Spring mixtape

My stock-in-trade is ideas (mostly other people’s). As reflected in the book lists I’ve posted the past few years, many of them come from reading. But books aren’t the only place I find inspiration. Art and film are important too – as is music.

For some years I’ve exchanged music compilations with friends and family at Christmas. Originally the compilations were on audio-cassettes, then on CDs; now they can be shared online. But the memory of the audio-cassette medium persists: they’re still roughly 90-minutes long; they could still be called mixtapes.

This year, Christmas came and went, and I still didn’t have a tape to share. It came together late. When I finally got things together, I thought: Why not share it more widely?

Here, then, is a track-list for the Spring.

1.  Which was the son of… Arvo Pärt (performed by the Tallis Scholars)
2.  Picture 1 Jack deJohnette
3.  Jamm Cheikh Lô
4.  Green rocky road Kathy & Carol
5.  Besebara folle Aster Aweke
6.  Nagasaki Django Reinhardt
7.  Some other guy Richie Barrett
8.  Mademoiselle Mabry Miles Davis
9.  Ezekiel saw de wheel Louis Armstrong
10. Redemption song Bob Marley
11. Just Radiohead
12. Didn’t it rain Louis Armstrong
13. Peace piece Bill Evans

Much here reflects personal interests and taste – my fascination with Africa (Aster Aweke, Cheikh Lô), with scripture (Arvo Pärt, and the tracks by Louis Armstrong), and with the great social movements and upheavals of the past century; as well as those internal upheavals of the heart and soul that we all go through. The soundtrack to those is diverse.

Below I provide some annotation – snippets of information that’s enhanced my appreciation of some of these pieces; for others I have no comment. The musicians speak for themselves.

After all, if we could say it all in words, there would be no need for music!



  1. Which was the son of…. Arvo Pärt (performed by the Tallis Scholars), from ‘Tintinnabuli’ (2015)
    “Commissioned by the City of Reykjavík, Pärt allowed himself to poke a little fun at two idiosyncratic aspects of local life: the way family names are organized, and the way the Icelanders pronounce their ‘rrrs’. From the former came the desire, perhaps it was even a dare, to set the entire genealogy of Christ; and from the latter the stipulated rolled ‘r’ in the name of ‘Er’. The overall result is an astonishingly effective piece of writing, forced from the least tractable of texts, as witty as it is unlikely.” (Peter Phillips, 2015)
  1. Picture 1. Jack deJohnette, from ‘Pictures’ (1976)
    “DeJohnette doesn’t play drums; he paints with them.” (Miran Epstein, 2015)
  1. Jamm. Cheikh Lô, from ‘Jamm’ (2010)
    “Lô is a member of the Baye Fall, a movement within the Mouride Sufi order of Islam. As such, he has dreadlocks, which is part of the order’s customs. The reggae influence in his music, along with his dreadlocks, often leads to the misinterpretation that he is Rastafarian.” (Wikipedia)
    “Jamm means ‘peace’ in Wolof.” (liner notes)
  1. Green rocky road. Kathy & Carol (composers: Len Chandler & Robert Kaufman), from ‘Back to Love’
    “Len Chandler and poet Robert Kaufman penned [this song] on the bones of a traditional folk song collected in Negro Songs From Alabama by Harold Courlander.” (Dan Kimpel,  2014)
    This version is by California duo Kathy & Carol, and was included in a Mojo Magazine ‘Back to Love’ compilation of tracks released by Elektra in the 1960s. Another version of the song is featured in the Coen Brothers’ film ‘Inside Llewelyn Davis’
  1. Besebara folle. Aster Aweke, from ‘Aster’s Ballads.’ (1995)
    Aster emigrated from Ethiopia in 1981, and lives in the US. She’s among the greatest Ethiopian singers alive. Besebara folle means “a broken vessel” in Amharic.
  1. Nagasaki. Django Reinhardt, from ‘La Légende de Django Reinhardt’
    This song, recorded in 1936, refers to the Japanese city when it was simply a place with an interesting name — before the US Air Force dropped an atom bomb on it. Django was born in Belgium, and spent most of his early life in Romani (Gypsy) encampments near Paris.
  1. Some other guy. Richie Barrett, from ‘Songs the Beatles taught us’
    Written and performed by Philadelphia R&B artist & manager Richie Barrett in 1962; a song later covered by the Beatles.
  1. Mademoiselle Mabry. Miles Davis, from ‘Filles de Kilimanjaro’ (1968)
    Recorded in the year of the My Lai massacre and the assassination of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. (This is the only piece of music on my tape that’s not easily available online.)
  1. Ezekiel saw de wheel. Louis Armstrong, from ‘Louis and the Good Book’ (1958)
    “The song recounts the Old Testament prophet Ezekiel’s divine vision, at the start of the eponymous book.” A flaming wheel floating in the middle of the air. This is one of my son Asa’s favourite songs at the moment.
  1. Redemption song. Bob Marley, from ‘Uprising’ (1981)
    Contains quotations from a speech / essay by Marcus Garvey (1937): “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery….”  The song was recorded a year before Marley’s death. I learned to play this song on the guitar this year.
  2. Just. Radiohead, from ‘The Bends’ (1995)
  3. Didn’t it rain. Louis Armstrong, from ‘Louis and the Good Book’ (1958)
    An account of the biblical Flood, with beautiful Gospel harmonies from 10 singers. From the same album as ‘Ezekiel saw da wheel’. Throughout this album Armstrong – “the first jazz virtuoso” – pays tribute to the roots of jazz music in spirituals as well as work songs and the blues.
  1. Peace piece. Bill Evans, from ‘Everybody digs Bill Evans’ (1958)
    I first encountered Bill Evans through Chick Corea’s documentary series ‘Piano Legends’.


