Schama, Zionism and the Politics of Historical Memory

 

Simon Schama's defence of Israel and the campaign to criminalise opposition to genocide

Simon Schama's recent intervention in defence of Israel is presented as a contribution to historical understanding. In reality, it belongs to a broader political campaign whose purpose is to delegitimise mass opposition to the genocide in Gaza by conflating anti-Zionism with antisemitism. The significance of such arguments lies not in their historical accuracy, but in their political function. At a moment when millions of people around the world are expressing opposition to war, ethnic cleansing and imperialist violence, intellectuals associated with the political establishment are increasingly being mobilised to provide moral and historical justification for repression.[1]

The campaign's central mechanism is straightforward. Criticism of the Israeli state is equated with hostility to Jewish people. Opposition to Zionism is portrayed as a modern form of antisemitism. Protest against the destruction of Gaza becomes evidence of sympathy for forces allegedly seeking the destruction of Jews. Through this process, the unique moral authority associated with the Holocaust is transferred to the contemporary Israeli state, allowing criticism of its actions to be denounced as a revival of humanity's greatest historical crime.

This conflation is not an intellectual mistake or conceptual confusion. It is a deliberate political operation. Its target is not the racist right, which continues to flourish across Europe, the United States and elsewhere. Rather, it is directed against anti-war demonstrators, socialist organisations, students, academics and workers who oppose genocide and imperialist war.

The narrative's omission of the far right is especially revealing. Many of Israel's most enthusiastic supporters are found among political forces with long histories of xenophobia, racism and authoritarian nationalism. Across Europe and North America, right-wing nationalist movements have increasingly presented Israel as a model of ethnic exclusivity, militarised borders and state violence against a subject population. These forces are rarely accused of antisemitism when they support Israel because they are politically useful allies. The contradiction exposes the dishonesty of claims that support for Israel constitutes the defining measure of opposition to antisemitism.

At the centre of Schama's argument lies a familiar liberal-Zionist distinction between Israel's allegedly noble foundations and the unfortunate excesses of its current government. Schama portrays Benjamin Netanyahu, Itamar Ben-Gvir, and Bezalel Smotrich as departures from a fundamentally democratic and humane project. The implication is that Israel has somehow lost its way.

This narrative cannot withstand historical examination. The catastrophe now unfolding in Gaza did not emerge from a temporary deviation from Israel's founding principles. It grew out of the state's historical foundations. The Nakba of 1948, during which hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were expelled or fled from their homes, was not an accidental by-product of state formation. It was the decisive event that established the state. The subordination and displacement of the indigenous Palestinian population were not peripheral episodes but central components of the Zionist project as it developed in practice.

For decades, Israel has functioned as a strategic ally of the major imperialist powers in the Middle East. Its military, economic and diplomatic position has been inseparable from its role within broader geopolitical calculations pursued by Britain and, increasingly after the Second World War, the United States. To describe the destruction of Gaza merely as the consequence of an extremist government is therefore to obscure the deeper historical and political forces that have shaped the state from the beginning.

Mario Kessler on Antisemitism

The German historian Mario Kessler has made an important contribution to understanding antisemitism by examining it through the history of the socialist movement. His work is particularly valuable because it challenges the widespread assumption that antisemitism and anti-Zionism are fundamentally the same thing. Instead, Kessler demonstrates that some of the strongest and most principled opponents of antisemitism were found within the revolutionary socialist tradition, many of whom were also critics of Zionism.

Kessler approaches antisemitism not simply as a prejudice but as a social and political phenomenon rooted in specific historical conditions. Drawing on Marxist scholarship, he shows how antisemitism often emerged during periods of economic and political crisis, when ruling elites and reactionary movements sought to channel social discontent away from the existing social order and towards a minority group. Jews were portrayed as responsible for social problems that were, in reality, products of capitalism itself.

One of Kessler's key themes is the distinction between antisemitism and criticism of Zionism. He traces debates within the labour movement from the late nineteenth century onward, showing that many Jewish socialists rejected the Zionist project while remaining uncompromising opponents of antisemitism. For figures such as Rosa Luxemburg, Leon Trotsky, and many members of the Jewish labour movement, the solution to Jewish oppression lay not in creating a separate nation-state but in the international struggle for socialism and democratic equality.

Kessler's work also highlights the twentieth century's tragedy. The rise of fascism and the Holocaust devastated the European Jewish population and transformed political attitudes towards Zionism. Yet he argues that understanding this catastrophe requires serious historical analysis rather than political myth-making. The history of antisemitism, in his view, cannot be reduced to support for or opposition to Israel.

Kessler is particularly relevant today because he insists on historical precision. He rejects attempts to use accusations of antisemitism as a weapon against all critics of Israeli policy, while equally opposing genuine antisemitism in all its forms. His work reminds us that the socialist movement developed both a powerful critique of antisemitism and a tradition of internationalism that sought solidarity between peoples rather than separation through competing nationalisms. For readers interested in the relationship between antisemitism, socialism and Zionism, Kessler provides an important historical bridge between nineteenth-century Marxism and contemporary political debates.

The effort to equate anti-Zionism with antisemitism also requires the systematic suppression of an alternative political tradition, namely that of revolutionary socialist internationalism. The historical record is clear. The socialist movement, not Zionism, produced the most consistent and principled struggle against antisemitism. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, socialist organisations opposed antisemitism not as an isolated prejudice but as a reactionary ideology rooted in the contradictions of class society.

David North's The Logic of Zionism and the Fate of Palestine

David North's The Logic of Zionism and the Fate of Palestine is less a conventional history book than a collection of political and historical essays that examine the origins of Zionism, the Palestinian question, and imperialism's role in the Middle East. Written from a Trotskyist and international socialist standpoint, the book challenges both the mainstream defence of Zionism and the various nationalist perspectives that dominate discussion of the conflict.

One of the book's strengths is its placement of Zionism in a broader historical context. North argues that Zionism emerged as a response to the oppression of European Jews, but that it developed as a nationalist movement whose fate became closely bound up with the interests of the major imperialist powers. Rather than treating Israel as simply the fulfilment of Jewish self-determination, he examines how the state was formed, its relationship to the displacement of the Palestinian population and its strategic role in the Middle East.

A recurring theme is the distinction between Judaism and Zionism. North insists that opposition to Zionism is not the same thing as antisemitism and points to the long history of socialist opposition to both antisemitism and Jewish nationalism. The book draws heavily on the writings of Marx, Engels, August Bebel, Rosa Luxemburg, Lenin and, above all, Leon Trotsky. These figures argued that antisemitism was rooted in the crises and contradictions of capitalist society and could not be overcome through the creation of a separate national state.

Particularly interesting are the sections dealing with Trotsky's analysis of the Jewish question in the 1930s. Trotsky recognised the terrible danger facing European Jewry under fascism while maintaining that Zionism offered no lasting solution. North argues that subsequent events, including the continuing conflict between Israel and the Palestinians, have confirmed many of Trotsky's warnings.

The book also connects the Palestinian struggle to broader questions of war, imperialism, and class politics. Rather than advocating either Israeli or Palestinian nationalism, North advances socialist internationalism, arguing that a genuine democratic solution requires workers' political unity throughout the region.

Whether one agrees with its conclusions or not, The Logic of Zionism and the Fate of Palestine is an important statement of the Trotskyist position on one of the most contested questions of modern history. It combines historical analysis, political polemic and theoretical argument in a way that encourages readers to think beyond the narrow framework through which the conflict is usually presented.

August Bebel and the Socialist Struggle Against Antisemitism

August Bebel (1840-1913), the co-founder and leading figure of the German Social Democratic Party (SPD), played a decisive role in establishing the Marxist movement as the most consistent opponent of antisemitism in late nineteenth-century Europe. At a time when antisemitic agitation was gaining influence among sections of the middle classes and even among workers affected by economic crisis, Bebel insisted that hostility to Jews was not a form of social protest but a reactionary diversion from the struggle against capitalism.

Bebel is best known for describing antisemitism as "the socialism of fools." By this he meant that antisemitic demagogues sought to exploit genuine popular grievances while directing anger away from the capitalist system and towards a vulnerable minority. Rather than identifying exploitation as a consequence of the social relations of capitalism, antisemites attributed poverty, unemployment and financial crises to the alleged conspiracies of Jewish individuals. In doing so, they transformed social discontent into racial hatred and protected the existing economic order.

For Bebel and the Marxist movement, antisemitism was not simply a prejudice or moral failing. It was a political weapon used by ruling elites and reactionary forces to divide the working class. Antisemitic campaigns encouraged workers to blame Jewish neighbours instead of the capitalist class as a whole. This undermined workers' unity across national, religious, and ethnic lines, which Marxists regarded as essential to socialist struggle.

Bebel's opposition to antisemitism anticipated later Marxist analyses developed by figures such as Rosa Luxemburg, Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky. His insistence that workers reject all forms of racial and religious chauvinism became a foundational principle of socialist internationalism. At a time when many liberal politicians accommodated antisemitic sentiment, Bebel and the SPD publicly opposed it, making the socialist movement the principal political force combating antisemitism in Germany.

His intervention remains historically significant because it demonstrated that the fight against antisemitism is inseparable from the struggle for working-class unity and social equality. For Bebel, the liberation of Jewish people could not be achieved through exclusion, nationalism, or scapegoating, but only through workers' common struggle against capitalism itself.

No figure understood this process more profoundly than Leon Trotsky. Writing as fascism rose, Trotsky warned that capitalism's crisis threatened catastrophe for European Jewry. The destruction of democratic institutions, the growth of fascist movements and the degeneration of bourgeois society pointed toward unprecedented crimes. At the same time, Trotsky rejected Zionism's claim to provide a solution to the Jewish question through the creation of a national state in Palestine. He argued that the historical problem confronting Jewish people could not be resolved through a nationalist project, but only through the international struggle against capitalism itself.

Subsequent history tragically confirmed both aspects of Trotsky's analysis. The Holocaust exposed the barbarism to which capitalism in crisis could descend. Yet the establishment of Israel did not eliminate antisemitism. Nor did it resolve the underlying contradictions that had produced it. Instead, new forms of oppression and conflict emerged, above all through the dispossession and subjugation of the Palestinian people.

This history poses an insurmountable challenge to Schama's argument. The political tendency that most consistently analysed antisemitism, fought it and predicted the catastrophe confronting European Jewry was also the tendency that opposed Zionism. The existence of that tradition refutes the claim that anti-Zionism is inherently antisemitic.

Indeed, the current attempt to identify opposition to Zionism with hatred of Jews requires the erasure of a century of socialist political experience. Most crucially, the conflation of Judaism with the Israeli state does not protect Jewish people. It places them in greater danger. Antisemitism has historically functioned by attributing the crimes, failures and contradictions of society to Jews as a collective. Zionist ideology, particularly in its contemporary forms, insists that Israel acts in the name of Jews everywhere and that Jewish identity is inextricably bound to the state. This claim reproduces, from a different starting point, precisely the framework upon which antisemitism has traditionally depended.

When the actions of the Israeli state are identified with Jews as a whole, the distinction between a government and a people is consciously blurred. The responsibility for state crimes is transferred to an entire global community. This does not undermine antisemitism. It creates conditions in which antisemitic narratives can flourish.

