Steve Harris
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International Law

3/27/2026

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With the US rampaging around the world, with air strikes and assassinations, one doesn’t hear too much about international law these days. Our current Administration premises its policies on realpolitik, relegating international law and morality to the proverbial dustbin of history. I look on this with mixed feelings, born of a lengthy engagement with international law and a greater degree of self-reflection.

Some decades ago, I was a big fanboy of international law. In both college and law school, it was a major part of my academic career. I was even a student member of the American Society of International Law and the founding editor of the Michigan Journal of International Law. As a junior lawyer, although I shifted my focus to telecommunications, I continued to work on international telecommunications regulation issues for a while. When I got back to school, I chose to write my dissertation on the history of arbitration: the peaceful settlement of disputes between countries from the late 18C through WWI. I also wrote an article on certain aspects of British treaty practice in Africa in the late 19C.

Of course, during that time—stretching from the 1970s to the 2010s—the nature of international law changed as did the ways in which we study its history. Along the way, I’ve come to take a more critical stance about International Law than I did as a youth. Back then, I subscribed to the idealistic view of international law as a vehicle for incremental global progress towards peace and the rule of law. It was still a work in progress, but progress was being made, both in terms of principles and general adherence as well as of the construction of more extensive sets of rules and regulations governing international trade and other activities. Now I see the later portion as continuing to progress, but the grand vision is looking pretty faded.

One of the essential problems with the general public perception of international law has to do with the word “law.” Most of the time, we think of traffic laws, criminal laws, corporate law, etc. These are all within a domestic context and are enforced by the relevant sovereign government (e.g. Colorado, Canada). This type of law “works” because it is generally accepted by the people subject to it, usually complied with, and enforced by the government through police and courts. It's part of the social contract we have all implicitly signed as members of a particular society. In this context, it’s OK that Coloradans drive on the right side of the road and the British drive on the left or that a will in Delaware requires two witnesses, but in the Netherlands, you have to have two witnesses plus a notary. Differences in national rules and behavior are entirely acceptable. 

International law, on the other hand, isn’t really “law.” That is to say, there’s nobody to enforce it. Countries (which are the subjects of international law, just like citizens are the subject of Colorado law) haven’t signed any “social contract” by which they agree to accept and abide by the rules enacted by the UN or WTO or similar groups. Even if a country signs a treaty, there’s nobody to enforce it once it’s breached. For example, a few years ago, the International Court of Justice ruled that China’s claim of control over much of the South China Sea was unfounded. Now, China had signed the ICJ’s underlying treaty, but there’s nobody to “legally” make them dismantle their bases on the contested islets.

In this way, international “law” has been (since its modern inception in the 16C), aspirational. There’s lots of cajoling going on, and bad press if you break the rules, but not much else. Even the relatively recent development of international criminal courts (starting at Nuremburg in 1946) still have a highly selective impact. As a practical matter, its only losers in war who get tried.

This reveals a fundamental problem with law in the somewhat “anarchic society” of states; it’s highly political and its impact is often a function of power. This has been illustrated by historians working with the development of international law across the past five centuries. What we call international law is almost exclusively the product of a small group of European thinkers who were trying, in the context of Christian Europe, to defend “civilization,” and promote rules of behavior which they wanted countries to adhere. They had no power, just ideas. Moreover, they wrote their aspirational rules with a bald disregard for those people, countries, and cultures outside of Europe. War and slavery were acceptable, even if “laws of war” were written to try to make it a touch less barbaric. In other words, it was selective, distorted, and used to justify oppressive behavior by Europeans as they bestrode the world.

History, they say, is written by the victors. So, too, is the law; whether domestic or international. That is to say law is a function of power and the most powerful are almost always subject to the least amount of legal constraint. One of the reasons for the relative demise of international law at the broad principled level (as compared to the relatively well-functioning administrative/ regulatory level) is that the most powerful country has fended off its advances. Constraints on US behavior are usually criticized as “political” (a defense which does, in all honesty, have more than a germ of truth); but much of the defense is no more sophisticated than “Don’t gotta, don’t wanna.” China’s refusal to subject itself to the Western-rooted system is similar. 