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Books of 2015

It’s taken me until Easter to get my stuff together. Here in any case are some of the books that made an impression on me this past year.


  1. A room of one’s own, by Virginia Woolf

A beautifully written feminist and humanist polemic, this book is also a reflection on the conditions that make great writing possible. The image that sticks with me is of gold and silver being poured in through the roofs of the colleges of Oxford and Cambridge. As someone tying to make a living through service to universities, I’m increasingly called to ask: How (and wherefore) are these institutions supported?

  1. In praise of idleness, by Bertrand Russell

Russell argues that everyone should have access to the kind of leisure enjoyed by Oxbridge dons (the Greek root for leisure [schole] provides the root for our word ‘school’). The stand-out essay in this collection, ‘On useless knowledge,’ challenges us to think about what we mean when we say that knowledge is useful – and to whom.

  1. Sites of memory, sites of mourning, by Jay Winter

Just about every village and town in England lost men to the Great War, and most bear a memorial to them. This book explains the work these monuments performed for people back then, and why they look as they do. In the process, Winter raises questions about how families and societies come to terms with horror and loss.

  1. Rule of experts, by Timothy Mitchell

This book opens with an account of one of the major battles of the Great War – Rommel’s Africa campaign – seen from the point of view of a mosquito … or a Plasmodium (the malaria parasite) which arrived with soldiers from West Africa, and took advantage of a hungry, disrupted human population. The ambitious aim of the book is to explain modernity without assigning to capitalism a life or force of its own. Mitchell’s focus is Egypt (and a good part of the book is devoted to tracing how Egypt – and by extension most other nation states – came to be constructed as unitary geographical and social constructs).

  1. How to see the world, by Nicholas Mirzoeff

Nation states have become so much a part of our mental landscape that it’s difficult to see the world as if they didn’t exist. This book explores various ways of seeing the world – starting with the Blue Dot / Earthrise photograph, the first photograph of the earth from space, taken by astronauts in 1968, and comparing it with a composite image of the world pieced together from multiple satellite images in 2012. If (like me) you’re a visual thinker, you may enjoy this.

  1. Eaarth, by Bill McKibben

This book too is about seeing the world differently. It begins: “Imagine we live on a planet. Not our cozy, take-for-granted earth, but a planet, a real one, with melting poles and dying forests and a heaving, corrosive sea, raked by winds, strafed by storms, scorched by heat. An inhospitable place.

“It’s hard,” McKibben admits. And yet that’s really the planet we inhabit. We’ve left the old one behind, and we better adjust to the new one.

  1. Advice and queries, by the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) in Britain

To meet the challenges we face, we will have to draw on sources beyond any particular framing of religion (e.g. Laudato Si) or science (e.g. the IPCC). And so the Quaker emphasis on receiving “light from wherever it may come” seems fitting here. As do the Quaker testimonies of simplicity, peace, integrity, and stewardship.

  1. Ten million aliens, by Simon Barnes

This book is a sort of hitchhiker’s guide to the animal kingdom – a catalogue of some of the life forms we share the planet with. But catalogue is too dry a word: These creatures are more wonderful than anything science fiction could dream up!

