It is difficult, even for those of us with limited attention spans, to bring ourselves apart from the developments in Egypt and the region at large. Nearly all of us are impressed with a great and palpable sense that history is moving in seismic shifts even as we watch. This sense is compounded by the speculation we all indulged in, a little more than a week ago, as to whether other countries in the Middle East would follow Tunisia’s example. To be sure, the self-immolation of Mohammed Bouazizi, as well as the subsequent toppling of Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, was more likely than most things to set off such massive demonstrations elsewhere, but most of us tend to quietly believe that history never progresses quite at the rate we would have it move if we were the deities of such things, and that the best realistic outcome was a few minor demonstrations scattered over the region, followed by the usual arrests.

On the other hand, nobody who knows anything about the Middle East could say that the demonstrations were unprecedented. Indeed, their coming to pass was inevitable, and the only unknown factor was time. There have been smaller demonstrations in the past, as well as a spiriting and dispiriting array of incarcerated opponents of Mubarak, not to speak of the opinion of most members of the Egyptian diaspora. More generally, as economist and political scientist Timur Kuran says:

A feature shared by certain major revolutions is that they were not anticipated. Here is an explanation, which hinges on the observation that people who come to dislike their government are apt to hide their desire for change as long as the opposition seems weak. Because of this preference falsification, a government that appears unshakeable might see its support crumble following a slight surge in the opposition’s apparent size, caused by events insignificant in and of themselves. Unlikely though the revolution may have appeared in foresight, it will in hindsight appear inevitable because its occurrence exposes a panoply of previously hidden conflicts.

But the possibility of predicting, in principle, the current crisis, does not remove from how unprecedented it feels. Whether or not they succeed, the demonstrations in Cairo, Alexandria, Suez, Sinai and Ismailiya represent a turning point in the politics and culture of the Middle East.

To get a measure of how large the effect will be, one need only observe the hesitant reactions of Western politicians when the news first broke. US Vice President Joe Biden, for instance, was quoted as saying, “Mubarak has been an ally of ours in a number of things and he’s been very responsible on, relative to geopolitical interests in the region, Middle East peace efforts, the actions Egypt has taken relative to normalizing the relationship with Israel … I would not refer to him as a dictator.” President Obama, as well as British Prime Minister David Cameron and many other Western heads of state, were all considerably less blundering than that, but they all seemed united in withholding their support for the demonstrators, and in merely doing the easiest thing possible: condemning the violence.

It is easy to be cynical about these reactions. It has become commonplace to hold up the tear gas canisters, emblazoned with the words “Made in the US”, and the fact that Egypt has consistently received one of the largest portions of the US foreign aid budget, as evidence that the West (and the US in particular) has behaved cynically in the past, and that therefore it is really in their interest to keep Mubarak propped up in power. But the question of the correctness, moral or political or otherwise, of these past actions, though important, bears only lightly on what is happening now. To be sure, the US might have done more in the past to keep Mubarak out of power. But most Western citizens hardly voiced a whimper in protest until these current protests. Spare a thought for Obama and Cameron and Merkel and Sarkozy, if you will. They were not the creators but the inheritors of the status quo, and their position is as difficult as it is possible to get in politics. Much as they might want Mubarak to leave, they must do battle with the question of political expediency, and of what is right in the long term.

And apart from our unavoidable deaths, the long term is an extremely difficult thing to work out. What are the potential consequences of the revolution, should it succeed? There are many worst-case scenarios that should be dealt with. One major complaint is the question of Israel. Egypt has been a reliable ally of Israel’s since 1979, and thus has been one of the major guarantors of its security. The fear of many is that a democratic Egypt, even if not taken over by the Muslim Brotherhood, would not necessarily maintain this alliance, leaving Israel in greater peril. That may be so (it is impossible to say with certainty), but if it is, that would make up for the greater long-term prospects for the region. Democracy, as is often said, is the best stability. The question of quite when a country is “ready” for democracy should be moot, since in Egypt’s case it is clear that the people want it, and what better indicator of its suitability is there than that?[1]