The defence of Jewish people against antisemitism therefore cannot be entrusted to the Israeli state, nor to the imperialist governments that provide it with diplomatic cover, financial support and military assistance. Genuine opposition to antisemitism requires a fundamentally different political perspective.

That perspective begins with rejecting all forms of nationalism and ethnic exclusivity. It insists on the unity of Jewish, Arab, and international workers based on common class interests. It recognises that war, racism, authoritarianism and genocide arise not from ancient hatreds but from the crisis of the capitalist system itself.

The growing effort to criminalise anti-Zionist sentiment and suppress opposition to genocide is part of a broader assault on democratic rights. Governments that support Israel's actions in Gaza increasingly resort to censorship, police repression and legal intimidation because they confront widening popular opposition. The attack on Palestine solidarity movements is one aspect of a wider turn toward authoritarian forms of rule in conditions of mounting social inequality, geopolitical conflict and economic instability.

Viewed in this context, Schama's essay is not primarily a contribution to historical debate. It is a political intervention on behalf of the existing order. Its purpose is to provide intellectual legitimacy for the suppression of opposition to imperialist violence and to shield the Israeli state from scrutiny by presenting criticism as prejudice.

Defending historical truth requires rejecting this falsification. Antisemitism is a real and deadly form of reaction whose history culminated in some of the greatest crimes of the twentieth century. But it cannot be fought through support for a state carrying out mass violence against an oppressed people. Nor can opposition to genocide be silenced by accusations designed to delegitimise political dissent.

The struggle against antisemitism and the struggle against Zionism are not mutually exclusive. Historically, some of the most principled opponents of antisemitism understood this. Their perspective remains indispensable today. The defence of democratic rights, the opposition to genocide and the fight against antisemitism all require the same political foundation: the independent mobilisation of the international working class against capitalism, imperialism and war.

Bibliography

Bebel, August. Mass and Class: Selected Writings. New York: Pathfinder Press, 1980.

Kessler, Mario. Antisemitism, Zionism and Socialism: Studies in the History of Jewish Labour and Political Movements. Berlin: Metropol Verlag, various editions.

Lenin, V. I. "Anti-Jewish Pogroms." In Collected Works, Vol. 29. Moscow: Progress Publishers.

North, David. The Logic of Zionism and the Fate of Palestine: Historical and Political Essays. Detroit: Mehring Books, 2011.

North, David. "Socialist Internationalism and the Struggle Against Zionism and Imperialism." International Youth and Students for Social Equality Lecture, 2023.

Trotsky, Leon. "Thermidor and Antisemitism" (1937).

Trotsky, Leon. "On the Jewish Question" (1934-1940), in Writings of Leon Trotsky.

Weiss, Clara. "Mario Kessler on Marxism, Antisemitism and Zionism." World Socialist Web Site, 3 July 2025.

Pappe, Ilan. The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine. Oxford: Oneworld, 2006.

Morris, Benny. The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Said, Edward. The Question of Palestine. New York: Vintage Books, 1992.

 

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[1] Jew-Hatred: Jewish Quarterly 265 by Simon Schama, 13 Oct. 2026, 96 pages

Victoria and Albert Museum workers strike across all four London sites against “Amazon-style” conditions and poverty pay.

 Workers at the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) will strike across all four of the institution's London sites on October 29 and 30 in an escalating dispute over poverty wages and increasingly intolerable working conditions.

The action, involving union members at South Kensington, V&A East Museum, V&A East Storehouse in Stratford and the Young V&A in Bethnal Green, marks the first time the museum's entire London network will be hit simultaneously by industrial action. It follows a series of September strikes that exposed a growing rebellion among workers at one of Britain's premier cultural institutions.

Behind the V&A's carefully cultivated image as a world-class museum lies a workplace regime that workers have compared to an Amazon fulfilment centre. The dispute first erupted at the newly opened V&A East Storehouse, where staff reported being denied sufficient time for drinking water and toilet breaks during shifts.

That workers had to organise strike action to secure what should be the most basic workplace rights is a damning indictment of the conditions imposed in Britain's cultural sector. Every Storehouse worker who voted supported industrial action, with turnout approaching 88 per cent, reflecting deep-rooted anger over management practices.

Only after the threat of strikes did management partially retreat, agreeing in August to provide two paid breaks per day. Yet this concession addressed only the most visible symptom of a much broader crisis confronting museum workers.

Across the V&A estate, employees have reported staff shortages, excessive workloads and years of declining living standards. PCS members voted 95.39 per cent for strike action with an 87.04 per cent turnout, showing overwhelming support for a fight against management's offensive. Workers have described severe workplace overheating, dehydration, and even colleagues fainting on journeys home after shifts.

The scale of opposition became clear in September, when about 700 workers, more than half the V&A's workforce, took part in strike action that forced the closure of several sites.

The workforce's demands are modest. PCS and Prospect members are seeking a 4 per cent pay increase and an uplift that would bring the lowest-paid workers to £14.80 per hour, making the V&A an accredited Real London Living Wage employer.

Management has portrayed these demands as unaffordable. Yet PCS estimates the difference between its pay claim and management's existing offer would be roughly £500,000 annually, a negligible sum for a national institution.

Workers have every reason to reject museum management's claims of poverty. The V&A holds around £72 million in reserves while continuing to invest heavily in major capital projects. As workers have pointed out, funding always seems available for new buildings, refurbishments, and expansion projects, while employees responsible for keeping the institution running are told they must accept further declines in their living standards.

The current dispute unfolds against the backdrop of years of attacks on museum workers. Hundreds of jobs were lost during restructuring carried out throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. Real wages have since been eroded by below-inflation pay settlements, with workers absorbing substantial losses in purchasing power during recent years of inflation.

One worker speaking to Museums Journal summed up the widespread mood: "We've finally reached breaking point."

Management has responded by preparing a fresh round of cuts. Last month, the V&A announced a voluntary exit scheme covering all sites, fuelling fears that the institution is preparing further workforce reductions. Such schemes invariably increase workloads for those who remain while undermining public service delivery.

Responsibility for these attacks ultimately lies not only with museum management but with the Labour government. The V&A itself has acknowledged that government funding settlements amount to real-terms reductions once inflation is taken into account. Across the museum and heritage sector, institutions are being compelled to operate under permanent austerity conditions. The result is a familiar pattern: workers are expected to bear the burden through worsening conditions, suppressed wages and job cuts. At the same time, management pursues financial targets dictated by government spending priorities.

Far from representing an isolated dispute, the struggle at the V&A is part of a broader movement among museum and heritage workers. At Royal Museums Greenwich, workers have balloted for industrial action over pay and Living Wage accreditation. The Royal Armouries is pursuing plans to reduce labour costs. Across the sector, management is advancing virtually identical programmes under the banner of "financial sustainability", while workers face deteriorating conditions and declining real incomes.

The role of V&A Director Tristram Hunt, a former Labour MP, carries political weight. Hunt's reported refusal to participate in negotiations shows how little management values the workforce. But the issue is not simply one individual's attitude. Hunt embodies a wider layer of Labour politicians, public-sector executives and cultural administrators tasked with implementing austerity while presenting cuts as responsible management.

The trade union apparatus's conduct throughout the dispute raises important questions.

PCS General Secretary Fran Heathcote has correctly described it as a scandal that a leading national museum fails to pay all staff a genuine living wage. Yet union leadership has limited workers to a series of isolated, carefully managed stoppages while directing appeals to Labour politicians who are themselves enforcing spending cuts.

No serious effort has unified the developing disputes across museums, galleries, libraries and cultural institutions throughout Britain. Workers face the same employers' offensive everywhere: understaffing, declining pay, intensified labour, and threats to jobs. Yet struggles remain fragmented, institution by institution.

Workers have already demonstrated their collective strength through strikes, overtime bans, work-to-rule measures and other forms of industrial action. These actions show that museums cannot function without the labour of the workers who maintain collections, assist visitors, provide security, manage archives, and run daily operations.

The decisive question is how to organise and direct that power. V&A workers need new organisations of struggle, rank-and-file committees independent of the union bureaucracy, to transfer decision-making power directly into the hands of workers themselves. Such committees could unite workers across all V&A sites, establish direct links with staff at other museums and cultural institutions, and coordinate a common fight against pay cuts, redundancies and deteriorating working conditions.

They should appeal for support not only among museum workers but also among Amazon warehouse workers, postal workers, civil servants, transport workers, educators, and health workers facing the same attacks amid deepening austerity.

The struggle at the V&A raises fundamental questions about society's priorities. Vast resources fund prestige projects, corporate subsidies, and military spending. At the same time, workers who preserve humanity's artistic and historical heritage are told there is no money for decent wages or humane working conditions.

The treasures housed within the V&A were created through generations of labour. The workers who safeguard and maintain those collections today have every right to insist on secure employment, decent pay, and dignified working conditions. Their struggle deserves the support of workers throughout Britain and internationally.

 

Chris Wickham (1950–2026): Marxist historian of the medieval world

Chris Wickham's death on October 9, 2026, at age 76 removes from intellectual life one of the postwar period's most significant historians of the early Middle Ages. Over a career spanning nearly five decades, Wickham transformed the study of medieval Europe through a rigorous application of historical materialism, demonstrating that the social relations governing production, surplus extraction and class power remained indispensable to understanding the rise and decline of societies.

At a time when large sections of the historical profession abandoned such questions in favour of discourse analysis, identity politics and the increasingly subjective preoccupations of the "linguistic turn," Wickham remained committed to explaining history through the material foundations of human life. His work restored peasants, landlords, taxation systems, trade networks and class relations to the centre of medieval history.

Born on May 18, 1950, in Rossett, Wales, Wickham studied at Oxford before beginning a long association with the University of Birmingham in 1977. He later held the prestigious Chichele Professorship of Medieval History at Oxford. Throughout his career, he combined meticulous empirical research with broad theoretical ambition, producing scholarship distinguished by an extraordinary command of documentary, archaeological and comparative evidence.

His early work focused on Italy, generating a series of influential studies that examined the social and economic structures of medieval life. Books such as Early Medieval Italy and The Mountains and the City revealed the complex interactions between peasant communities, aristocratic power and emerging forms of political authority. Even at this stage, Wickham displayed the qualities that would define his scholarship: a rejection of elite-centred narratives and a determination to uncover the social forces underlying political change.

Wickham's most important intellectual intervention came with his 1984 essay, "The Other Transition: From the Ancient World to Feudalism." For generations, Marxist historians had debated the origins of capitalism and the transition from feudalism to bourgeois society. Wickham instead drew attention to an earlier, equally decisive transformation: the collapse of the Roman world and the emergence of medieval social relations.

He argued that the essential distinction between the Roman Empire and its successors lay in the relationship between state taxation and landed property. Whereas Rome had rested upon a powerful tax-raising state apparatus, the post-Roman West increasingly became a world in which ruling classes derived their wealth directly from rents extracted from peasants. The shift from taxation to rent constituted one of the decisive social transformations in European history.