  1. ‘The end’ and ‘The end, unless…’, by Isaac Asimov (In: Today and Tomorrow)

Business-As-Usual has already decimated the kinds of life with which we share the biosphere, and is leading inexorably to the destruction of our forms of sociality. In ‘The end, unless…’ Asimov identifies ‘wrong thinking’ as a principal cause of these problems.

  1. A Wizard of Earthsea, by Ursula le Guin

Though it is fantasy, there’s something about this story that rings truer than many a work of non-fiction.

Le Guin, whose parents were anthropologists, draws on Argonauts of the Western Pacific and other sources to conjure the archipelago of Earthsea. Within it she traces the coming of age of a young man getting to know himself and the world.

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Rebooting democracy

In the New Scientist, Niall Firth channels a frustration with the democratic process that many in Britain are feeling in the wake of the general election.

The system’s broken. Nothing changes. All politicians are the same. Why vote? It’s a popular refrain, particularly among the young. People feel cut off from the political process and unrepresented by the political elite. [1]

The internet, Firth argues, offers possibilities that could be used to reinvigorate democracy; and he profiles several cases in point, including the Spanish Podemos party, which makes extensive use of online forums for policy debates.

But even as the internet opens up the opportunity to take part in debate, some old problems persist. As the World Bank’s Tiago Carneiro Peixoto points out, there’s the challenge of “pick[ing] the most representative cross-section of decision makers”. [2]

The ancient Athenians devised a solution to this problem, based on a principle that is familiar to scientists: Selection at random from the pool of eligible citizens. In Athens it was only men who were eligible, but the principle could be tweaked in various ways — for instance, selection could be weighted so that an equal number of men and women were included, or an equitable proportion of ethnic groups.

In the late 1990s, when a commission was reviewing proposals for reform of Britain’s House of Lords, Anthony Barnett and Peter Carty published a pamphlet detailing how “the Athenian Option” might be used in place of either hereditary Lords or conventionally-elected politicians. [3]

As part of an experimental approach to democracy, selection of representatives by lot deserves wider consideration — whether as a way of populating conventional ‘face-to-face’ parliaments, or in conjunction with newer, internet-based forms of political participation.

It’s ironic, but true, that a process akin to a lottery could produce a much better — more diverse, less partial, altogether fresher — set of representatives than the current system, the essentials of which we inherited from the 19th century.


[1 & 2] Firth, N. (2015). Better than a ballot box: Could digital democracy win your vote? New Scientist, issue 3018, April 23. [Full text available by subscription.]

[3] Barnett, A., & Carty, P. (2008). The Athenian Option: Radical Reform for the House of Lords. Exeter: Imprint Academic. [Original published by Demos in 1998]

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Remembering Adwa

The defeat of a European invasion force by Africans 120 years ago presents challenges for how we remember. How are historical memories kept alive? And what meanings should we assign to them?

Jed Stevenson

This week in 1896, an army under the command of Emperor Menelik defeated an Italian invasion force at Adwa, in Ethiopia. In the previous decades most of Africa had been conquered by a handful of European states: French, British, German, Belgian, and Portuguese. Ethiopia stood out, unique within Africa as country ruled by an indigenous monarch. If we want to understand how Ethiopia retained her independence, we must consider the decisive events surrounding this battle. How can we understand what happened on that day in Ethiopia? What lessons can we derive from it?

Africa 1932

Africa circa 1930. Ethiopia (labeled Abyssinia) was at the time the only country in sub-Saharan Africa ruled by an indigenous government. [1]

Understanding and remembering are linked concerns — Knowing that something happened in the past is a precondition for understanding it. But what does it mean to remember something that happened 120 years ago? The way most of us remember such things is in that special sense of the term reserved for events that we haven’t actually lived through, but learned about from others: collective memory. This kind of memory depends greatly on the way events are represented in history books, of course, but also in art, in monuments, and in conversation.

Personal and collective memories

As it happens, 120 years is about the maximum length of time that any human being has ever lived. Jeanne Calment, a Frenchwoman, died in 1997 at the age of 122 — she had been born in 1875, and her birth was recorded in the 1876 census. [2] Nobody now living is verifiably older than 117, but it’s worth considering the possibility that there may be people still alive who were born before the battle of Adwa took place.