In a world where the US (increasingly baldly) acts based on a worldview based on power and declines to even pay lip service to morality in international affairs, there is less and less reason for the 190+ other countries in the world to act differently.  For centuries, international law was at least allowed to be the hypocritical standard of behavior around the world; even that is now in danger. 

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Seven Guineas

3/20/2026

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I’m just starting work on a course about “Modern Empires” to be offered this summer. In poking around this vast topic, it struck me that there is some significance behind the etymology of a term that arises in multiple locations and contexts: Guinea. As a place name it appears to show up in six different countries on three continents (Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Equatorial Guinea (all in Africa), Guyana and French Guiana (South America), and New Guinea (Oceania)), and a currency. And therein lies a tale.

“Guinea” first entered European awareness as a Portuguese adaptation of the term “guineus;” their way of referring to the “black” Africans (as distinguished from the lighter-skinned Africans of the Berbers and Arabs of North Africa. The Berbers themselves used the term “Ghinawen” meaning “the burnt people.” Or it might be tied back to the important trading town of Djenné (now in Mali). In any event, the term became applied to the entire region as well as to the nearby portion of the Atlantic. 

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As they hop-scotched down the coast, swapping territories and seeing which ones would be economically viable and militarily defensible, Europeans ended up with a hodge-podge of territories, paying no attention to existing ethnic groupings, chiefdoms, and empires either in terms of organization or naming. What is now Guinea was French, what is now Guinea-Bissau was Portuguese, and what is now Equatorial Guinea was, sequentially, Portuguese, Spanish, British, and finally Spanish. Each attained independence as part of the mid-20C wave of decolonization.

Over on the other side of the Atlantic, Europeans (all the usual suspects) were equally active. While the Spanish and Portuguese took over most of South America, the French, British, and Dutch grabbed relatively small chunks of the coast just to the north of Brazil in the 16C and 17C.  They each referred to their territories as Guiana, a name NOT derived from their African activities , but from an indigenous word meaning “land of many waters, a reference to the many streams which flow into the Atlantic there. Suriname took a new name upon independence and French Guiana is still a part of France.

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New Guinea was the name applied by Spanish explorers in 1545, to the island which the locals called “Papua”. Ynigo Ortiz de Retez used “Guinea” since he saw a resemblance between the locals and west Africans. Later, control over the island became shared by the British, German, and Dutch empires. Today, the western half is part of Indonesia (the imperial successors to the Dutch), while the British and Germans did a deal in the 1880s to split the eastern half. The Brits passed their piece on to the Australians during WWI. They added the German northeast quarter in the aftermath of WWI, and granted Papua-New Guinea independence in 1975. 

The British have many names for their money. The “Guinea” was an actual coin minted from the middle of the 17C to early in the 19C, and was originally worth one pound. It got its name from the source of much of the gold that was used in the minting: the “Guinea” region of West Africa. It was used as an informal synonym for a pound throughout the 20C, long after its direct connection was superseded. Indeed, long after British attention to the lesser portions of their African empire had waned, this linguistic remnant continued in everyday culture.

(Btw, “guinea pigs” come from western South America and are thus not “Guinean” (or “guyanan”) (or, for that matter, pigs). Nonetheless, the term may well have emerged into European consciousness via their transshipment from the Guyana region on the Atlantic Coast, thus acquiring that (distorted) nomenclature.)

What can we take away from these linguistic connections and coincidences? First, they show the interconnectedness of the various European imperial projects. In both Africa and South America, the first empire in place inspired the follow-ons, both in terms of seeking commercial and proselytizing opportunities and in nomenclature. They also show the modern impacts of decisions made centuries ago by captains and explorers. 

Place names (and other words) affect how we see the world. Referring to the United States of America as “America” leaves out the other 34 countries on the two continents (and, of course, just referring to us as “The” United States omits other countries with similar names, including the United States of Mexico, Brazil, and half-a-dozen defunct polities). Calling the islands in the Caribbean the (West) “Indies” is good evidence that Columbus and other European explorers of the late 15C were headed for East and South Asia when they stumbled across the various land masses of the Western Hemisphere. 

In our case here, the Spanish explorer who brought a conception of darker-skinned people from Africa across two oceans to an island near Australia was expressing the importance Europeans placed on the difference in the color of peoples’ skin as a defining attribute even where, genetically and culturally, African “Guineas” were likely more closely related to Europeans than to the “Guinean” people of the Pacific. This definition by difference highlights that what we call “race” was an embedded part of European world-views long before “scientific” racism blossomed in the 19C.