These arguments reached their fullest expression in his monumental Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean, 400-800 (2005), a work widely regarded as one of the greatest achievements of modern medieval scholarship. At more than 900 pages and spanning territories from Ireland to Egypt, the book offered an extraordinary synthesis of decades of historical and archaeological research.

Against both nationalist myths and civilisational narratives, Wickham showed that the disappearance of Roman political authority produced sharply different outcomes in different regions. Social development depended not on culture or ethnicity but on concrete relations of class power, the strength of aristocracies, the survival of state structures, and the degree of autonomy retained by peasant producers.

His analysis of what he termed the "peasant mode of production" was particularly significant: situations in which small cultivators retained substantial control over their own labour and surplus. Such arguments challenged simplistic narratives of uninterrupted aristocratic domination and demonstrated the complexity of post-Roman social development.

The book's importance was recognised internationally through numerous awards, including both the Wolfson History Prize and the Deutscher Memorial Prize. The latter was especially appropriate. Few historians of his generation did more to demonstrate that Marxist categories remained essential tools for understanding long-term historical development.

Wickham belonged to the tradition of British Marxist historians associated with figures such as Rodney Hilton, Christopher Hill and Eric Hobsbawm. Yet he emerged at a time when both political reaction and intellectual retreat had severely weakened Marxism's influence in academia.

The dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 accelerated a wave of triumphalist claims regarding the "end of history" and the supposed death of Marxism. Within universities, social history increasingly gave way to cultural studies, postmodernism and various forms of identity-based analysis. Grand narratives of social transformation came under sustained attack.

Against these trends, Wickham continued to insist that modes of production, class relations and material interests remained essential explanatory categories. In doing so, he helped preserve and develop a tradition of historical inquiry that might otherwise have faced marginalisation.

At the same time, Wickham's intellectual trajectory reflected the limitations of the broader current from which he emerged. As many academic Marxists associated with the postwar British left, he approached Marxism primarily as a method of historical analysis rather than as the theoretical foundation of a revolutionary political movement.

The social and political struggles of the contemporary working class occupied little place in his scholarly work. This separation between Marxist scholarship and socialist politics was not an individual failing. It reflected the broader influence of Stalinism, Labourism and various forms of academic radicalism that shaped much of the intellectual left during the second half of the twentieth century. Historical materialism survived as a sophisticated method of analysis, while its revolutionary implications were increasingly detached from contemporary political practice.

Nevertheless, Wickham's achievements remain immense. His scholarship powerfully refuted every attempt to explain history through race, national character, religion, or culture alone. He repeatedly demonstrated that political institutions, beliefs, and identities could be understood only through their connection to underlying social and economic realities.

This aspect of his legacy matters especially when far-right movements seek to appropriate the medieval past for reactionary purposes. Across Europe and internationally, medieval history has been repeatedly distorted to legitimise myths of ethnic purity, national destiny and civilisational conflict. Wickham's work offered a devastating intellectual antidote to such falsifications by revealing the medieval world as a complex, dynamic arena of social conflict, economic change, and cultural interaction.

His death comes amid a deepening crisis of higher education. Universities throughout Britain and internationally are increasingly subordinated to market imperatives, corporate management structures and short-term financial calculations. Humanities departments have been closed, jobs eliminated and entire fields of scholarship threatened. The conditions that enabled decades-long projects of serious historical research are being systematically undermined.

Producing works such as Framing the Early Middle Ages required time, institutional support, and a commitment to scholarship that is increasingly incompatible with the demands of contemporary academia. The attack on universities is part of a broader assault on critical thought and historical understanding amid mounting social inequality and political instability.

Chris Wickham leaves behind a body of work that will continue to shape historical scholarship for generations. More than any individual book or argument, however, he leaves an example of what serious historical inquiry can achieve: an unrelenting effort to understand how human beings organised production, how ruling classes secured their power, and how social systems emerged, developed and ultimately passed away.

For historians, students and workers seeking to understand the origins and evolution of class society, his writings remain an invaluable resource. They stand as a lasting contribution to the materialist understanding of history and a reminder that the past can only be grasped through the study of the real social relations that have governed human life.

Selected Bibliography of Chris Wickham

Major Books

• Early Medieval Italy: Central Power and Local Society 400–1000 (1981)
• The Mountains and the City: The Tuscan Apennines in the Early Middle Ages (1988)
• Land and Power: Studies in Italian and European Social History, 400–1200 (1994)
• Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean, 400–800 (2005)
• Marxist History-Writing for the Twenty-First Century (ed., 2007)
• The Inheritance of Rome: Illuminating the Dark Ages 400–1000 (2009)
• The Medieval World (ed., 2009)
• Sleepwalking into a New World: The Emergence of Italian City Communes in the Twelfth Century (2015)
• Medieval Europe (2016)
• Medieval Rome: Stability and Crisis of a City, 900–1150 (2019)
• The Donkey and the Boat: Reinterpreting the Mediterranean Economy, 950–1180 (2023)

Important Articles and Essays

• "The Other Transition: From the Ancient World to Feudalism," Past & Present, no. 103 (1984), pp. 3–36.
• "Problems of Comparing Rural Societies in Early Medieval Western Europe."
• "Marx, Sherlock Holmes and Late Roman Commerce."
• "The Uniqueness of the East."
• "Historical Materialism and Historical Sociology."

Recommended Reading on Wickham's Historical Method

• Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages (2005), Introduction and Conclusion.
• Chris Wickham, "The Other Transition" (1984).
• Chris Wickham (ed.), Marxist History-Writing for the Twenty-First Century (2007).
• Rodney Hilton (ed.), The Transition from Feudalism to Capitalism (1976).
• Perry Anderson, Passages from Antiquity to Feudalism (1974).
• Guy Bois, The Transformation of the Year One Thousand (1992).

 

Niall Ferguson tells Europe’s rebellious youth: blame your grandparents, not the banks

 The ruling class searches for an alibi

Across Europe, young people and workers are entering open political struggle. In France, high school students have blockaded hundreds of schools over crumbling infrastructure. In Belgium, students have joined workers on strike against austerity. In Madrid, tens of thousands have marched against a housing crisis that has become a social catastrophe. These movements terrify the ruling class because they expose the bankruptcy of European capitalism and risk uniting workers across generations in a common fight against austerity, war, and social decay.

Into this crisis steps Sir Niall Ferguson, a Hoover Institution fellow, Harvard-affiliated historian, and managing director of New York advisory firm Greenmantle. Ferguson is no neutral observer: he is a paid strategist for the investors whose interests he defends. His essay, Why Europe Is Burning, is an ideological intervention designed to disarm the emerging movement. Its message to young people is simple: don’t blame capitalism; blame your grandparents. This is not analysis but class propaganda.

Ferguson opens with contempt. He mocks French lycée students demanding investment in education for “filling the streets with burning garbage” and “waving Palestinian flags.” He sneers that their first demonstration resembles a Catholic child’s first Communion, a ritual, not a political act. Madrid’s youth are “incensed (they claim)” about housing. This sneering tone is designed to delegitimise young people’s grievances by portraying them as irrational or unserious. Ferguson omits the documented reality: schools plagued by water leaks, rat infestations and collapsing ceilings; more than half of France’s high schools blockaded or closed; mass repression, including hundreds of arrests in a single day; and a student in Lens who lost his hand to police weaponry. Ferguson omits these facts because they point directly to the capitalist state's responsibility.

Ferguson’s central argument is that Europe’s fiscal crisis stems from a “war of the generations.” He claims politicians have been “bribing” pensioners, who are numerous and vote, and insists that the young are paying for the old. Yet Ferguson’s own figures undermine his case. He acknowledges that ageing accounts for only two-fifths of the increase in public debt since 2000. The other three-fifths stem from bank bailouts after the 2008 crash, trillions poured into financial markets during the pandemic, tax cuts for the wealthy, discretionary spending, and rising interest costs. He also concedes that pension spending is not exploding: OECD projections show it rising modestly, from 8.8 to 10 per cent of GDP by 2050, because governments have already cut benefits and raised retirement ages.

In other words, the debt explosion is overwhelmingly the result of state transfers to capital, not payments to retirees. Ferguson’s generational framing is therefore not analysis but ideology. It replaces class with age, obscuring the role of the banks, landlords, and investors who pay him.

Reality exposes the fraud. In Madrid, the movement began with the eviction of 87-year-old Maricarmen Abascal; her death then brought 20,000 people into the streets. Young protesters saw her not as a privileged pensioner, but as a victim of the same property speculators who prey on them. In Brussels, young and old marched side by side against austerity. Ferguson’s generational war falls apart on contact with real struggle. His solution is a European Javier Milei: mass layoffs, pension cuts, gutted universities, and the destruction of public services. The investor class demands that workers and young people pay for the crisis, and pay even more.

The protests in Paris, Brussels, and Madrid are early signs of a wider working-class movement against austerity, war, and inequality. Ferguson’s essay is a response from the financial aristocracy to this resistance. Young people seeking a way forward will not find one in generational blame or nationalist demagogy. The answer lies in uniting workers and young people across generations and borders against the system that produces war, debt, and decay, and in expropriating the oligarchy's fortunes.

Contempt for the youth: the opening move of reaction

Ferguson is not interested in the reality documented for Europe’s youth. In France, the movement began not in elite lycées but in Paris’s deprived suburbs. On the movement’s largest day, more than half of all high schools were blockaded or closed. This was no symbolic gesture; it was a mass refusal to accept conditions considered intolerable in any wealthy society. The state responded with repression, not repairs or investment. More than 600 people were arrested in a single day, and a student in Lens lost his hand to police weaponry. Ferguson’s narrative omits these facts because they point directly to the capitalist state's responsibility. Acknowledging them would mean confronting the social devastation wrought by decades of austerity.

The same pattern is evident across Europe. In Madrid, the housing crisis has become catastrophic. Rents have climbed nearly 70 per cent in the past decade, driven by speculation, touristification, and investment funds taking over entire neighbourhoods. Tens of thousands marched following the eviction of 87-year-old Maricarmen Abascal, whose death the next day came to symbolise the brutality of Spain’s housing regime. Young people did not view her as a privileged pensioner living at their expense. They saw her as another victim of the same property speculators who prey on them. Ferguson’s generational narrative collapses when confronted with these realities: the conflict is not between young and old, but between the working class and the financial oligarchy.

In Belgium, students joined striking workers in opposing austerity measures that would make workers, pensioners, and low-income households shoulder the burden of deficit reduction. Unions called for higher taxes on top earners instead of cuts to health care and a VAT hike. Young and old marched together, recognising that the crisis is not generational but class-based. This unity is precisely what Ferguson fears. His essay seeks to break it by replacing class with age and turning anger away from the banks, landlords, and investors- the very forces he advises through his firm, Greenmantle.

Ferguson’s contempt for youth is therefore not merely personal disdain; it is ideological. By depicting young people as naïve, emotional, or indoctrinated, he seeks to discredit their demands and obscure the structural causes of their suffering. His sneering tone mirrors the austerity he advocates. If youth are irrational, people can dismiss their calls for investment in schools, housing, and public services. If their protests are mere rituals, state repression can be justified. And if their anger is misdirected, the real culprits the banks bailed out in 2008, the investors enriched during the pandemic, the landlords driving up rents, and the governments slashing social spending can escape scrutiny.