Jeanne Calment, at approximately 20 and 120 years of age (circa 1896 and 1996)

Jeanne Calment would have had memories from 1896 (she would have been 21 years old). Many of the men and women at Adwa would have been her peers, or her juniors. Though she wasn’t in Africa, she would have heard about the battle; it was big news at the time. But it would have been, for her, one memory among many — something she might easily have forgotten; like some distant conflict we could read about in today’s paper; something that might have been less important than the memory of, say, her first cigarette, or her first kiss.

For those who actually fought in the battle, or who served as porters; or who saw the armies passing through their homelands; or who lost sons or brothers in the fray, the events would have been etched deep into their memories. [3] For Menelik’s subjects and for Italians it would have had a special relevance, even if they were far away. And for Africans in general, and for the diaspora — including slaves and descendants of slaves — it would be a source of inspiration. It came to symbolise the possibility of victory over forces of racism and colonialism that sometimes appeared invincible.

But to the extent that Adwa becomes a symbol, its meaning is also changeable. What we see in it depends in part on the events that have occurred in between then and now, and the meaning we assign to them. I’d like to draw a comparison between the way we remember Adwa and the way we remember what at the time was called the Great War — what we now refer to as the First World War, which began 100 years ago, in 1914.

Comparisons with the First World War

The parallel with the First World War points up many contrasts: Adwa was a battle, lasting just one day, in one location; the First World War dragged on for years, was fought in multiple theatres, and incurred not thousands but millions of casualties. Other contrasts are more subtle. The aims of the conflict at Adwa, for example, were clear: for the Italians, to subdue and colonize Ethiopia; for the Ethiopians, to expel the invader. The aims of the First World War, by contrast, were not at all clear; indeed, they were not publicly articulated by the British government or her allies until almost four years into the war, after millions had died. [4]

There also commonalities between the two conflicts. The most relevant of them for our purposes is that both the First World War and Adwa present us with challenges in how to remember, how to commemorate.

The First World War is remembered in many ways: In the work of soldier-poets like Wilfred Owen; in novels; in paintings. [5] The most prominent, however, are the monuments. Before the centenary of the war last year, I barely noticed them, but since then I’ve come to see plaques and statues in almost every public place I visit in England. Sometimes these consist of no more than a list of names, and the words Lest we forget; other times a crucifix, or martial imagery such as a soldier standing to attention or poised for attack. The imagery is meaningful: Christian symbols suggest sacrifice, martial ones courage or chivalry. Depending on the imagery, different aspects of the war are privileged — the sacrifice of those who lost their lives, or the heroism of the fighters. [6]

The profusion of statues and plaques commemorating the First World War in England contrasts with a paucity of memorials to Adwa in Ethiopia. In Addis Ababa there are monuments recalling Magdala and Emperor Teodros’ honourable death there; statues of Menelik (near St George’s Cathedral in Piassa); and a stela at Sidist Kilo honouring those who resisted the Italian occupation of 1936-194. But to my knowledge there are no memorials devoted to Adwa.

Representing Adwa

The most common medium in which Adwa is commemorated is painting. Conventionally these paintings show the Ethiopian and Italian armies facing each other on the battlefield, with the flags of each country flying above them. Between the two armies lie the dead; and in the sky above, St George, patron saint of Ethiopia, presides over the battle. The faces of the Italians are usually depicted in profile and the Ethiopians in full face. (In Ethiopian church art, full-face depictions are used of saints and other figures of virtue, while profile views are reserved for the devil or sinners.)


The Battle of Adwa. Painting by an unknown artist. The British Museum.

Just as First World War monuments highlight one side of the reality of that war and hide others, we may ask: what do these conventional paintings of Adwa privilege? What do they omit?

At least four things:

  1. The forces are conventionally represented as equal in number; but in fact the disparity was at least 4:1 — approximately one-hundred thousand Ethiopian soldiers versus twenty-thousand Italians.
  1. Soldiers and generals are shown, but not the camp-followers, those who provided victuals, the villagers upon whose production the army depended, or the women who supported the army.
  1. The good versus evil framing renders the soldiers on each side into stereotypes. This obscures the motivations of individual participants, which were almost certainly mixed — some were doubtless motivated by patriotism, and others by fear, or desire for personal glory, or profit; or some complex combination of these.
  1. St George’s rôle suggests that destiny was on the side of Ethiopia.

My aim in analyzing the painting this way is not to show that it’s wrong (No single image can show all sides of a story, not least a complex event like a battle.), but to get you to consider it afresh.

