence of Neglect Amid a Health Crisis MG : Covering Trumpism is not exactly the same thing as battling disinformation and bots .
I ’ m going on the assumption , or the well-documented fact , that most Americans still exist in a fairly healthy media universe .
Most Americans are routinely exposed to opinions that they don ’ t share .
Most Americans are in The New York Times , NPR , Wall Street Journal , Washington Post universe , which is broad and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ overlap with the other universe .
Now , during the coronavirus pandemic , we ’ re seeking leakage from the other universe into the reality-based universe , which is absolutely terrifying .
SG : Should journalists even try to speak to this other universe made up of Trump supporters ?
Sometimes you see these kinds of gestures in The New York Times .
MG : I don ’ t have a great answer to that .
I ’ ve thought about it a lot .
I ’ ve been obsessed , like a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Obama-Trump voters .
People who obviously have been so badly failed by the system that they feel so profoundly distrustful and betrayed , that whatever grenade they can throw at the system , they ’ ll use it .
It ’ s up to political leaders to try to reach them .
I think that , on the one hand , someone like me who writes for The New Yorker , or someone who writes for The New York Times , are perhaps getting a little full of ourselves if we that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , disenfranchised , and disillusioned to such an extent .
Who am I to imagine that I can pierce that bubble of distrust ?
That sort of reaching across the aisle is not exactly a fallacy , but it is perhaps not the thing that should be primary on our minds .
As much as I hate the standard journalistic let ’ s just do our jobs thing , which evades the question of what our jobs are , I probably lean in that direction .
We have to do the best possible @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and with as much attention to using language intentionally as is possible .
SG : Why is language so important for understanding and defeating Trump ?
MG : We can ’ t have politics without language .
If we can ’ t talk to each other , if we can ’ t say something and mean the same thing , or substantially the same thing , then we can ’ t come to any kind of agreement about how we ’ re going to live together .
For decades , I have thought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ point that it can ’ t be used for politics anymore .
For example , a leader or a regime , like the Soviet regime , will use words to mean their opposite .
That ’ s a very totalitarian phenomenon .
It ’ s “ war is peace.
” Trump uses words to mean their opposite , especially with language that denotes power relationships .
For example , he will position himself as the victim of a “ witch hunt.
” The most powerful man in the world can ’ t be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He will seize a concept like fake news and turn it against actual news .
He also uses language to mean nothing , which is what he does when he ’ s suggesting that people drink disinfectant to fight the coronavirus .
Trump ’ s statements have consequences .
It means something when the president of the United States makes an absurd statement about injecting disinfectant .
Yet , the next day he can say , “ I was joking .
It meant nothing.
” This is a frontal attack on shared reality @ @ @ @ @ @ @ place where nothing means anything .
If nothing means anything , we can ’ t talk to one another .
We can ’ t have politics .
SG : We also need , you suggest , moral aspiration .
What role do ideals play for you in democratic politics ?
MG : I think they ’ re what ’ s missing from the mainstream of Democratic Party politics .
It ’ s what ’ s missing from the technocratic view of politics , and it is absolutely terrifying to me the kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ politics exerts , even on politicians that I think of as highly idealistic .
I went to New Hampshire to cover the New Hampshire primary , and I listened to both Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders , who I think are the most future-oriented , ideal-driven politicians on the Democratic side .
You could just tell how much they ’ re rhetorically accommodating the technocratic view of politics .
I don ’ t see the soaring kind of visionary oratory that I think is so necessary .
I think their ideas about the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s a kind of emotional restraint that I think is misguided .
Ideals are what we can unite around .
Ideals are what we absolutely need to juxtapose against what Trump has been doing to this country .
SG : You speak in the book about how Trump has profoundly changed the idea of American identity , especially through his rhetoric and policies about immigration .
MG : We obviously talk about Trump being a racist .
We obviously talk about this being a sort of white male supremacist presidency , but I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about how the definition of “ us ” has changed under Trump .
Again , the groundwork for that was laid much earlier , but we need a vision of “ us ” that is described in idealistic terms , that is aspirational , that is something to strive for , that makes people feel like not only can they be better off if they vote for this person , but they can be better .