The facts Ferguson leaves out are not incidental; they are essential. They reveal a Europe where public infrastructure is collapsing, social inequality is widening, and the basic conditions of life are worsening for millions. They show a ruling class that responds to every crisis- financial, social, or geopolitical- by demanding sacrifices from workers and young people while protecting elite wealth. They also show a generation entering political struggle not because of “indoctrination,” but because the system offers them no future.

Ferguson’s contempt reflects the ruling class’s contempt for those it has impoverished. His omissions reflect an apologist for capital. His narrative serves as an ideological weapon to divide the working class and disarm its emerging movement. He suppresses a reality we must confront: Europe is burning because capitalism is rotting.

The “war of the generations”: a statistical fraud

Ferguson’s central argument is that Europe’s fiscal crisis is caused by a “war of the generations.” Politicians, he claims, have been “bribing” pensioners, who are numerous and vote. The young, he insists, are paying for the old. This framing is not merely superficial; it is a deliberate ideological construction. It turns a crisis rooted in capitalism's contradictions into a moral fable about selfish grandparents and naïve youth. It is designed to pit workers against one another rather than against the ruling class that has engineered the crisis.

But Ferguson’s own figures contradict him. He acknowledges that ageing accounts for only two-fifths of the rise in public debt since 2000. The other three-fifths stem from forces unrelated to pensioners and closely tied to the financial aristocracy: bank bailouts after the 2008 crash, when governments transferred trillions to rescue the very institutions whose speculation triggered the crisis; trillions poured into financial markets during the pandemic, not to protect public health or workers’ incomes, but to stabilise asset prices and guarantee investor profits; tax cuts for the wealthy, which have depleted public revenues while enriching society’s top layers; discretionary spending, including corporate subsidies and military outlays; and rising interest costs, driven by central bank policies and bond-market demands.

These admissions undermine Ferguson’s thesis. If ageing accounts for only a minority of the rise in debt, then state transfers to capital account for the majority. The surge in public debt does not result from pensioners voting themselves largesse. Rather, it stems from governments socialising bank losses, inflating financial markets, and cutting taxes for the rich. Pensioners are not beneficiaries of this process; they are among its victims. Ferguson further concedes that pensions are not exploding.

 OECD projections show public pension spending rising modestly, from 8.8 per cent to 10 per cent of GDP by 2050. This is not a crisis but a controlled increase following decades of cuts, higher retirement ages, and restricted coverage. In many countries, pensioners have already seen their real incomes fall. Portraying them as a privileged caste draining public finances is a grotesque distortion.

In other words, the debt explosion stems overwhelmingly from state transfers to capital, not payments to retirees. Ferguson’s generational framing is therefore ideology, not analysis. It replaces class with age and obscures the role of the banks, landlords, and investors- the very people who pay him. This substitution serves a clear political purpose: if the crisis is generational, the solution is to make the old pay more, cut their pensions further, and intensify competition between generations. If it is class-based, the solution is to confront the financial oligarchy, expropriate its wealth, and redirect resources to social needs. Ferguson’s argument is designed to prevent the second conclusion and promote the first.

Ferguson’s generational narrative is an ideological weapon designed to divide workers and young people just as they are beginning to unite. It defends the financial aristocracy under the guise of concern for the young. The reality he suppresses is clear: Europe’s fiscal crisis stems from capitalism’s decay, not pensioners’ selfishness. The wealth needed to fund schools, housing, and pensions lies in the oligarchy's fortunes, which Ferguson serves.

War and markets: the real trigger of Europe’s crisis

Ferguson acknowledges that the immediate shock came from the US–Israeli war against Iran, which began at the end of February. More than seven months later, the war continues to destabilise global energy markets and raise borrowing costs. This admission fatally undermines his argument. If Europe’s fiscal crisis was triggered by an imperialist war waged by Washington and its allies, then recasting it as a generational conflict is exposed as a political diversion. The crisis does not result from pensioners voting for their own benefit; it stems from militarism, financial speculation, and the subordination of every aspect of social life to the interests of the capitalist class.

Ferguson notes that French 10-year yields rose from 3.22 per cent to 4.87 per cent, while public debt reached 119 per cent of GDP. These figures do not reflect demographic change; they directly result from war and the financial markets’ response. When energy prices spike, shipping routes are disrupted, and geopolitical instability spreads across the Middle East, bond markets demand higher returns. Governments then pass these costs on to workers through austerity. This is the mechanism of modern imperialism: war drives up the cost of capital, and capital demands that society pay the bill.

Ferguson’s solution makes the old pay too much, which widens the attack on the working class. It is not a critique of austerity but an extension of it. He accepts the premise that workers and youth must bear the burden of rising debt, and merely insists that pensioners should be included in the sacrifice. This is not opposition to austerity; it is austerity intensified. It is the financial aristocracy demanding that every section of the working class, from students to retirees, be made to pay for a crisis they did not create.

The war against Iran is not an aberration. It is part of a broader imperialist offensive driven by the crisis of world capitalism. Facing economic decline and geopolitical challenges, the United States has increasingly turned to militarism to maintain its global dominance. Europe, tied to Washington through NATO and dependent on global energy markets, is dragged into these conflicts. The result is soaring military budgets, rising borrowing costs, and deepening social cuts. Ferguson’s generational narrative conceals this reality. By focusing on pensioners, he obscures the role of the banks, the bond markets, and the military‑industrial complex.

The rise in French borrowing costs is not natural. Financial markets punish governments for geopolitical instability created by the very imperialist policies Ferguson supports. Public debt reaching 119 per cent of GDP does not result from retirees receiving modest pensions. It results from trillions transferred to banks during crises, trillions more pumped into financial markets during the pandemic, and the enormous costs of war. Ferguson’s argument is therefore not simply false; it is a conscious inversion of reality. He blames the victims of austerity for the consequences of the policies he advocates.

The purpose of this inversion is clear. If the crisis is caused by war and financial speculation, then the solution is to oppose war and expropriate the financial oligarchy. If pensioners cause the crisis, then the solution is to cut pensions and raise retirement ages. Ferguson’s narrative exists to prevent the first conclusion and promote the second. It is an ideological weapon aimed at dividing the working class and redirecting anger away from the ruling class.

The reality he suppresses is that Europe’s fiscal crisis is inseparable from imperialist war. The working class is being told to pay for the bombs dropped on Iran, for the weapons sent to Israel, and for the rising interest demanded by the markets. Ferguson’s proposal to make the old pay too is not a critique of this system but a demand to sacrifice its victims further. The answer lies not in generational blame but in a unified struggle of workers and youth against war, austerity, and the capitalist system that produces them.

Generation as a substitute for class

Ferguson’s ideological sleight of hand replaces class with age. His prize statistic, taken from the Wall Street Journal, shows wealth rising for Americans over 75 and falling for those under 35. But median wealth by age tells you nothing about who owns the wealth. It is a statistical trick that dissolves class relations into demographic categories. It lumps together the retired factory worker in Lille and the billionaire shareholder in Neuilly and calls them both “seniors.” The purpose is obvious. By collapsing class into age, Ferguson erases the capitalist class. His clients the investors, fund managers, and financial institutions he advises through Greenmantle disappear into the statistical fog. The billionaire and the pensioner become indistinguishable, and the real structure of wealth ownership is concealed.

This is not an innocent mistake. It is a deliberate ideological manoeuvre. If wealth is described only in terms of age, then the young can be encouraged to resent the old rather than the capitalist class. In Ferguson's narrative, the retired worker living on a modest pension becomes part of a privileged cohort hoarding resources at the expense of youth. Meanwhile, the real beneficiaries of the past four decades- the banks bailed out in 2008, the corporations enriched during the pandemic, the landlords driving up rents, and the investors profiting from austerity- remain invisible.

The Madrid movement makes Ferguson’s argument collapse instantly. If the old were the privileged class, why would the eviction of an elderly woman spark mass outrage among the young? Why would her death become a symbol of the brutality of the housing crisis? The answer is simple: because the conflict is not generational. It is class‑based. Young and old alike are victims of the same capitalist forces landlords, banks, and investment funds that Ferguson represents.

The same dynamic was visible in Brussels. There, young people joined striking workers and pensioners in mass demonstrations against austerity measures that would hit every section of the working class. The unions demanded higher taxes on the highest earners rather than cuts to health care and a VAT hike. Young and old marched together, united by the recognition that the crisis is not caused by pensioners receiving modest benefits but by the capitalist class demanding ever greater sacrifices from society.

Ferguson’s generational war collapses at the first contact with actual struggle. It is an ideological construction designed to divide the working class just as it begins to unite. By portraying pensioners as a privileged caste, Ferguson seeks to redirect youth anger away from the banks, landlords, and investors the real architects of Europe’s crisis and toward their own grandparents. It is a classic strategy of reaction: turn the oppressed against one another so they don't recognise their common enemy. The reality he suppresses is clear. Europe’s crisis is not generational. It is the product of capitalism’s decay, imperialist war, and the domination of society by a financial oligarchy. Young people searching for a way forward will not find it in Ferguson’s statistical distortions. They will find it in workers' unity across generations and borders against the system that exploits them all.

Equating socialism with fascism: the oldest trick in the book

Ferguson claims the left offers socialism and the right offers “national socialism,” and that both converge on industrial policy, public ownership, rent controls, and “blaming Israel.” This is not an analytical argument but a century‑old reactionary trope: the deliberate conflation of socialism with fascism to delegitimise any anti‑capitalist politics. It is the same device used by Cold War ideologues, by Thatcherite polemicists, and by every defender of the capitalist order who needs to portray socialism as inherently authoritarian. By equating socialism with “national socialism,” Ferguson erases the fundamental distinction between a movement rooted in the international unity of the working class and a movement rooted in chauvinism, racism, and the defence of private property. The purpose is to smear the left, sanitise the right, and present capitalism as the only legitimate political horizon.

This rhetorical manoeuvre also serves another function: it obscures the fact that the far right in Europe is not an external threat encroaching on the political mainstream but a product of the mainstream itself. The same governments that slash social spending, militarise borders, and scapegoat migrants cultivate the conditions in which fascist forces grow. The same media outlets that denounce “extremism” amplify anti‑immigrant narratives. The same political establishment that claims to defend democracy adopts the policies of the far right. Ferguson’s argument conceals this reality by pretending that socialism and fascism are mirror images, equally dangerous, equally irrational, equally detached from the “sensible centre” he inhabits.

He then predicts that youth may turn to burning asylum‑seekers’ hotels and synagogues as if this were meteorological inevitability rather than the product of the very anti‑immigrant hysteria he amplifies. He writes as though racist violence simply descends from the sky, as though young people spontaneously become fascists without any influence from the media, the state, or the political establishment. In reality, such violence is the direct outcome of policies and narratives promoted by figures like Ferguson: the demonisation of migrants, the portrayal of refugees as a burden, the insistence that social decay is caused by outsiders rather than by capitalism.

Ferguson’s warning is therefore deeply cynical. He scapegoats migrants while warning that others might do the same. He fuels the fire and then pretends to fear the flames. His prediction of youth burning synagogues is not a neutral forecast but a political provocation, designed to smear the emerging youth movement by associating it with fascist violence. It is an attempt to delegitimise mass protests by suggesting they could slide into pogroms. This suggestion has no basis in reality but serves the ideological needs of the ruling class.