So, too, was the lust for gold that spurred many explorers and exploiters. Deriving the name of a significant aspect of your domestic coinage after a region named for the color of the locals’ skin says much about British imperial culture. 

The plethora of “Guineas” today owes much to the power of European imperial practices. We can never know what names would have emerged if local powers had developed on their own terms instead of being run over by the white Christians from the northwest corner of Afro-EurAsia. Nor can we, even as we recognize the awfulness of the behavior often visited upon them, take a stab at the broader questions of alternate history: What would the rest of the world have looked like if Europeans didn’t or couldn’t exercise the power they did across the planet from the 15C through the 20C? Who would have been “better off” and who worse? (Especially since our very sense of “better” and “worse” is derived from that same dominant European culture.)

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Democracy and Complexity

3/13/2026

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We’ve come a long way from the citizen assemblies of ancient Athens. Some towns in New England still make decisions by getting all the local citizenry together, but that doesn’t work with larger groups of people. The solution—more-or-less standardized since Madison and the gang in Philadelphia (1787)—is “representative democracy.” Having the masses choose which members of the elite would make decisions for the whole society was a way to keep power in the (relatively trustworthy and reliable) hands of those with a mix of education and wealth, while providing a means for the demos to express itself and retain nominal oversight of the process and tools of government.

Many things have changed in the last 250 years in the US and around the world: in terms of the condition of the mass electorate, we have industrialization, an information tsunami, mass education and culture, and a whole lot more people living. While the precise spread between elites and masses have varied over time and across different cultures, the fundamental differential remains. (It’s one of the discrepancies which our current idealization of democracy buries.) In terms of the world, these same factors, particularly the nature and extent of technologies (high and low, material and cultural) have made for a much more complex environment. On top of these phenomenological changes, our knowledge levels (or, at least, our beliefs about what we know) about causation and effects have drastically increased the difficulty of making decisions. Science and experience have made us more aware of the broad implications and longer-term effects of any nominally straightforward policy option. Whether dealing with tariffs, vaccines, immigration, AI regulation, in toting up the pluses and minuses of any potential policy decision we have a lot more entries. Keeping track of them, then weighing them, and sorting through the trade-offs has become a much more difficult process. We can see this in the construction of bureaucracies and administrative regimes (e.g. taxes, Medicare, education policy, and various schemes of discrimination and preference). 

What challenges do this increased complexity of life raise for the practice of democracy?

The theory of modern democracy is that informed citizens should deliberate and select representatives who devote sufficient time and intellect to comprehend the issues and resolve the political issues that are inherent in the differing beliefs, interests, and priorities of any large group of people. Elected representatives should, in theory, become experts in sorting policy choices as well as interpreting the values of their constituency and applying them to those policy choices. That’s “normal” politics. However, there are problems with this theory both in terms of the represented and the representatives.

First, the levels of complexity and detail are so great that even most elected representatives (especially at the state and federal levels) can’t begin to cope and, de facto, delegate their decisions to either their party leaders, their colleagues (vote-swapping), or their staff members or the implementing bureaucracy. Each presents its own particular problems and risks of corruption and distortion, but in essence, our representatives are working through representatives, most of whom aren’t elected. This was not so much of an issue in the 18C or early 19C, but has swamped the process since the mid-20C.

However, the more fundamental concern is that the electorate, for all its increased education and access to information, can’t make more than a broadly directional choice when it comes to electing representatives. We’re all different, but there’s only a limited set of possible representatives to choose from. Both politics and policy intersect in different mixes, political parties kinda help alignments, but present their own complications and corruptions. The result, in our over-saturated media age, is decision by sound-bite, charisma, and money.

Representative democracy thus looks inherently problematic and even more so these days. Unfortunately, neither of the two most popular solutions is a real improvement. The more well-established alternative is the popular referendum, allowed in about half the states. As we in California know all too well, this method of popular participation is messy and subject to the same money/media distortions as other modes. One principal problem is that ordinary voters are called on to read through and understand an extensive statutory implementation of some policy scheme. By the time you winnow out those who have the capability to work through these challenging questions (e.g. tax codes, environmental regulation, social benefit eligibility) and those that are not interested enough in public policy and have the economic wherewithal to devote the necessary study hours, you’d end up with a fairly skewed (and self-selected) group of citizens; hardly a representative body.