We can be better as we move into the future .
Science Will Not Come on a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Makes Room for the Messiness of Language Trump appeals to our worst selves .
He says , “ Come with me .
We ’ re going to throw off the mask of hypocrisy and take a crap in every place that used to be sacred .
Let ’ s enjoy it together.
” There really needs to be an equally emotionally charged message of we can be better .
SG : Do you have any hope for a life after Trump ?
MG : I have some hope .
There are things that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ because of the coronavirus that prove something we ’ ve always known : A crisis is also an opportunity .
Things speed up and ideas that have been lying around can be assimilated very , very quickly .
I think that because of Trump , some ideas that we used to think of as very left became very quickly assimilated .
The same thing with the pandemic—ideas about health care , ideas about universal basic income , ideas about climate change .
There ’ s been an acceleration of a better understanding of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ planet is .
Those openings may broaden and give us something , so I ’ m not completely hopeless .
I just think we need to be super clear about what ’ s needed .
What ’ s needed is not a technocratic solution to returning us to our own imaginary past , which is a kind of pre-Trump normal .
What ’ s needed is a future oriented re-imagination .

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Russian-American writer and journalist Masha Gessen is one of today’s fiercest critics of governmental power and authoritarianism. For over 20 years, Gessen worked in Moscow as a journalist, but, in 2012, they were fired as chief editor of Russia’s oldest magazine, Vokrug sveta, for refusing to cover a sham environmental awareness event featuring Putin releasing endangered Siberian cranes into the wild. Soon after, Gessen fled with their family to the United States, fearing, as an openly gay figure, that their children might be taken away.
Gessen’s best known book, The Future Is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia, won the National Book Award in 2017. Their other books cover a range of topics about Russian politics and culture (The Man Without a Face: The Unlikely Rise of Vladimir Putin, 2012) (Words Will Break Cement: The Passion of Pussy Riot, 2015), as well as science and genetics (Blood Matters: From Inherited Illness to Designer Babies, How the World and I Found Ourselves in the Future of the Gene, 2008). Gessen is a staff writer at The New Yorker and the distinguished writer in residence at Bard College.
On June 2, Riverhead Books will publish Gessen’s latest book, Surviving Autocracy. Gessen’s decades-long experience covering the resurgence of totalitarianism in Russia puts them in a unique position to help Americans understand what is happening to the United States under President Donald Trump. Cataloguing the corrosion of political language, legal institutions, and democratic ideals over three and half years, Gessen argues that Trump is making an “autocratic attempt” on America. While Trump threatens to destroy American norms and institutions, Gessen shows us that having the language to understand what is happening is the first step to surviving, and ultimately resisting, an autocratic future.
—Stephanie DeGooyer
S tephanie de G ooyer: In Surviving Autocracy, you suggest that over the past three and a half years, Donald Trump has made an “autocratic attempt” on America. What does this mean?
M asha G essen: Since the election, I have been thinking about how we lack the language to describe the Trump phenomenon. In the book, I turn to one of my favorite political thinkers, Bálint Magyar, a Hungarian sociologist who works on the post-Communist mafia state. Magyar argues that after the Eastern bloc collapsed, journalists and political scientists used the language of liberal democracy to describe what was happening. For Magyar, however, this is like asking, “Can the elephant fly? Can an elephant swim?” You can answer those questions, but they don’t get you very close to actually describing what is happening.
Magyar tries to develop a framework for understanding the conditions of the post-Communist state. He describes the transition in three stages: the autocratic attempt, the autocratic breakthrough, and the autocratic consolidation. That’s where the word “attempt” comes from. I am borrowing language from the post-Communist bloc and saying that it is actually better suited to analyze what is happening in America than the language of liberal democracy.
SdG: You are saying that the conditions of the post-Communist state can help explain Trump’s America? Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life Chris Lehmann Current Issue View our current issue
MG: I try to be very careful with the idea, because obviously you can’t transpose the experience directly. There are a lot of political, cultural, and economic conditions that are very different, but I think it’s a start. That’s why I use the term “autocratic attempt.” The distinction between autocratic attempt and autocratic breakthrough is that during the autocratic attempt, it is still possible to get rid of the autocrat by electoral means. I think, at least up until through November we’re, at least formally, in the state of an autocratic attempt.