The truth is that Europe’s youth are not turning to fascism. They are turning to collective struggle against austerity, war, and social inequality. They are marching alongside pensioners, migrant workers, and the unemployed. They are demanding investment in schools, housing, and public services. Ferguson’s attempt to portray them as potential fascists is a reactionary fantasy aimed at discrediting their movement and protecting the capitalist system that has produced the crisis.

His argument is not a warning but a threat: if youth do not accept austerity, they will be blamed for extremism. The real danger comes not from the youth but from the ruling class that is stoking nationalism, militarism, and xenophobia to defend its wealth.

What is really burning

The protests in Paris, Brussels, and Madrid are early signs of a broader working‑class movement against austerity, war, and inequality. They express a social reality no European government can stabilise: the capitalist system cannot meet even society's most basic needs. Governments are collapsing because no faction of the ruling class can impose the cuts markets demand without provoking mass resistance. Every attempt to shift the burden onto workers, youth, pensioners, or migrants encounters immediate opposition. The political order is cracking under the pressure of its own contradictions.

Ferguson’s essay responds to the investor class's resistance. It seeks not to understand the crisis but to contain it. His generational narrative divides workers by age, turns youth against pensioners, and obscures the role of banks, landlords, and financial institutions that have enriched themselves through decades of speculation, privatisation, and war. His scapegoating of migrants serves the same purpose: to redirect anger away from capital and toward the most vulnerable sections of society. It is an ideological shield for the ruling class at a moment when its legitimacy is openly challenged.

Young people searching for a way forward will not find it in Ferguson’s generational blame or in the nationalist programs of Le Pen and her equivalents. These forces offer only deeper austerity, intensified repression, and the poisonous politics of division. The real alternative lies in uniting workers and youth across generations and borders in a conscious struggle against the capitalist system that produces war, debt, and decay.

Resources for decent schools, affordable housing, and secure pensions are abundant. They are concentrated in the fortunes of the financial oligarchy Ferguson serves. The task is not to redistribute poverty among generations but to reclaim wealth stolen from society and use it to meet human needs.

Bibliography

Ferguson, Niall. Why Europe Is Burning. The Free Press / Niall Ferguson’s Time Machine, October 2026.

Organisation for Economic Co‑operation and Development (OECD). Pensions at a Glance 2023: OECD and G20 Indicators. OECD Publishing, Paris, 2023.

Wall Street Journal. “Wealth by Age Cohort in the United States.” WSJ Data Feature, 2026.

Taiwan News. “French High School Protests Escalate; Over 600 Arrested.” Taiwan News, September 2026.

Euronews. “Belgium: Workers and Students Strike Against Austerity Measures.” Euronews, October 2026.

Internazionale. “Brussels Mobilises Against Government Cuts.” Internazionale, October 2026.

El País. “La tragedia de Maricarmen Abascal y la crisis de vivienda en Madrid.” El País, 8–9 October 2026.

Gregorio Marañón Hospital, Madrid. Public Statement on the Death of Maricarmen Abascal, 8 October 2026.

OECD. Economic Outlook 2026. OECD Publishing, Paris, 2026.

French Ministry of Education. “État des lycées en France: Rapport sur les infrastructures scolaires.” Government Report, 2025–2026.

French Ministry of the Interior. “Arrests and Public Order Measures During Student Demonstrations.” Press Release, September 2026.

European Central Bank (ECB). Euro Area Bond Market Developments. ECB Statistical Bulletin, 2026.

Ministry of Finance, France. “French Sovereign Debt and Bond Yields: 2025–2026.” Government Statistical Release, October 2026.

World Bank. Global Housing Market Trends 2015–2025. World Bank Publications, Washington, 2025.

International Energy Agency (IEA). Energy Market Impacts of Middle East Conflict. IEA Briefing Paper, 2026.

Hoover Institution. “Profile: Niall Ferguson.” Stanford University, 2026.

 

“Commodity Intimacy: Ella Fleck’s Installation and the Limits of ‘Critical’ Art at Frieze”

Frieze London, the annual meeting point of the global art market, is no neutral stage. Hedge-fund managers, oligarchs’ advisers, and celebrity collectors move through Regent’s Park, selecting luxury commodities for private vaults, freeports, and speculative portfolios. Organisers describe the fair as a meeting place for “global culture,” but in reality, it is one of the clearest expressions of art’s financialisation under late capitalism. Here, artistic labour is stripped of its social meaning and turned into an asset class, valued not for its insight or urgency but for the appetites of the ultra-rich. The fact that this year’s fair rewarded a work exposing the industrialised production of online intimacy is an irony so stark it borders on satire. Yet it also reveals what the contemporary art world is willing to acknowledge and what it refuses to confront.

The 2026 Camden Art Centre Emerging Artist Award has gone to London-based artist Ella Fleck for her installation training material (aria), presented with LA gallery Ehrlich Steinberg in the fair’s Focus section. Fleck’s project draws on her undercover training as a “chatter” for an OnlyFans “parasite company”, a third-party agency that impersonates female creators and holds scripted conversations with subscribers. Often run transnationally by men, these agencies operate as outsourced intimacy factories. Their workers, frequently based in the Global South, perform scripted flirtation and emotional labour designed to maximise revenue. The “girl” a subscriber thinks he is messaging at 2 a.m. is more often than not a poorly paid shift worker following a productivity dashboard. It is a world of impersonation, alienation and relentless monetisation, where human connection becomes a revenue stream and loneliness a commodity.

Fleck’s research is serious, and her installation is one of the few works at Frieze to engage with the realities of life under contemporary capitalism. Visitors stand on a raised server-floor platform, where modular tiles and exposed cabling evoke the digital economy’s hidden infrastructure. Male voices performing chatter scripts reverberate through the structure, transforming the floor into a resonant chamber. Three monitors show a custom-coded manager’s dashboard, adapted from interfaces Fleck encountered during training, exposing the metrics, quotas and supervisory systems that govern this labour. A pheromone-infused scent fills the booth, reminding visitors that the desire being sold is manufactured. The installation’s strongest gesture is its insistence that visitors stand directly on the machinery of commodified intimacy, feeling the scripted voices vibrate beneath their feet. It effectively exposes a workplace usually concealed behind the fantasy of personal connection.

But the response to the work, and how it is framed, reveals the art establishment's ideological boundaries. The Camden Art Centre jury praised the installation for making visible “the hidden architectures and technologies of online desire and commerce,” and for addressing “money, control, labour, manipulation and the power of images.” These are safe, abstract formulations. They gesture toward critique while avoiding the specific social relations underlying the industry Fleck has investigated. Absent is any recognition of the workers themselves: who they are, what they are paid, and how their labour fits into the global chains of exploitation underpinning platform capitalism. The chatter economy is not merely a cultural phenomenon or a question of “desire”; it is a brutally efficient mechanism for extracting profit from both the poorly paid worker typing scripted flirtations and the isolated man paying for companionship he cannot find elsewhere. Fleck’s installation points to these realities, but the art world’s reception reveals how far it will go and where it draws the line.

Inside the machinery of commodified intimacy

The most compelling aspect of Fleck’s project is her immersion in what might be called the chatter economy: a hidden, industrialised sector of digital labour beneath the glossy marketing of “creator platforms.” Using a male alias, she trained as “Eliott,” learning the scripts, behavioural prompts and manipulative techniques used to extract money from isolated men seeking connection. The arrangement is brutally simple: men impersonate women, chat with other men and sell the illusion of intimacy. What is marketed as personal desire is actually a production line governed by metrics, quotas and managerial oversight. The chatter is not a romantic interlocutor but a worker performing emotional labour under conditions shaped entirely by profit.

This is the true subject of Fleck’s installation, and where the work is strongest. She does not present the chatter economy as a metaphor or cultural curiosity; she treats it as a workplace. The installation gives this system physical form, making visitors confront the infrastructure that enables such labour. Its raised server-floor platform with modular tiles, exposed cabling and vibration exciters evokes the hidden architecture of the digital economy. This is the kind of flooring found in data centres, call-centre facilities and server rooms: the literal ground on which contemporary exploitation rests. Standing on it, visitors feel male voices from scripted chatter reverberate through their feet. The fantasy of intimacy gives way to the physical sensation of labour.

Three monitors show a custom-coded manager’s dashboard, adapted from interfaces Fleck encountered during her training. It displays the metrics that shape the chatter’s day: response times, conversion rates, subscriber spending, and productivity targets. The dashboard isn't an artistic invention; it reflects the real tools this industry uses to monitor and discipline workers. A pheromone-infused scent fills the booth, underscoring the manufactured nature of the desire being sold. Everything in the installation points to the same conclusion: intimacy has been industrialised, and the worker’s body reduced to scripts and metrics has been absorbed into a system designed to monetise loneliness.

The platform itself is the installation’s strongest element. It makes the internet’s usually hidden infrastructure tangible, revealing the labour beneath the fantasy. This is a workplace, not a boudoir call centre disguised as a love affair. Visitors stand not in a realm of desire, but amid the machinery of commodification. The voices vibrating through the floor are not whispers of seduction; they are echoes of wage labour. The installation’s power comes from this inversion: it collapses the distance between digital fantasy and the physical conditions that produce it.

Fleck’s decision to foreground the infrastructure is significant. Much contemporary art dealing with digital culture remains at the level of imagery, aesthetics or surface critique. Fleck instead directs attention to the material base: the servers, the scripts, the dashboards, the labour processes. She shows that the chatter economy is not a cultural phenomenon but a node in the global supply chain of platform capitalism. Workers performing these scripts are often based in the Global South, earning low wages, sometimes paid partly on commission. Their labour is outsourced emotional work, sold under the guise of intimacy, and governed by the same managerial logic that structures call centres, content moderation farms and other forms of digital piecework.

In this sense, Fleck’s installation is about more than deception or fantasy. It shows how human connection becomes a commodity and emotional labour is reduced to programmable tasks. It suggests that capitalism colonises even life’s most intimate aspects, turning affection, attention, and companionship into sources of revenue. The installation is most effective when it insists on this material reality and forces visitors to confront the machinery beneath the illusion.

What the jury praised and what it avoided

The Camden Art Centre jury praised Fleck’s installation for exposing “hidden architectures and technologies of online desire and commerce,” and for addressing “money, control, labour, manipulation and the power of images.” Such phrases are typical of contemporary curatorial discourse: safe, abstract and deliberately non-committal. They gesture toward critique without naming the social relations at stake. This allows the institution to appear engaged with labour and exploitation while avoiding confrontation with the actual conditions of the workers whose labour the piece makes visible. In this sense, the jury’s statement is not merely incomplete; it reflects the art world's ideological limits.

It entirely fails to recognise the workers. The chatter economy is neither an aesthetic phenomenon nor a cultural metaphor; it is a workplace staffed by real people doing real labour under conditions of exploitation. Investigative reporting over the past several years has documented chatters in the Philippines and elsewhere in the global South working for low wages, sometimes with part of their pay tied to commission. Their work is outsourced call-centre labour presented as intimacy. They work night shifts, follow scripts, meet quotas, and are monitored by dashboards like those used in customer-service centres and content-moderation farms. Above them are agency owners, creators, and OnlyFans itself, whose billionaire owner takes a cut of every transaction. The chatter economy is not a cultural curiosity but a node in the global supply chain of platform capitalism.