The possibility of the Muslim Brotherhood taking over has been much discussed, and it seems to be the consensus in the liberal media that it is rather unlikely. After all, the Brotherhood have about 100,000 supporters in a country of 80 million, as we are often told. This is an encouraging statistic, but not unambiguously so. The Brotherhood are the most popular opposition party in a state in which opposition parties are effectively outlawed. So the current 100,000 might turn into 10 million when its ideological brethren don’t have to live in so much fear. The number, therefore, might be misleading. However, there are other signs that its influence is not as strong as it would like. The New York Times has a piece showing that throughout the demonstrations the Brotherhood has been a bumbling and barely acknowledged presence. At first, it wavered on whether to support the protests, and later it wavered on whether to support ElBaradei. It does not seem to know its own place, and indeed one member of the Brotherhood categorically stated that the revolution had nothing to do with Islam, still less Islamism, and everything to do with the people.

Obama’s very careful and gradual Middle East policy has arguably been dealt an unexpected and significant blow. He called for change in the region, and was forthright about its need for democracy in his Cairo speech. “Let me be clear,” he said, “no system of government can or should be imposed upon one nation by any other. That does not lessen my commitment, however, to governments that reflect the will of the people.” Thus, the way he deals with the current crisis may turn out to be the defining point of his term, as far as foreign policy goes. If he is too eager to support the demonstrators, he risks weakening his alliances elsewhere in the region. If he does the opposite, then he will appear to be perpetuating the decades of US foreign policy that have hardly charmed the leaders and citizens of the Middle East. It is an unenviable position.

That is, if it really is his position. Perhaps the very impossibility of taking decisive action hints that it is not actually the place of the US President, or any other world leader, to do so. Rather, their position is a subtler but probably easier one. They must promote democracy implicitly, by the use of cultural rather than diplomatic influence, by exposing the citizens of the world to the liberating effects of democracy. This is, of course, not enough in itself, but it is a vitally important factor in the awakening of the democratic mind. Once the aspiration to democracy has taken hold, as it evidently has in Egypt, events must be allowed to take their natural course. The only official position, then, of a statesman qua statesman, should be a bold stand against violence, as well as a covert support of the protesters. As for the position of a statesman as a human being, that is another matter entirely.

Picture courtesy of http://yfrog.com/h0onggjj.

This idea has been the overriding theme of the presidential race so far. Hillary Clinton insisted that she had more of it than Obama, though how she would have changed her tack when facing McCain, had she claimed the Democratic presidential nomination, is anybody’s guess. She clearly favours Obama over McCain: assuming this is genuine (and, despite the nature of party politics there is no reason not to think so), this is a tacit acknowledgement that experience is not the be all and end all, and that intellect and ideas are important after all.

McCain insists that he has more experience than Obama, but the question is, how important is experience in and of itself? Obama must have reflected on this pickle himself, and concluded that it wasn’t very much, except as a useful disarming tool; but it would be impolitic of him to express this publicly as he would draw jeers of “elitism” from the hungry media crowds. To take a hypothetical example: imagine an unintelligent person who is born into a privileged family with political connections, which he uses to embark upon a mildly successful political career. During the course of this career, he meets many politicians, engages in many debates, sees what goes on behind the scenes, becomes suitably cynical, and is able to put on a good political mask. By any standard, he would have had a lot of experience. But would this mean anything? He is unintelligent, and therefore gleans very little of substance from all these things. Of course, in this extreme example, experience would be meaningless.

McCain is not this hypothetical example. But he claims to be a man of experience, and a man of substance. It seems to me, that if one truly is a man of substance, one should not keep reminding others that one is a man of experience. It is little more than an insecurity smokescreen. A true man of substance would not have to consciously describe himself as anything, but would let his policies and his actions be the true narrator. It is also a cynical tactic that, far from showing his sincerity, tends actually to show his falsity, and his desperation. Knowing that his experience is a selling point to many Americans, it is a mere word he has to use, an advertising jingle. Therefore it is also an insult to the electorate. Can they not judge for themselves the extent, nature, and importance of his experience without constant reminders?