Interpreting and understanding

Adwa is glossed over in many Western history books in part because it doesn’t fit a dominant narrative of European dominance, or because it’s seen as a temporary setback (Italy would later succeed in colonizing Ethiopia, in 1936). This is unfortunate: The battle deserves to be remembered. But in celebrating it we should be careful not to set up a simplistic counter-narrative of Ethiopia’s manifest destiny. [7] The battle might better be interpreted as an example of the power of multitudes to prevail even when their opponents have access to superior weaponry; or of the capacity of groups with diverse motivations to come together to achieve common goals.

But perhaps the greatest lesson we could derive from Adwa is that history is contingent — that no Master Narrative may apply at all. That might be an unwelcome message; we like to see clear morals in history. But it can also be interpreted optimistically, as a sign that, if we try, we might break free from the chains history seems to forge for us. One of the most powerful ways in which the past affects the present is by influencing our sense of what is possible in the future. In how we choose collectively to remember historical events, we make possible new understandings of our history. And in doing so we lay foundations for the building of new worlds — one book, one monument, and one conversation at a time.

This is an adapted version of a talk given at the Victory of Adwa Memorial Celebration in London, at St George and All Saints Church, Tufnell Park, on February 28, 2015.


[1] George Philip, ed. (1932). Philip’s Handy-Volume Atlas of the World. London: Philip & Son.

[2] Craig Whitney (1997, August 5). Jeanne Calment, World’s Elder, Dies at 122. The New York Times. Retrieved from: http://www.nytimes.com/1997/08/05/world/jeanne-calment-world-s-elder-dies-at-122.html

[3] Raymond Jonas (The Battle of Adwa: African Victory in the Age of Empire. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2011) provides an engaging and readable overview of the Adwa campaign, and the cast of thousands who contributed to the victory.

[4] Timothy Mitchell (2010). Carbon democracy: Political power in the age of oil. London: Verso (p. 79).

[5] “Truth and Memory: British Art of the First World War” brings together many of the paintings (showing at the Imperial War Museum, London, until March 8, 2015). See also Sacha Llewellyn and Paul Liss, eds. (2014), The Great War as recorded through the fine and popular arts. London: Liss Fine Art.

[6] Jay Winter (1998). Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History. Cambridge University Press. As Winter relates, one of the best known monuments, the Cenotaph (literally, “empty tomb” — a monument to the dead whose bodies were never identified) is vaguely Classical in style, but contains no explicit imagery; in a sense it’s a blank canvas on which you can project your own feelings about the war, whether or not you feel it was justified.

[7] On ‘manifest destiny’ in writing on American history, see for example David Kennedy, Lizabeth Cohen, and Thomas Bailey (2010). The American Pageant (14th edition). Wadsworth / Cengage Learning.

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The year in 9 books

Some people send around a poem, a verse of scripture, or a pithy quotation at the end of the year. Not one to do things by halves, I hereby give you nine books.

books of 2014

1. Carbon democracy: Political power in the age of oil; by Timothy Mitchell (2011)

In 2002, when I was working on an archaeological dig in Kuwait, I met a young man who in the course of conversation let slip that Kuwait, his home, was the centre of the world. If you look at a standard projection you’ll see that he had a point: the Persian Gulf lies close to the hinge between Europe, Asia and Africa; and Kuwait is at its apex. The birthplaces of Abraham and Jesus and the site of Mohammed’s inspiration are all nearby.

That conversation stuck with me because it spurred me for the first time to think about my own, unexamined assumption that a small island off the shore of northwest Europe was the world’s centre. Since then, my studies in anthropology have reinforced this lesson: Our world has many centres.

This year I began working in Durham, in the northeast of England. Imagine my surprise to discover that this place was the true centre of the world! The revelation came from reading Timothy Mitchell’s book, Carbon Democracy, a sweeping overview of the political economy of energy.

carbon democracy

The claim rests on two things: the north of England provided the coal that powered the industrial revolution, and it was the birthplace of the labour movements that extracted from recalcitrant elites such concessions as universal suffrage and nationalized health services.

Mitchell argues that these two things — the nature of the stuff being mined and the politics that evolved around it — are closely linked. Coal, being labour-intensive to extract and transport, provides opportunities for blockage and sabotage, and invites certain kinds of solidarity and organizing. Oil and gas, by contrast, require engineering expertise to locate and pump to the surface, but much less manpower; and so they have quite different political implications — ones we’re still saddled with.