SdG: Some historians and political scientists, including myself, have argued that attempts to understand Trump through historical comparisons to fascism and totalitarianism are abnormalizing. They make Trump seem like he’s an anomaly, rather than part of a decades long and uniquely American project. How do you want readers of this book to understand Trump’s relationship to American history?
MG: Right. I agree with that critique. In the book I try to position Trump in a variety of contexts. Historical comparisons give us an intellectual advantage. Tim Snyder [Yale historian and author of The Road to Unfreedom] has said something like, “One thing that makes us better off than Germans of the 1930s is that fascism already happened, and we can learn from it.”
To the same end, I use the advantage of having covered Putin as a journalist for 20 years. Not because I think Trump is similar to Putin, but because I think there are certain skills that I learned in covering Putin that I can, with adjustments, apply to Trump.
The conditions for Trump were created over the course of several decades. To me, the most important was the transformation of power and identity after 9/11, both the concentration of power in the executive branch and the trade-off of rights and liberties for “security.” This was the creation of an identity of a nation under siege. Then there is the longer perspective of Americans’ rather unproblematic relationship to the marriage of politics and money and to technocratic de-ideologized politics. I think that especially the Democratic part of the American political universe has become deeply suspicious of the language of ideals, vision, and future.
SdG: How was Trump able to capitalize on American technocratic politics?
MG: One way is that he promised a more emotional alternative. He had the appeal of a kind of demagogue, to borrow terminology from Erich Fromm [a Jewish psychoanalyst who fled Nazi Germany], who appeals to the imaginary past. Trump comes along and taps into the deep anxieties of people who are truly anxious because they have been economically and socially unstable for more than a generation. He taps into that and says, “OK, I’ll take you back to an imaginary past.” There is very little on the other side to counterweigh this emotional appeal. You can’t counterweigh it by saying, “I have a good résumé, and I’ll fix things.”
SdG: While some people might see the coronavirus as the beginning of Trump’s undoing, you see it as a “perfect disaster” for him. Why is that?
MG: In standard political science, you would look at the facts and say, “OK, Trump has proven that he is incompetent. He has mishandled the pandemic. He has failed to lead. More people have died than should’ve. There will be extreme economic hardship by the time the November election comes around.” All of those things should mean that he will be undone.
The journalist Jim Fallows spoke to one of my classes a few weeks ago. He said he was hopeful about November, because he feels that the laws of physics still obtain. If we go by all the markers of standard political science, then we’re good. It was a beautiful way of putting it, but that’s where I think I disagree with Jim, although I hope he is right. If you look at other universes with other laws of physics, this is, again, where the experience of 20th century totalitarianism is really informative. Then we find out that people living in anxiety and terror is fertile ground for a leader like Trump.
SdG: So are we are living under something like terror in America right now?
MG: Hannah Arendt in The Origins of Totalitarianism talks about how totalitarianism is possible only in a country that can afford depopulation, that can sacrifice millions of its people, either because of its scale or because of the cultural and emotional conditions. She talks about the role of terror and the role of loneliness in creating the conditions of totalitarianism.
This virus comes along and creates conditions of terror without Trump having to do anything. It also creates the conditions of loneliness and political disconnection. We are physically and emotionally severely handicapped in being able to act together to act politically. We have entered this state of scarcity and instability.
And because of the coronavirus in the media, it’s all Trump, all the time. Joe Biden is holding town halls from his basement. You have to be highly motivated in order to know anything about that.
SdG: In a footnote, in which you explain your use of a passage from Arendt, you say that you’re “not arguing that Trump is building a totalitarian regime, but that he is an aspiring autocrat in a world that has seen a number of totalitarian regimes.” Could you explain that distinction a little more?