At the bottom of this hierarchy are two exploited figures. First is the poorly paid chatter, typing scripted flirtations, whose work hides behind the illusion of personal connection. Second is the isolated man paying for companionship he cannot find elsewhere, whose loneliness the same system monetises. Each is exploited differently, but by the same system: the chatter’s labour is cheapened and concealed, while the subscriber’s emotional need is commodified and sold back to him. Both are victims of a social order that has turned human connection into a revenue stream.

The jury’s language dissolves these realities into a cloud of abstractions. “Labour” becomes a conceptual motif rather than a class relation. “Desire” becomes a cultural theme rather than a symptom of social breakdown. “Manipulation” becomes an aesthetic category rather than a description of how corporations profit from human vulnerability. This is no accident. The art world is comfortable with metaphors but allergic to material analysis. It can tolerate works that expose mechanisms, but not those that explain them. Explanation would require naming the class relations that structure the industry, and the art world, dependent on the fortunes of the wealthy, is unwilling to do so.

The chatter economy directly expresses the social crisis created by decades of neoliberal restructuring: insecure work, the collapse of public life, atomisation, and the erosion of community. The men who pay for scripted companionship are not simply indulging in “heterosexual male fantasy,” as the fair’s own description suggests. They are responding to lives shaped by austerity, precarity, and social isolation. Their loneliness is not a psychological quirk but a social fact. The chatter’s labour is not merely a cultural phenomenon; it is exploitation. Yet the art world frames both as matters of “desire,” “images,” and “online commerce,” as though the problem were representation rather than political economy.

This abstraction serves a purpose: it allows institutions like Frieze and Camden Art Centre to acknowledge exploitation without implicating themselves in the system that produces it. IMG, a global entertainment corporation, owns Frieze, and it sells luxury goods to the wealthy. It is structurally incapable of addressing the class relations underpinning the chatter economy, because those same relations underpin the art market itself. Speaking plainly about exploitation in one sector would invite questions about exploitation in another. Better, then, to speak in abstractions to praise works for revealing “hidden architectures” while leaving the owners of those architectures unnamed.

Fleck’s installation points to the realities the jury avoids. It reveals the machinery beneath the fantasy. But the art world’s response shows how far it will go and where it draws the line.

Gender as mask, not engine

Frieze’s own description presents Fleck’s installation as an investigation of “heterosexual male fantasies.” This is a familiar move: reducing a social phenomenon to psychology, then reducing psychology to gender. It is the standard reflex of contemporary cultural institutions faced with exploitation they cannot name. Gender becomes a convenient interpretive screen, safe, fashionable, and politically unthreatening. But gender is not the engine of this industry; it is the costume. The engine is the commodification of human need.

The chatter economy is not meaningfully driven by “fantasy.” Capital's logic drives it: the imperative to extract profit from every human vulnerability, every emotional deficit, and every form of isolation produced by a society organised around competition and precarity. Fantasy is merely the interface; the machinery beneath it is economic.

Marx’s analysis of commodity fetishism feels almost too literal here. In the chatter economy, what appears to be a relationship between a subscriber and a woman who doesn't exist is really a relationship between a customer and a wage worker, mediated by a corporation and concealed by software. The “girl” is a commodity, the “relationship” a transaction, and the “desire” a revenue stream. The human connection the subscriber believes he is buying is, in fact, a relation between things: a script, a dashboard, and a payment processor. Fleck’s installation brilliantly places the visitor directly on the infrastructure that makes this deception possible. But the work falters when it treats the problem as one of male fantasy rather than capitalist social relations.

The art world refuses to ask the question it must: why so many men, often young and precariously situated, spend money they do not have on scripted companionship. The answer is not some fixed quality of “heterosexual male fantasy.” It lies in the conditions of life under late capitalism: insecure work, the erosion of community life, atomisation, and loneliness on a mass scale. The chatter economy is no cultural aberration; it is a symptom of a society where millions live without stable relationships, public spaces, time, or security. Men who pay for companionship are not indulging a psychological quirk; they are responding to a social crisis.

An industry that profits from loneliness depends on a society that produces it. The chatter economy commercialises a condition shaped by decades of neoliberal restructuring: the destruction of social housing, the erosion of welfare, the casualisation of labour, and the collapse of collective institutions. Loneliness is not an individual failing, but a structural outcome, and the chatter economy monetises it.

Yet Frieze’s framing reduces all of this to “male fantasy,” as if the problem were representation rather than political economy. This reduction serves a clear ideological function: it shifts attention from the class relations structuring the industry to individual behaviour, turns exploitation into psychology, and recasts a social crisis as a cultural trope. It lets the institution appear critical while avoiding any confrontation with the system that produces both the chatter’s labour and the subscriber’s isolation.

This marks the ideological limit of contemporary art discourse. It can acknowledge desire, fantasy, and representation, but not class. It can discuss gender, but not exploitation. It can gesture toward “hidden architectures,” yet it cannot name their owners. Fleck’s installation points to the realities the fair’s framing avoids, revealing the machinery beneath the illusion. But the art world’s response shows how far it will go and where it draws the line.

The art fair as ideological filter

The setting matters. Frieze is not an innocent backdrop but an active ideological filter. IMG, a global entertainment and sports conglomerate, owns the fair, and its business model depends on circulating luxury goods to the wealthy. Its purpose is not cultural enrichment but capital accumulation. In this context, the presentation and celebration of a work exposing the commodification of intimacy becomes a kind of theatre: a momentary glimpse of exploitation staged inside an event devoted to commodifying artistic labour itself. The contradiction is glaring, yet the fair’s framing neutralises it with remarkable efficiency.

The Camden Art Centre jury notes, blandly, that Fleck’s installation is presented in the “particular context” of an international art fair. This phrase is a masterpiece of evasion. It acknowledges the setting only to deflate its significance immediately. The “particular context” is not particular at all; it is the structural condition of the work’s reception. But the jury cannot explore that context. Doing so would require acknowledging that the art world itself is part of the same system of extraction, speculation, and class power that produces the chatter economy Fleck has investigated. The chatter economy monetises loneliness; the art fair monetises culture. Both depend on the same class hierarchy, the same concentration of wealth, the same global circuits of capital.

This is the ideological limit of “critical” art under capitalism. It may expose mechanisms, but it must not explain them. Exposure is safe; explanation is dangerous. Exposure can be absorbed into the fair’s marketing language: “hidden architectures,” “online desire,” “the power of images.” Explanation would require naming the class relations that structure the industry: the billionaire owners, the speculative collectors, the corporate sponsors, the financial institutions that treat art as a hedge against inflation. It would require acknowledging that the fair’s own existence depends on the fortunes of the rich, and that the art world’s economic base is inseparable from the inequalities it occasionally gestures toward.

The chatter economy and the art market are not parallel phenomena; they express the same social order. In both, labour is hidden, value is extracted, and human need is commodified. The chatter’s emotional labour is concealed behind the fantasy of intimacy; the artist’s intellectual labour is concealed behind the glamour of the fair. The subscriber pays for companionship he cannot find elsewhere; the collector pays for cultural capital he cannot produce. Corporations mediate both transactions and profit from individuals' alienation in a society organised around competition and scarcity.

Yet the fair’s framing insists on treating Fleck’s work as a cultural commentary rather than a political one. It reduces exploitation to aesthetics, class relations to “themes,” and structural inequality to “context.” This is not simply a failure of analysis; it is a structural necessity. The art world cannot name the system that sustains it. It cannot acknowledge that the same forces driving workers in the Philippines to perform scripted intimacy for low wages also drive artists to produce market‑friendly work for speculative buyers. It cannot admit that the same social conditions that make art fairs the preserve of the ultra-rich also produce the loneliness monetised by OnlyFans.

Fleck’s installation, by exposing the machinery beneath the fantasy, points toward these realities. But the institution’s response reveals how far it will go and where it draws the line. The fair can tolerate critique, but only if it remains abstract. It can reward exposure, but only if it stops short of explanation. It can acknowledge exploitation, but only if it does not name the exploiters.

Where Fleck’s work points and where it stops

None of this is meant as a criticism of Fleck for exhibiting at Frieze. Artists have to work within existing institutions, not those they wish existed. The contemporary art world offers few places for serious engagement with the realities of exploitation, and fewer still where such work can be funded, shown, and discussed. Fleck’s willingness to enter a squalid corner of the digital economy, rather than theorising about it from a safe distance, is admirable. Much contemporary art is contentless: formal games, lifestyle branding, or gestures of political “concern” that vanish on contact with reality. Fleck’s work has a genuine subject, grounded in research and lived experience. It is rare to see an artist spend time inside the machinery of exploitation rather than merely depict its surface.

But the installation stops at exposure. It reveals the machinery beneath our feet without showing the system that built it. It lays bare the cabling and pipework, but not the ownership and exploitation that make them profitable. It gestures toward class, then retreats into gender. It identifies alienation without tracing its roots. The chatter economy is not an isolated phenomenon; it is a symptom of a broader social order that has commodified every human need and hollowed out every form of collective life. Exposing the mechanism without analysing the system leaves viewers with discomfort, but not understanding.

This limitation is not personal; it reflects the pressures on artists working within institutions whose economic base depends on the very class whose power they might otherwise critique. The art world can tolerate works that reveal exploitation, but only if they do not name the exploiters. It can reward exposure, but not explanation; acknowledge alienation, but not the social relations that produce it. Fleck’s installation pushes against these boundaries, but does not break them. It points beyond itself, toward questions the art world is structurally unwilling to confront.

The next stepone Fleck is well positioned to take in her upcoming solo exhibition at Camden Art Centreis to follow these threads further: from the infrastructure to the people who inhabit it; to the chatters in the global South, whose labour is hidden behind the fantasy of intimacy; to the agency owners who profit from their work; to the platform’s billionaire class, whose wealth is built on monetising loneliness; and to the social conditions that produce mass loneliness in the first place: precarious employment, collapsing public services, atomised communities, and decades of austerity that have stripped life of stability and connection.

Such an approach would not simply expose a mechanism; it would analyse a system. It would show that the chatter economy is not a cultural curiosity but a direct expression of the crisis of social reproduction under late capitalism. It would reveal that men paying for companionship are not indulging a psychological quirk but responding to life conditions shaped by insecurity and isolation. It would also show that the exploitation of chatters and the alienation of subscribers are two sides of the same social order.

This would be work worth seeing. It would move beyond the art world’s comfort zone of abstraction and metaphor to confront the class relations shaping both the digital economy and the cultural institutions that claim to critique it. Fleck has already shown she can uncover the hidden sites of contemporary exploitation. The challenge now is to follow those threads to their source: the system that produces them, and the possibility of a world where human connection is not a commodity.