2. The sixth extinction: An unnatural history; by Elizabeth Kolbert (2014)

Did you know that 66 million years ago an asteroid slammed into our planet and wiped out most of Earth’s living creatures? And that we’re working towards repeating the trick, this time without any extraterrestrial intervention?

Elizabeth Kolbert, the New Yorker’s science correspondent, reports from some of the locations where biodiversity decline is most visible, including the Great Barrier Reef (projected to be killed by ocean acidification by mid-century) and the rainforest of Central America, where frogs whose calls filled the air as recently as a few years ago will never be heard again.

The stories Kolbert carries from these places make arresting reading, but she acknowledges that the same narrative could have been told from almost anywhere. More than half of monitored species of animals have been killed off in the last 40 years. If we are called to be stewards of this planet, we’re doing a terrible job.

3. The road; by Cormac McCarthy (2006)

This is an artist’s impression of where we might end up, if business continues as usual. A man and his son walk across a burnt, deserted landscape, devoid of life. They scavenge tinned food from wrecked homes and ruined cities, and try to evade marauding cannibals. The book is an extended thought experiment. Some of the undervalued resources that it draws attention to are clean water and human kindness.

mccarthy road

4. The burning question: We can’t burn half the world’s oil, coal and gas. So how do we quit? By Mike Berners-Lee and Duncan Clark (2013)

How do we avoid squandering what we’ve inherited? Can we restrain ourselves from burning the earth’s existing reserves of fossil fuels — a guaranteed ticket for catastrophe? On the current market the stuff is worth a great deal of money, so part of the problem is how best to regulate the market. Humanity has already used up most of its all-time carbon budget — the amount we can safely burn. Right now we are, as Berners-Lee and Clark write, deep in a “great global slumber,” ignoring the immensity of the problem and the urgency of restructuring our societies to account for the new reality. There is no discipline or profession whose contributions are not needed to meet this challenge.

5. The energy glut: Climate change and the politics of fatness; by Ian Roberts with Phil Edwards (2010)

Ian Roberts provides a public health doctor’s perspective on the problem. Healthy societies respond better in the face of disasters, because they can get out of the way of hazards. Unfortunately, we’re rapidly turning into lard-balls. Cheap energy has so saturated our lives that we move less and less under our own steam, and the sources of what sustains us are further and further removed from the places where we live. Dependence on motorized vehicles is disabling us.

energy glut

Roberts trained as an emergency physician, and turned his gaze upstream only after repeated exposure to the damage that high-speed impacts have on bodies — damage that (because of their irrepressible desire to move, to play) is borne disproportionately by children. The solution he proposes is to reclaim the streets: to take back the public spaces that were stolen from us during the middle 20th century, and to bring work, services, and food production closer to our homes.

6. Don’t think of an elephant! Know your values and frame the debate; by George Lakoff (2004, 2014)

Much of the work involved in this revolution will be practical: throwing up barricades of bollards and planting trees amidst the rubble. But equally important is the symbolic work. Repeated exposure to advertising and political propaganda establishes distinctive ‘frames’ in our heads, which then determine much of what we choose to recognize as true or false. Confronted with troubling facts — for instance, that the excess energy accumulating every day via the heating of the earth is equivalent to the detonation of four-hundred thousand Hiroshima atomic bombs — we just ignore them. To process and communicate information that doesn’t fit in the standard frames, we need to reframe the conversation. That’s not easy, because much of the time people aren’t conscious of the frames they’re using. Since the Reagan administration, conservatives have been far more canny and proficient in this than progressives.

7. Two cheers for anarchism: Six easy pieces on autonomy, dignity, and meaningful work and play; by James C Scott (2012)

Another great obstacle we face is that while our political institutions are participatory and democratic in principle, many aspects of our schools and workplaces are, in practice, authoritarian. Living by our own lights requires more than courage; like a muscle, it requires practice. Anthropologist James C. Scott recommends some exercises to help develop autonomy. A simple example is jay-walking: When there’s no traffic, why not cross the road?

Scott has a nice name for these exercises in deliberate, considered rule-breaking: ‘anarchist calisthenics.’ As the subtitle of his book (‘Six easy pieces’) implies, Two Cheers is short, lucidly written and fun to read. But there are serious implications. The exercises he recommends may be vital preparation for heavier work to come. Major social changes almost always happen outside of formal politics. The abolition of slavery, women’s suffrage, civil rights in the USA, all required campaigns of civil disobedience. Only when enough people refuse to go with the flow does the tide turn.