MG: That footnote was a way to head off some criticism that I think is almost instinctual, but a bit misguided. This is the criticism that the intellectual apparatus of analyzing totalitarianism should not be applied to Trump because he is not building a totalitarian regime. I agree. Trump is not building a totalitarian regime. A lot of other things would have to happen and fall into place. He would have to have a lot of tools at his disposal that I don’t think he’s likely to have. But his understanding and our understanding of what’s possible is informed by the 20th century, which had a lot of totalitarian regimes. The affect of a totalitarian leader is Trump’s to borrow.
SdG: A significant portion of the book is devoted to a critique of how journalists have covered Trump. Most legacy media journalists, in your opinion, have failed to call out Trump’s lies. They’ve tried to remain neutral and objective, as per their training. How do you suggest that journalism needs to change to cover what you call “the system” of Trump?
MG: The key word is “system,” because there are real problems with covering Trump. You can’t cover it in the sort of traditional American objective style, because that gives Trump’s lies too much legitimacy. We saw this again over and over with the coronavirus. My old acquaintance and someone I admire a lot, Grant Gonzalez, keeps calling out The New York Times on Twitter, when they have a headline like “Trump Says Testing No Longer a Problem, Governor Disagrees.” Grant writes, “Well, next they’re going to be ‘Trump Says Earth Flat, Scientists Disagree.’”
It’s really important to understand that covering Trump is an actual problem. There’s no good solution to it. There’s no way to think that if we just did journalism differently, we would totally slay this whole Trump situation. The Trump situation presents a number of traps for journalism no matter how you practice journalism. It’s almost journalism as harm reduction.
SdG: Reading the account of journalism in the book, I was struck that there was no mention about the rise of disinformation. How can journalists compete with the bot attacks and computerized false narratives we are seeing, for example, with Covid-19? The Q&A Judith Butler on the Violence of Neglect Amid a Health Crisis Francis Wade When Undocumented Activists Infiltrated ICE Mark Engler
MG: Covering Trumpism is not exactly the same thing as battling disinformation and bots. I’m going on the assumption, or the well-documented fact, that most Americans still exist in a fairly healthy media universe. Most Americans are routinely exposed to opinions that they don’t share. Most Americans are in the New York Times, NPR, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post universe, which is broad and reality-based and basically doesn’t overlap with the other universe. Now, during the coronavirus pandemic, we’re seeking leakage from the other universe into the reality-based universe, which is absolutely terrifying.
SdG: Should journalists even try to speak to this other universe made up of Trump supporters? Sometimes you see these kinds of gestures in The New York Times.
MG: I don’t have a great answer to that. I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve been obsessed, like a lot of people, with the question of Obama-Trump voters. People who obviously have been so badly failed by the system that they feel so profoundly distrustful and betrayed, that whatever grenade they can throw at the system, they’ll use it. It’s up to political leaders to try to reach them. I think that, on the one hand, someone like me who writes for The New Yorker, or someone who writes for The New York Times, are perhaps getting a little full of ourselves if we that we can reach people who are disaffected, disenfranchised, and disillusioned to such an extent. Who am I to imagine that I can pierce that bubble of distrust? That sort of reaching across the aisle is not exactly a fallacy, but it is perhaps not the thing that should be primary on our minds.
As much as I hate the standard journalistic “let’s just do our jobs” thing, which evades the question of what our jobs are, I probably lean in that direction. We have to do the best possible job of describing this reality as critically and with as much attention to using language intentionally as is possible.
SdG: Why is language so important for understanding and defeating Trump?
MG: We can’t have politics without language. If we can’t talk to each other, if we can’t say something and mean the same thing, or substantially the same thing, then we can’t come to any kind of agreement about how we’re going to live together.
For decades, I have thought about how language gets abused to the point that it can’t be used for politics anymore. For example, a leader or a regime, like the Soviet regime, will use words to mean their opposite. That’s a very totalitarian phenomenon. It’s “war is peace.” Trump uses words to mean their opposite, especially with language that denotes power relationships. For example, he will position himself as the victim of a “witch hunt.” The most powerful man in the world can’t be the victim of a witch hunt. He will seize a concept like fake news and turn it against actual news. He also uses language to mean nothing, which is what he does when he’s suggesting that people drink disinfectant to fight the coronavirus.