 

The Financial Times discovers the football terrace: Janan Ganesh’s “Man City theory of politics”

 Abstract

This article examines Janan Ganesh’s recent Financial Times column, “The Man City theory of politics,” as an ideological artefact of late‑capitalist political commentary. Ganesh’s argument that contemporary political allegiance is best understood through the lens of football fandom exemplifies a broader trend within liberal‑bourgeois discourse: the displacement of structural analysis by psychological and cultural metaphors. By situating Ganesh’s intervention within the political economy of financialised sport, the transformation of social‑democratic parties, and the long history of “tribalism” as an explanatory device, this article argues that such frameworks function to obscure the class dynamics of political disaffection. The piece concludes by situating current mass movements within a Marxist theory of consciousness and crisis.

The ideological function of sporting metaphors

Sporting metaphors in political commentary are not new. Ganesh’s column distinguishes itself by claiming that football fandom provides the primary model for understanding political behaviour in the early twenty‑first century. He suggests voters behave like supporters: motivated by identity rather than argument, impervious to evidence, and loyal to their “side” regardless of its conduct. The argument is presented with the stylistic fluency characteristic of Ganesh’s work, but its political function is more significant than its rhetorical polish. It exemplifies a recurring tendency within the liberal commentariat: interpreting political alienation as a failure of mass rationality rather than a product of structural crisis.

This displacement from political economy to psychology is a hallmark of bourgeois ideology in periods of systemic instability. It allows commentators to maintain the fiction of a fundamentally rational social order while pathologising those who reject it. In this respect, Ganesh’s intervention belongs to a long lineage of liberal sociological explanation, one that treats political disaffection as a cognitive or cultural deficiency rather than as a rational response to deteriorating material conditions. The football terrace metaphor is simply the latest iteration of this ideological manoeuvre.

The analytical problem with such frameworks is not merely their superficiality but their systematic exclusion of the structural determinants of political behaviour. Treating voters as football fans brackets out the economic transformations that have reshaped political consciousness over the last four decades: stagnant real wages, the erosion of social provision, the transfer of vast public resources to the financial sector, and the militarisation of state budgets. These developments are not incidental background conditions but the central forces driving political realignment. The “tribalism” thesis functions by rendering them invisible.

Moreover, the sporting metaphor obscures the class character of political institutions themselves. Football fandom is presented as spontaneous, irrational loyalty, but the modern elite game, particularly at Manchester City, is a product of financialisation, oligarchic ownership, and global capital flows. The analogy thus collapses under its own weight. If voters behave like football supporters, then the political parties they support increasingly resemble the clubs they are asked to identify with: hollowed‑out brands owned and operated by forces entirely external to the communities they claim to represent. The metaphor inadvertently reveals more than Ganesh intends.

From a Marxist perspective, the appeal to “tribalism” is best understood as an ideological response to the crisis of bourgeois hegemony. As Antonio Gramsci observed, ruling classes confronted with declining legitimacy often resort to cultural or psychological explanations for political instability. These explanations naturalise the existing order by depicting dissent as irrational, emotional, or pre‑political. They also delegitimise alternative political movements by framing them as expressions of identity rather than responses to objective conditions.

The problem with Ganesh’s argument is therefore not simply that it is empirically thin, but that it reproduces a conceptual framework designed to foreclose structural analysis. It treats political behaviour as affective attachment rather than a historically conditioned response to crisis. In doing so, it reinforces the Financial Times' ideological position: that the political order remains fundamentally sound, and that the challenge lies in managing the electorate's irrational impulses.

A more adequate analysis would start from the opposite premise: that material conditions shape political consciousness, and that the erosion of traditional party loyalties reflects the breakdown of the post‑Cold War political settlement. Workers are not becoming more tribal; they are confronting a political system that no longer offers them meaningful representation. We must understand the rise of new political formations, whether reactionary or progressive, in this context.

Ganesh’s column thus serves as a symptomatic text. It reveals the anxieties of a ruling class confronted with the disintegration of its ideological authority, and it deploys the familiar tools of liberal commentary to explain that disintegration away. The sporting metaphor is not an innocent flourish. It is an ideological device that substitutes psychology for political economy, sentiment for structure, and pathology for critique.

Manchester City and the political economy of elite sport

Ganesh’s choice of Manchester City is analytically revealing. Since the Abu Dhabi ruling family acquired the club in 2008, Manchester City has become a paradigmatic example of the financialisation of elite sport. It functions simultaneously as a prestige asset, a node within a global sovereign‑wealth network, and the flagship of City Football Group’s multinational portfolio. Its competitive success cannot be separated from football's structural transformation into a globalised entertainment commodity. Several interlocking processes characterise this transformation: the inflation of transfer markets to levels unimaginable even two decades ago; the systematic pricing‑out of traditional working‑class supporters who once constituted the social base of the sport; the conversion of clubs into vehicles for oligarchic, private‑equity and state capital; and the juridification of competition through increasingly complex financial regulations, arbitration procedures and litigation. Manchester City is not merely an illustrative case but a concentrated expression of these tendencies.

This example matters not only for what it reveals about football but also for the parallel it exposes with developments in the political sphere. Over the same period, the historic parties of the capitalist class- Labour in Britain, the Democratic Party in the United States, Germany’s SPD, and France’s Socialist Party- underwent their own form of financialisation. They retained their traditional symbols, organisational shells and rhetorical markers, but abandoned the reformist programmes that once linked them to sections of the working class. Banks, the military-intelligence apparatus, and the transnational corporate elite effectively took ownership. The parties continued to present themselves as vehicles of popular representation, but their internal structures, policy agendas, and funding networks increasingly reflected capital's interests rather than labour's.

The parallel between football clubs and political parties is precise. Both have been hollowed out, repurposed and rebranded. Both rely on maintaining sentimental loyalties among their respective publics, supporters in one case, voters in the other, while no longer representing the material interests of those constituencies. In both domains, the outward continuity of symbols masks a profound transformation of ownership, purpose and class function. The modern football club and the modern centre‑left party are institutions whose legitimacy depends on identities rendered historically obsolete by structural change.

From an academic perspective, this parallel invites a broader reflection on the political economy of representation under late capitalism. The financialisation of football is not an isolated cultural phenomenon but part of a wider process in which previously embedded social institutions are transformed into assets within global circuits of capital. The same logic applies to political parties, which have shifted from mass organisations rooted in specific class constituencies to professionalised entities integrated into state and corporate networks. The erosion of democratic participation, declining party membership, and the rise of technocratic governance are not merely political trends but symptoms of this deeper structural reconfiguration.

Ganesh’s invocation of Manchester City thus inadvertently illuminates the very dynamics his column seeks to obscure. By framing political allegiance as irrational fandom, he shifts attention away from the structural processes that have hollowed out political institutions and generated widespread disaffection. The football metaphor, intended as a critique of voter behaviour, instead becomes a revealing analogy for the transformation of political parties themselves. The problem is not that voters behave like supporters, but that the institutions they are asked to support have been reconstructed along lines analogous to those of elite sport: commodified, financialised and detached from the communities they once served.

In this sense, the sporting metaphor is not merely inadequate but symptomatic. It reflects an ideological tendency within liberal commentary to interpret political crisis through cultural or psychological categories rather than through the material dynamics of capitalist restructuring. The hollowing out of football clubs and political parties alike is not a matter of identity or sentiment but of ownership, class power, and the global reorganisation of capital.

The “tribalism” thesis in liberal political sociology

The notion that voters behave tribally has a long pedigree in liberal political sociology. It appears in discussions of “low‑information voters,” “left‑behind communities,” and Hillary Clinton’s now‑canonical phrase “basket of deplorables.” In each case, the explanatory burden falls on the electorate's cognitive or cultural deficiencies rather than on the structural conditions that shape political behaviour. The electorate is imagined as fragmented into affective blocs, driven by identity, resentment, or irrational loyalty, and therefore incapable of responding to political arguments rationally or deliberatively. This interpretive framework has become increasingly prominent in commentary over the last decade, serving as a convenient shorthand for explaining political volatility without confronting the deeper social transformations that underlie it.

What this framework systematically excludes is the material history of the past four decades. Since the late 1970s, the political economy of advanced capitalist societies has changed profoundly. Stagnant real wages have become a defining feature of working-class life across the OECD: productivity growth has decoupled from wage growth, while labour’s share of national income has declined. The promise of rising living standards that underpinned the post-war settlement has broken down, giving way to precarious employment, insecure housing, and declining social mobility.

At the same time, trillions have flowed to the financial oligarchy through bank bailouts, quantitative easing and other extraordinary interventions. Though justified as necessary to stabilise the financial system, these policies have inflated asset prices, enriched capital holders and widened inequality. The political consequences of this redistribution have been profound: a growing sense that the state primarily protects financial interests and that democratic institutions are structurally incapable of representing the majority.

Austerity has also shaped the period, an agenda Ganesh himself defended in his biography of George Osborne. Austerity has brought deep cuts to public services, welfare provision and local government budgets, with working-class communities bearing a disproportionate share of the impact. It has weakened social infrastructure, from libraries and youth centres to hospitals and schools. The political effects of austerity cannot be reduced to tribalism; they stem from the lived experience of social decline and institutional abandonment.

Alongside these developments, entire regions, including Manchester and its surrounding areas, have been deindustrialised. The closure of factories, mines and steelworks has not only destroyed jobs but also dismantled the social and cultural institutions that sustained working-class life. The resulting landscape of unemployment, underemployment and economic stagnation has produced political disaffection that is rational, historically grounded and structurally determined.

Finally, over the past two decades, state budgets have become increasingly militarised, with vast sums spent on war, defence procurement, and security apparatuses even as public services collapse. Prioritising military spending over social investment reflects a broader shift in state strategy: strengthening coercive capacities at the expense of welfare functions. This shift has political consequences that cannot be reduced to identity or affect; it reflects the reorientation of state power amid capitalist crisis.

To interpret political disaffection as “tribalism” is therefore to deny the rationality of working‑class responses to these conditions. It is an ideological manoeuvre that absolves the ruling class of responsibility for the crisis it has produced. By framing political behaviour as irrational, commentators can avoid confronting the structural determinants of disaffection: the erosion of living standards, the collapse of social infrastructure, the concentration of wealth, and the militarisation of state power. The tribalism thesis functions as ideological displacement, shifting attention from political economy to psychology and from class relations to cultural identity.

From a Marxist perspective, this displacement itself signals a deeper crisis of bourgeois hegemony. When the material foundations of political legitimacy erode, ruling‑class ideology increasingly relies on cultural and psychological explanations to account for political instability. The electorate is pathologised because acknowledging the rationality of its disaffection would require confronting the social order's failures. The tribalism thesis thus naturalises the existing system by depicting dissent as irrational, emotional, or pre‑political.

In this sense, the appeal to tribalism is not merely analytically inadequate but politically functional. It reinforces the liberal commentariat's ideological position by framing political crisis as a problem of voter psychology rather than capitalist restructuring. It protects the ruling class's legitimacy while delegitimising the working class's grievances.