8. What future for Lake Turkana? The impact of hydropower and irrigation on the world’s largest desert lake; by Sean Avery (2013)

In any contest over where the true centre of the world is, Ethiopia’s Lower Omo Valley deserves a mention. Marketed to tourists as an out-of-the-way place (wilderness is a word that’s often used of it), it is in fact not only home to many farmers and cattle-herders, but also the site of the oldest known remains of our species, Homo sapiens. It’s where we’re all from.

Ethiopia’s government is building a dam on the middle reaches of the Omo River, and it’s due to be completed in 2015. Avery’s report on the social and environmental implications of the dam, published by Oxford University’s African Studies Centre, warns that the dam and associated plantations could spell impoverishment for the tens of thousands of people who rely upon the annual rise of the river for their subsistence. It also threatens people who live on the shores of Kenya’s Lake Turkana, into which the Omo drains — the so-called ‘jade sea’ and the world’s largest desert lake.

avery turkana

This past year, with support from the National Science Foundation, my colleagues in Ethiopia and I carried out a survey of food and water security in the Lower Omo, establishing a baseline against which future developments may be compared.

9. The rattle bag, edited by Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes (1982)

I started reading this book almost 30 years ago, and in truth I still haven’t finished it. An anthology of verse organized alphabetically by title of poem, it invites browsing rather than linear reading. This year, as my son nears four years old and his grasp of language improves, I’ve rediscovered the book, and some of the poems in it have burst upon me like bombs. There are things you can express in poetry that can’t be expressed in any other medium. Take this poem by priest-poet Andrew Young, a meditation on strength and weakness:

“The Dead Crab”

A rosy shield upon its back,
That not the hardest storm could crack,
From whose sharp edge projected out
Black pinpoint eyes staring about;
Beneath, the well-knit cote-armure
That gave to its weak belly power;
The clustered legs with plated joints
That ended in stiletto points;
The claws like mouths it held outside:
I cannot think this creature died
By storm or fish or sea-fowl marked
Walking the sea so heavily armed;
Or does it make for death to be
Oneself a living armoury?

May we all, in this New Year, be spurred to review our relationships with strangers as well as friends; to reappraise our responsibilities to the as-yet-unborn as well as the living and the dead; and to reconsider where our world’s centre is.

See also: Top ten books of 2013

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Fighting for life and sight in Ethiopia

ABEL WAS BORN with one eye larger than the other.

The difference wasn’t striking, but it caught the attention of the doctor who delivered him, and Abel’s father Getahun sought advice on what might have caused it.

“There’s nothing wrong with the baby,” doctors told him.

Many parents would have given up at this point, but Getahun persisted. He tracked down experts on eye diseases, and asked their opinions.

Eventually, at 3 months old, Abel was diagnosed with retinoblastoma, a cancer of the eyes that occurs almost exclusively in children.

The lucky ones

In Britain, 40 or 50 children are diagnosed with retinoblastoma each year, of whom one may die [1]. In Ethiopia, it’s the other way around: Perhaps a hundred children are born with it, and only one or two may survive. [2]

Abel is one of the lucky ones. The doctor who diagnosed him connected the family to colleagues in Nairobi, Kenya, where the affected eye was removed before the cancer had a chance to spread.

My family has straddled this epidemiological divide. When my son was diagnosed with retinoblastoma in 2012, we were living in Ethiopia. The diagnosis sent us hurrying back to the UK. Now 3 years old, Isaac has received many rounds of treatment; the journey hasn’t been easy for us. But he’s retained some useful vision, and he’s flourishing in spite of the disease.

Each time I go back to Ethiopia I think about how much greater the challenges would have been if that door to the UK hadn’t been open for us.

A new path

This Spring, I brought together a diverse group of people to talk about eye cancer in Ethiopia’s capital, Addis Ababa. The participants included doctors, representatives from the Ministry of Health, and members of charities working on cancer in Ethiopia and Kenya. Families affected by retinoblastoma took part as well. The stories they shared — and the presence of their children, who variously sat with us and played around the sides of the meeting — helped bring home the reality of the subject matter. One of those children was Abel.

addis Rb meeting

Participants, from left to right: Getahun Tsegaye (with Abel), Girma Mekonnen, Ermias Kibreab (with Bisrat), Yemesrach Tadesse, Faith Barasa, Jed Stevenson, Molla Ayele, Brian Ouma, Wondu Bekele, Dr Abu Beyene, Dr Jakob Schneider, and Sister Atsede

The goal was to identify a way forward:

  • What are the most important priorities?
  • If £10k or £100k were available to improve retinoblastoma care in Ethiopia, where should it be invested?