Trump’s statements have consequences. It means something when the president of the United States makes an absurd statement about injecting disinfectant. Yet, the next day he can say, “I was joking. It meant nothing.” This is a frontal attack on shared reality, because it catapults us into a place where nothing means anything. If nothing means anything, we can’t talk to one another. We can’t have politics.
SdG: We also need, you suggest, moral aspiration. What role do ideals play for you in democratic politics?
MG: I think they’re what’s missing from the mainstream of Democratic Party politics. It’s what’s missing from the technocratic view of politics, and it is absolutely terrifying to me the kind of pressure that that sort of language of politics exerts, even on politicians that I think of as highly idealistic. I went to New Hampshire to cover the New Hampshire primary, and I listened to both Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders, who I think are the most future-oriented, ideal-driven politicians on the Democratic side. You could just tell how much they’re rhetorically accommodating the technocratic view of politics. I don’t see the soaring kind of visionary oratory that I think is so necessary. I think their ideas about the future are great, but there’s a kind of emotional restraint that I think is misguided.
Ideals are what we can unite around. Ideals are what we absolutely need to juxtapose against what Trump has been doing to this country.
SdG: You speak in the book about how Trump has profoundly changed the idea of American identity, especially through his rhetoric and policies about immigration.
MG: We obviously talk about Trump being a racist. We obviously talk about this being a sort of white male supremacist presidency, but I don’t think we talk enough about how the definition of “us” has changed under Trump. Again, the groundwork for that was laid much earlier, but we need a vision of “us” that is described in idealistic terms, that is aspirational, that is something to strive for, that makes people feel like not only can they be better off if they vote for this person, but they can be better. We can be better as we move into the future. The Q&A Science Will Not Come on a White Horse With a Solution Nawal Arjini Danez Smith Makes Room for the Messiness of Language Rosemarie Ho
Trump appeals to our worst selves. He says, “Come with me. We’re going to throw off the mask of hypocrisy and take a crap in every place that used to be sacred. Let’s enjoy it together.” There really needs to be an equally emotionally charged message of “we can be better.”
SdG: Do you have any hope for a life after Trump?
MG: I have some hope. There are things that have happened both because of Trump and because of the coronavirus that prove something we’ve always known: A crisis is also an opportunity. Things speed up and ideas that have been lying around can be assimilated very, very quickly. I think that because of Trump, some ideas that we used to think of as very left became very quickly assimilated. The same thing with the pandemic—ideas about health care, ideas about universal basic income, ideas about climate change. There’s been an acceleration of a better understanding of just how violent our relationship to the planet is. Those openings may broaden and give us something, so I’m not completely hopeless. I just think we need to be super clear about what’s needed. What’s needed is not a technocratic solution to returning us to our own imaginary past, which is a kind of pre-Trump normal. What’s needed is a future-oriented re-imagination.


thenation--2020-06-03--Moses Sumeny’s Songs of Freedom

Moses Sumeny’s Songs of Freedom

Moses Sumney has an arch relationship with loneliness .
The guitarist and singer makes love songs about rifts between lovers , savoring their conflicts , relishing their discord .
He pens odes to solitude that are as sullen as they are victorious , his voice quivering with sorrow and pride .
His music has all the signifiers of lonerism—introversion , withdrawal , outer space—without the accompanying misanthropy .
He ’ s a recluse for whom distance from people , from ideas , is not detachment .
On his sophomore album , græ , he gives shape to this peculiar pose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ born of loneliness yet emboldened by it .
Split into two parts , the first ( 12 songs ) released in February and the other ( eight songs ) in May , græ is billed as a double album , and it ’ s best experienced in full .
Though the “ sides ” are digestible half-hours , Sumney ’ s rich blend of electronic , folk , and soul rewards immersion .
Nominally a concept album about embracing multiplicity and fluidity—the gray area between black and white—the record ’ s true strength @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of betweenness ( or grayness ) , Sumney provides a surfeit of metaphors , sounds , and ideas that titillate without feeling complete or final .
He ’ s a slippery , elusive performer , couching his probing inquiries into identity and intimacy in songs that morph and shed and erupt .