The commentator’s vantage point: distance as ideology

Ganesh’s column adopts the stance of the detached observer, a position he has cultivated throughout his career. He describes his ideal reader as someone who watches politics from a calm distance, like a naturalist observing animal behaviour. This self‑presentation is central to his authority at the Financial Times: a cultivated impression of disinterested sophistication, a commentator who stands above the fray and surveys political conflict with anthropological curiosity. The football metaphor reinforces this posture. In Ganesh’s framing, the commentator sits in the directors’ box, insulated from the passions of the crowd below, able to interpret their behaviour precisely because he does not share it. The terrace becomes a site of irrational collective emotion, while the hospitality suite becomes a vantage point of clarity, reason and detachment.

Yet this stance is itself ideological. The claim to neutrality, distance, and dispassion describes not Ganesh’s position but a rhetorical device that conceals its political content. Ganesh is not a neutral spectator. He is a partisan of the City of London, the transatlantic financial order and the NATO‑aligned “rules‑based” international system. His columns consistently defend the institutional architecture of contemporary capitalism: fiscal orthodoxy, Atlanticist foreign policy, technocratic governance and the primacy of financial markets. His prose's apparent detachment is therefore not a withdrawal from politics but a mode of political intervention. It lets him present the ruling class's interests as the natural horizon of political reason.

The Financial Times itself embodies this ideological position. Its editorial line has been unwavering in its support for austerity, its defence of militarism and its hostility to strikes. It frames these positions not as expressions of partisan loyalty but as reflections of economic necessity, geopolitical realism, or institutional responsibility. The FT’s own tribalism- its alignment with the priorities of finance capital and Western strategic power- is never described as such because it is the tribalism of the ruling class. Bourgeois ideology naturalises its own commitments while pathologising those of the masses.

This dynamic is central to understanding Ganesh’s use of the football metaphor. By depicting voters as supporters driven by irrational loyalty, he implicitly contrasts their behaviour with the rationality of elite institutions. The passions of the terrace are juxtaposed with the calm deliberation of the directors’ box. But this contrast is misleading. The ruling class is no less tribal than the masses; it expresses its loyalties through different institutional forms. The commitment to fiscal austerity, for example, is not the product of dispassionate analysis but of an ideological attachment to capital's interests. Support for NATO’s strategic posture is not a neutral assessment of global security but reflects Western elites' geopolitical commitments. The hostility to strikes is not an objective evaluation of economic efficiency but an expression of class interest.

Ganesh’s ideological function becomes clearer when situated within the broader context of liberal political commentary. The claim to neutrality is a hallmark of bourgeois journalism, which presents its own class position as universal reason. This rhetorical strategy lets commentators delegitimise alternative political perspectives by framing them as irrational, emotional, or tribal. The working class is depicted as driven by identity, resentment or affect, while the ruling class is portrayed as guided by expertise, moderation and rationality. This asymmetry is not accidental; it is a structural feature of bourgeois ideology.

From a Marxist perspective, the problem is not merely that Ganesh misrepresents voter behaviour but that he misrepresents his own. The detachment he claims is ideological camouflage. It conceals the fact that his analysis is shaped by the interests and worldview of the class fraction he represents. The directors’ box is not a neutral vantage point; it is a site of power. The calm distance he celebrates is not a methodological virtue but a political position.

In this sense, the football metaphor is doubly revealing. It exposes the contempt with which sections of the liberal commentariat view the electorate, and it inadvertently reveals the tribalism of the ruling class itself. The passions of the terrace are pathologised, while the commitments of the boardroom are naturalised. The ideological work of Ganesh’s column lies precisely in this inversion.

Consciousness, crisis and the Marxist perspective

Marxism does not deny that identity, habit and emotion shape political consciousness. These elements form part of what Marx called the “ideological superstructure,” the ensemble of cultural and psychological forms through which individuals interpret their social world. But, as Trotsky emphasised, consciousness lags behind objective conditions and is then propelled forward by them, often violently. Political loyalties that appear stable or even innate are, in fact, historically conditioned. They reflect past stages of development and can shift rapidly when the underlying material relations change. The loyalties Ganesh treats as permanent features of human nature- tribal attachments, affective identifications, irrational solidarities- are not anthropological constants. They are historically specific and subject to abrupt reconfiguration under conditions of crisis.

This dynamic is visible in the mass movements that have emerged across Britain, Europe and the United States in recent years. The wave of strikes that has swept through transport, education, health care, logistics and manufacturing is not a tribal phenomenon. It is a rational, collective response to decades of wage suppression, deteriorating working conditions, and intensifying exploitation. Workers who may differ in nationality, race, religion or cultural identity, including football allegiance, have found common cause in struggles over pay, conditions and the defence of public services. These movements cut across the divisions the ruling class works so hard to maintain. They demonstrate that class solidarity is not an abstract ideal but an objective tendency rooted in shared material interests.

The same holds for the anti‑war demonstrations that have filled city centres from London to Berlin to New York. These mobilisations are not expressions of irrational emotion or tribal identity. They are grounded in a clear understanding of militarism's consequences: diverting resources from social needs, escalating geopolitical conflict, and the human cost borne overwhelmingly by ordinary people. The breadth of these protests, drawing participants from diverse backgrounds and political traditions, reveals an emerging collective consciousness that transcends the narrow identities commentators like Ganesh invoke.

In both cases, what is taking shape is not tribalism but the early stages of a politically coherent response to systemic breakdown. As objective conditions deteriorate, consciousness is forced to catch up. The forms of loyalty that once anchored individuals to existing institutions- political parties, national myths, cultural identities- are eroding. In their place, new solidarities are emerging, grounded not in sentiment but in the shared experience of crisis. These movements represent the working class's rational, collective agency in confronting a social order that can no longer meet its needs.

Conclusion: Beyond the terrace metaphor

The task is not to lament voters’ irrationality, as Ganesh and the Financial Times do, but to articulate the rational content of working‑class disaffection. The political crisis confronting the advanced capitalist states is not the product of tribal psychology, nor of some sudden collapse in civic virtue. It results from a social order that offers the majority no future. When commentators reduce political volatility to identity, affect or irrational loyalty, they obscure the material foundations of discontent and transform a structurally generated crisis into a behavioural problem. This ideological manoeuvre protects the ruling class's legitimacy by locating the source of instability in the electorate rather than in capitalism’s own contradictions.

A Marxist analysis begins from the opposite premise: that political consciousness, however uneven or contradictory, contains within it a rational core shaped by lived experience. Workers’ instinctive opposition to austerity, militarism, inequality and the degradation of public services is not a failure of reason but an expression of it. The challenge is not to correct an irrational electorate but to clarify and develop the rational content of its disaffection. Consciousness lags behind objective conditions, as Trotsky observed, but crisis propels it forward. The erosion of traditional party loyalties, the collapse of trust in institutions, and the search for alternatives, however inchoate, are symptoms of a deeper process in which the old ideological anchors are losing their grip.

For this reason, the central political task is not to defend the existing order against “tribalism” but to provide a coherent alternative to it. Workers' spontaneous opposition must be given a conscious, internationalist, socialist programme that links immediate struggles to the broader transformation of society. Such a programme must reject all forms of nationalism, identity‑based fragmentation and class collaboration. It must address the structural roots of crisis: the domination of finance capital, the militarisation of state policy, and the systematic erosion of democratic and social rights.

Therefore, we need a party independent of all factions of the capitalist class, whatever shirts they wear. Only an organisation grounded in the interests of the international working class can transform disaffection into political agency. The crisis of capitalism has stripped away the illusions that once sustained the old parties. The task now is to build the leadership capable of turning opposition into a conscious movement for socialist reconstruction.

Further Reading

Marxist Theory, Political Economy, and Class Analysis

Arrighi, Giovanni. The Long Twentieth Century: Money, Power, and the Origins of Our Times. London: Verso, 1994.

Brenner, Robert. The Boom and the Bubble: The US and the World Economy. London: Verso, 2002.

Callinicos, Alex. Bonfire of Illusions: The Twin Crises of the Liberal World. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010.

Clarke, Simon. Marx’s Theory of Crisis. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1994.

Harman, Chris. Zombie Capitalism: Global Crisis and the Relevance of Marx. London: Bookmarks, 2009.

Harvey, David. The Enigma of Capital and the Crises of Capitalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

Luxemburg, Rosa. The Accumulation of Capital. London: Routledge, 2003 (original work published 1913).

Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume I. London: Penguin Classics, 1990 (original work published 1867).

Shaikh, Anwar. Capitalism: Competition, Conflict, Crises. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016.

Streeck, Wolfgang. How Will Capitalism End? Essays on a Failing System. London: Verso, 2016.

Financialisation, Neoliberalism, and State Restructuring

Crouch, Colin. The Strange Non‑Death of Neoliberalism. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2011.

Duménil, Gérard and Lévy, Dominique. The Crisis of Neoliberalism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011.

Fine, Ben. Theories of Social Capital: Researchers Behaving Badly. London: Pluto Press, 2010.

Gamble, Andrew. The Spectre at the Feast: Capitalist Crisis and the Politics of Recession. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.

Mirowski, Philip and Plehwe, Dieter (eds.). The Road from Mont Pèlerin: The Making of the Neoliberal Thought Collective. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009.

Pistor, Katharina. The Code of Capital: How the Law Creates Wealth and Inequality. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019.

Labour, Deindustrialisation, and Working‑Class Politics

Beatty, Christina and Fothergill, Steve. The State of the Coalfields. Sheffield: CRESR, 2021.

Bluestone, Barry and Harrison, Bennett. The Deindustrialisation of America. New York: Basic Books, 1982.

Kirk, Neville. Comrades and Cousins: Globalisation, Workers and Labour Movements in Britain, the USA and Australia from the 1880s to 1914. London: Merlin Press, 2003.

Moody, Kim. On New Terrain: How Capital Is Reshaping the Battleground of Class War. Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2017.

Silver, Beverly. Forces of Labour: Workers’ Movements and Globalisation since 1870. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.

Media, Ideology, and Political Commentary

Bourdieu, Pierre. Political Interventions: Social Science and Political Action. London: Verso, 2008.

Chomsky, Noam and Herman, Edward S. Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988.

Curran, James and Seaton, Jean. Power Without Responsibility: Press, Broadcasting and the Internet in Britain. London: Routledge, 2018.

Davis, Aeron. Reckless Opportunists: Elites at the End of the Establishment. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2018.

Schudson, Michael. The Power of News. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995.

Imperialism, Militarism, and Geopolitics

Callinicos, Alex. Imperialism and Global Political Economy. London: Polity Press, 2009.

Foster, John Bellamy. The New Imperialism of Globalised Monopoly Capital. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2021.

Kiely, Ray. The Politics of Empire: Globalisation and the Postcolonial World. London: Routledge, 2005.

Panitch, Leo and Gindin, Sam. The Making of Global Capitalism: The Political Economy of American Empire. London: Verso, 2012.

Football, Capital, and Cultural Political Economy

Conn, David. The Fall of the House of FIFA. London: Yellow Jersey Press, 2017.

Giulianotti, Richard. Football: A Sociology of the Global Game. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999.

Hognestad, Hans and Tolvhed, Daniel (eds.). Sport and the Transformation of Modern Europe: States, Media and Markets 1950–2010. London: Routledge, 2020.

Millward, Peter. The Global Football League: Transnational Networks, Social Movements and Sport in the New Media Age. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

Szymanski, Stefan. Money and Football: A Soccernomics Guide. London: Bloomsbury, 2015.