The consensus of the meeting was that Ethiopia needs an organization devoted to eye cancer. An organization with active participation from parents in defining its mission and overseeing its work. Getahun is on board, and so are several other families. Veteran campaigners are providing advice, and the Ministry of Health has given its blessings. [3]

Ethiopia’s not out of the woods yet as far as this disease is concerned, but hopefully this may be the right path.

Jed is taking part in a ‘bush trek’ in Africa in September 2014, to raise funds for eye cancer in Ethiopia. For more information, or to donate, visit Life and Sight for Ethiopia.

Jed with Getahun and Ermias, and their sons Abel and Bisrat

Jed with Getahun and Ermias, and their sons Abel and Bisrat



[1] Cancer mortality statistics from Cancer Research UK.

[2] In Kenya, survival is estimated at 27% (Dimaras et al. 2012, The Lancet.) In Ethiopia, Dr Emebet Girma reports that only 10% of the children she sees at Hawassa University Hospital (the major referral centre for the south of the country) arrive early enough to have much chance of cure.

[3] The minutes of the Addis Ababa meeting are available here. I reported on a prior meeting in 2013 here.


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Eye cancer in Ethiopia, revisited

My son suffers from a cancer of the eyes that is fatal if untreated. Now three years old, he’s leading about as close to a normal life as a child can with such a disease — thanks in large part to Britain’s excellent medical system. Seeing him through cancer treatment is quite a project, and I’ve written a lot about it here. But my wife and I also have bigger project in mind — in Ethiopia.

In 2012 our pleasant life in Addis Ababa was turned upside down. Selam was working for the UN refugee agency and I was doing research in public health. Our baby boy, doted on by his nanny and neighbours alike, was almost one year old.

It was Selam who first noticed the odd glow in Asa’s eyes and, out of curiosity, Googled it. A few days later we were on a plane to England, and Asa began chemotherapy the following week.

Like cleft lip and extra digits, retinoblastoma is one of those things that can go wrong in the process of building a body. And like some other genetic conditions, it crops up with a regularity — about 1 in 20,000 births — that holds across world regions, without respect to the capacity of communities to respond.

If the signs — glowing pupils and crossed eyes — aren’t noticed and treatment initiated quickly, tumours originating in the retina can migrate into the eye sockets, brain, or bone marrow. After that, cure is very difficult.

In Ethiopia, poor systems of monitoring and referral mean that the great majority of children affected aren’t taken to hospital until the disease is far advanced. In Hawassa, the capital of the Southern region of the country, Dr Emebet Girma estimates that only 10% of children arrive at the university hospital with “early” signs; 90% have tumours so big that their eyes are bulging out of their sockets.

A matter of priorities

But in a country burdened by so many health problems, why should anyone bother about this cancer?

One reason is that, if treated promptly, patients can go on to lead full lives — sometimes without even a memory of the disease. Untreated, the suffering is unspeakable.

Another is that improving systems of diagnosis and referral for retinoblastoma would almost certainly have positive side-effects for other diseases: Spotting the tell-tale signs requires a high level of vigilance; readier recourse to medical advice; and closer communication between rural clinics and urban hospitals.

And cancer in the developing world isn’t as rare as you might think: It claims more lives than malaria, TB, and HIV-AIDS. Partly this is a result of international mobilization to combat those infectious diseases; the time is ripe for a similar approach to cancers.

Prospects for Ethiopia

Two week ago I flew to Addis again.

Last year I’d gathered here with doctors who treat retinoblastoma, and families whose children have been affected, to discuss the state of affairs in Ethiopia. Now it’s time to move the conversation forward. Tomorrow we’ll be meeting — along with several new participants — to try to identify priorities for action.

One of the guest speakers will be Brian Ouma, executive director of Daisy’s Eye Cancer Fund Kenya, an organization that has done amazing work improving services in that country. Less than a decade ago, Kenya had a very weak system for identifying and treating Rb; it now serves as a regional hub for treatment.

For Ethiopia — and for other countries where eye cancer causes so many unnecessary deaths — these achievements should be a great cause for hope.

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