The appeal of grayness seems to be its inherent abstraction .
In the openness and emptiness of the gray , Sumney finds personal and artistic autonomy .
Compared with his debut album Aromanticism , which dissected love songs into spare reflections @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deconstructs .
From the ambient jazz of “ Neither/Nor ” to the folk sway of “ Cut Me ” to the doom-tinged drone of “ Me in 20 Years , ” the songs here are always alive and in motion , an endless rush of styles and lineages .
This looseness feels intentional .
Early in his career , Sumney was courted by the music industry to become an R & B star , a pressure he felt stemmed from racism rather than recognition of his talents .
He declined , electing to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ interests despite the professional consequences .
græ embellishes that choice , expanding all the flourishes and influences hinted at in his previous music .
The record is not a polemic , but it ’ s weighted with an air of correction .
Sumney ’ s main weapon has long been his disarming falsetto , which he can coil into a wounded , icy wail or expand into a warm , heavenly sunbeam .
His early music would use it to haunting effect , looping it into ghostly choirs or leaving it exposed over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his voice and his ambitions are amplified .
His falsetto remains beautiful , but it ’ s less of a centerpiece now .
On “ Virile , ” a song that casts masculinity as an endless ( sometimes fun ) performance , his voice cascades up and down the vocal spectrum as he sings , “ You ’ ve got the wrong idea , son.
” As he lingers on the first syllable of “ idea ” — ” I , I , I ” —he seems to demonstrate how open-ended masculinity can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ both harsh and soft , melding flute trills , string swells , and frantic percussion into beautiful chaos .
Sumney ’ s definition of virility is less about strength or potency and more about the potential and willingness to change form .
Sumney often uses grayness this way , prying open an idea and wondering aloud if it could work differently .
He can be both playful and critical .
“ Conveyor , ” which embodies the former , is a cheeky vow to embrace conformity .
“ I will assume form / @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he sings with tart sweetness .
The noise rock band Yvette ’ s puttering drums and shimmering synths nearly obscure his voice , conveying the success of his conformity .
For the spoken-word song “ jill/jack , ” Sumney and the singer-songwriter Jill Scott take a diagram of hypermasculinity and slyly rearrange it .
“ He had that masculine thing down / Shoulders and back straight / Never slumping / Never round / Straight , ” the song begins , repeating the chant with tweaked pronouns and ad-libs .
It ends with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and feminine , both a critique of rigid gender politics and an exercise in fluidity .
The clearest demonstration of Sumney ’ s range is “ Gagarin , ” presumably named after the first man in space , cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin .
Moaning across a gorgeous void of twinkly keys , rich bass lines , and echoing FX , Sumney ’ s voice is transformed into a slurred , depressive yawn .
“ My life does not belong to me , ” he says with acute resignation , evoking Gagarin ’ s pioneering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quality to it , every sound rich and lush , every word weighted and bleak .
But there ’ s also solace in space , and when he views the Earth from space , he finds purpose : “ For that big blue bold / I ’ ll let it go / For the gold medal / Surrender.
” Sumney ’ s Gagarin sounds frightened and patriotic and self-destructive all at once .
This imaginative biopic in song is less a story and more a topography , the contours of isolation mapped in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of grayness is not solely musical .
Across the record , interludes performed by the activist Taiye Selasi ground the artist ’ s genre-hopping in a larger fight for self-determination .
The record begins with Selasi exploring the etymology of the word “ isolation , ” whose root word means “ island , ” and constantly builds on that idea , presenting disconnection as both an emotional and political experience .
On “ boxes , ” a coda to “ Conveyor , ” she says , “ I truly believe that people who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most significant thing that any person can do / But especially black women and men / Is to think about who gave them their definitions.
” The aptly named “ also also also and and and ” adds that the ability to change definitions is just as vital as writing them .
“ I insist upon my right to be multiple , ” she says .
Selasi ’ s directness is an effective complement to Sumney ’ s abstraction , which might otherwise scan as cagey .
“ Bystanders , ” for instance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ trust in supposed allies , drawing a distinction between supporters and gawkers .
“ Don ’ t waste your candor / On bystanders / They ’ ll watch you waste , waste / Waste , waste away , ” he sings .
In the context of black people historically being surveilled and imposed upon , Sumney ’ s advice lands as cautious rather than vague .
Asserting one ’ s freedom is not the same thing as having it recognized , a point he takes so seriously that he does not elaborate past @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is “ Polly , ” a warmhearted transmission to a lover who ’ s resistant to Sumney ’ s preference for polyamory .
The song channels all of the album ’ s notions of multiplicity , from its eruption of voices to its contradictory imagery .
Sumney buzzes with delight and fear as he articulates his vision for the relationship : “ I want to be cotton candy / In the mouth of many a lover / Saccharine and slick technicolor.
” The sequence is empowering and depleting .
Cotton candy is adored @ @ @ @ @ @ @ creeps in as Sumney second-guesses his admission toward the end of the song .
“ Am I just your Friday dick ?
” he asks .
The song ’ s one-sidedness heightens the sense of risk , a nuance that would be foreclosed if Sumney had written it as a defense of polyamory rather than a negotiation of one particular arrangement .
Ultimately , this seems to be the appeal of grayness as a theme ; instead of anthems , Sumney offers solitary dispatches , celebrating his freedom while refusing to downplay its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is sovereign and teeming—and exposed .
Moses Sumney ’ s music won ’ t make you feel invincible , but it will make you feel alive .

This article appears in the September 21/28, 2020 issue.
Moses Sumney has an arch relationship with loneliness. The guitarist and singer makes love songs about rifts between lovers, savoring their conflicts, relishing their discord. He pens odes to solitude that are as sullen as they are victorious, his voice quivering with sorrow and pride. His music has all the signifiers of lonerism—introversion, withdrawal, outer space—without the accompanying misanthropy. He’s a recluse for whom distance from people, from ideas, is not detachment. On his sophomore album, græ, he gives shape to this peculiar pose, voicing a self-possession that’s born of loneliness yet emboldened by it.
Split into two parts, the first (12 tracks) released in February and the other (eight tracks) in May, græ is billed as a double album, and it’s best experienced in full. Though the “sides” are digestible half-hours, Sumney’s rich blend of electronic, folk, and soul rewards immersion. Nominally a concept album about embracing multiplicity and fluidity—the gray area between black and white—the record’s true strength is its restlessness. In his portraits of betweenness (or grayness), Sumney provides a surfeit of metaphors, sounds, and ideas that titillate without feeling complete or final. He’s a slippery, elusive performer, couching his probing inquiries into identity and intimacy in songs that morph and shed and erupt. The appeal of grayness seems to be its inherent abstraction. In the openness and emptiness of the gray, Sumney finds personal and artistic autonomy.
Compared with his debut album Aromanticism, which dissected love songs into spare reflections on solitude, græ synthesizes rather than deconstructs. From the ambient jazz of “Neither/Nor” to the folk sway of “Cut Me” to the doom-tinged drone of “Me in 20 Years,” the songs here are always alive and in motion, an endless rush of styles and lineages. This looseness feels intentional. Early in his career, Sumney was courted by the music industry to become an R&B star, a pressure he felt stemmed from racism rather than recognition of his talents. He declined, electing to cling to his instincts and follow his interests despite the professional consequences. græ embellishes that choice, expanding all the flourishes and influences hinted at in his previous music. The record is not a polemic, but it’s weighted with an air of correction.
Sumney’s main weapon has long been his disarming falsetto, which he can coil into a wounded, icy wail or expand into a warm, heavenly sunbeam. His early music would use it to haunting effect, looping it into ghostly choirs or leaving it exposed over a whisper of acoustic guitar. Here his voice and his ambitions are amplified. His falsetto remains beautiful, but it’s less of a centerpiece now. On “Virile,” a song that casts masculinity as an endless (sometimes fun) performance, his voice cascades up and down the vocal spectrum as he sings, “You’ve got the wrong idea, son.” As he lingers on the first syllable of “idea”—”I, I, I”—he seems to demonstrate how open-ended masculinity can be. Accordingly, the production is both harsh and soft, melding flute trills, string swells, and frantic percussion into beautiful chaos. Sumney’s definition of virility is less about strength or potency and more about the potential and willingness to change form. Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life A Grim Chronicle of Trump’s Corrupt Public Life Chris Lehmann
Sumney often uses grayness this way, prying open an idea and wondering aloud if it could work differently. He can be both playful and critical. “Conveyor,” which embodies the former, is a cheeky vow to embrace conformity. “I will assume form / Join the workforce / The colony,” he sings with tart sweetness. The puttering drums and shimmering synths nearly obscure his voice, conveying the success of his conformity.
For the spoken-word song “jill/jack,” Sumney and the singer-songwriter Jill Scott take a diagram of hypermasculinity and slyly rearrange it. “He had that masculine thing down / Shoulders and back straight / Never slumping / Never round / Straight,” the song begins, repeating the chant with tweaked pronouns and ad-libs. It ends with the two speaking in unison, masculine and feminine, both a critique of rigid gender politics and an exercise in fluidity.
The clearest demonstration of Sumney’s range is “Gagarin,” presumably named after the first man in space, cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin. Moaning across a gorgeous void of twinkly keys, rich bass lines, and echoing FX, Sumney’s voice is transformed into a slurred, depressive yawn. “My life does not belong to me,” he says with acute resignation, evoking Gagarin’s pioneering flight. The song has a cinematic quality to it, every sound rich and lush, every word weighted and bleak. But there’s also solace in space, and when he views the Earth from space, he finds purpose: “For that big blue bold / I’ll let it go / For the gold medal / Surrender.” Sumney’s Gagarin sounds frightened and patriotic and self-destructive all at once. This imaginative biopic in song is less a story and more a topography, the contours of isolation mapped in granular detail. Current Issue View our current issue
Sumney’s vision of grayness is not solely musical. Across the record, spoken-word interludes ground Sumney’s genre-hopping in a larger fight for self-determination. The record begins with writer Taiye Selasi exploring the etymology of the word “isolation,” whose root word means “island,” and constantly builds on that idea, presenting disconnection as both an emotional and political experience. On “boxes,” a coda to “Conveyor,” poet Ayesha K. Faines says, “I truly believe that people who define you control you / And the most significant thing that any person can do / But especially black women and men / Is to think about who gave them their definitions.” The aptly named “also also also and and and” adds that the ability to change definitions is just as vital as writing them. “I insist upon my right to be multiple,” Selasi says.
Selasi’s directness is an effective complement to Sumney’s abstraction, which might otherwise scan as cagey. “Bystanders,” for instance, warns of the danger of misplacing trust in supposed allies, drawing a distinction between supporters and gawkers. “Don’t waste your candor / On bystanders / They’ll watch you waste, waste / Waste, waste away,” he sings. In the context of black people historically being surveilled and imposed upon, Sumney’s advice lands as cautious rather than vague. Asserting one’s freedom is not the same thing as having it recognized, a point he takes so seriously that he does not elaborate past betrayals.
The album’s highlight is “Polly,” a warmhearted transmission to a lover who’s resistant to Sumney’s preference for polyamory. The song channels all of the album’s notions of multiplicity, from its eruption of voices to its contradictory imagery. Sumney buzzes with delight and fear as he articulates his vision for the relationship: “I want to be cotton candy / In the mouth of many a lover / Saccharine and slick technicolor.” The sequence is empowering and depleting. Cotton candy is adored and also disposable, a disjunction that creeps in as Sumney second-guesses his admission toward the end of the song. “Am I just your Friday dick?” he asks. The song’s one-sidedness heightens the sense of risk, a nuance that would be foreclosed if Sumney had written it as a defense of polyamory rather than a negotiation of one particular arrangement.
Ultimately, this seems to be the appeal of grayness as a theme; instead of anthems, Sumney offers solitary dispatches, celebrating his freedom while refusing to downplay its costs, its fragility. His island is sovereign and teeming—and exposed. Moses Sumney’s music won’t make you feel invincible, but it will make you feel alive.