The same problem undercuts the various proposals to have “ordinary” citizens, usually selected at random, participate either as part of regularly-established legislatures or as a stand-alone “citizens’ assembly” which would have a role in the legislative process). It’s nice symbolism, but I suspect this innovation would merely transfer power to the staffs to explain things and the bureaucracies to implement them.

I have been thinking about this issue in the context of an upcoming lecture marking the tenth anniversary of Brexit, the 2016 decision which propelled the United Kingdom out of the European Union (pretty much of a disaster on all fronts and of which more in a coming posting).
British voters were presented with a nice short “yea-or-nay” question for an immensely complicated situation about which there was no clear understanding of what was likely to ensue.

Still, I think there is a role for referenda, as long as they are relatively straightforward and high-level AND subject to either implementation by the legislature or (unlike Brexit) a further ratification of a final detailed plan. Capping referenda questions at 100 words would likely provide broad policy direction without pretending that the electorate reads the third subclause of the fourteenth section of the proposed law.

Not a great overall solution to an increasing problem of democratic governance in the 21C, but worth a shot. We need other ideas of how to balance the complexity of the real world with ensuring all the ordinary folks can help steer the ship.

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One Perspective on Capitalism

3/6/2026

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I recently bought a book (no news there!) and faced a panoply of choices as to price, delivery speed, format, and book quality. Multiple websites provided a great demonstration of the ubiquitousness of capitalism at work in modern life. Consumers’ preferences are dissected and products designed to meet those particularities. So, it’s no small irony that the book in question was Sven Beckert’s new doorstop (1000+ pages) providing a comprehensive history of “Capitalism.” As we said when I was in the law biz: “res ipsa loquitur” (“the thing speaks for itself”).  

As a work of history, “Capitalism” is well thought-through and remarkable in its research, if rather too heavy for the casual reader. Beckert shows that capitalism was a global phenomenon, drawing on practices and experiences far beyond the usual “its all about Europeans” (including the US) framework. He also shows that it has deep roots, extending far earlier than the usual early-modern/industrial revolution/robber barons/globalization storyline. After all, as I have noted elsewhere, greed and profit are hardly modern inventions. He does a good job, as well, in blowing up the myth of “laissez-faire,” the idea that large businesses have developed apart from and in spite of governmental activity.

Beckert applies a phenomenological focus; i.e., he concentrates on the actual practice of “capitalists.” Marx merits less than 30 mentions and other theorists (pro and con) are similarly sidelined.  I would have preferred a more inclusive approach, but his is a legitimate choice and his story benefits from its grounding in the real world. My bigger concerns are that 1) he doesn’t pin down the definition of the concept he’s writing about, and 2) he doesn’t wrestle with how the capitalist mentality spread and swamped other values-based cultural systems. There is, to be sure, a reference to capitalists’ focus on markets/commodities/money, but there is something in modern commercial practice that is different from the mindset of traders a thousand-or-two years ago, and he doesn’t grab on to it. 

This, to me, is the central issue. Capitalism has been a principal strand in the story of the modern world, whether economic, political, or ideological. Historians in general, however, are loath to take on psychological changes, however fundamental they might be. There’s good reason for this, since the evidence is sparse and largely inferential and there’s always a risk of self-projection. And yet, without understanding or at least suggesting some ways in which historical actors were motivated, we can’t come close to understanding how history came about.

As I said a few weeks ago (Capitalism and Me, 012326), I see capitalism as a culture (i.e., a socio-economic-epistemic system) in which we define ourselves and evaluate others and determine how to act across our lives principally from an economic perspective: morals are secondary to money.” In contrast, the practices and institutions which manifest this mentality are what Beckert is talking about.

It is important not to make moral judgments about these institutions per se. Lord Acton famously observed that “power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” In a similar vein, St. Paul found money to be the “root of all evil.” They were, however, both wrong. A critic of Acton saw that power itself was not the corrupting source, but rather the vehicle by which human corruption was revealed. Similarly, we can see that money, too, is just the means by which evil is exercised. The fault, in other (Shakespeare’s) words, is not “in our stars” (or our wallets or our ability to affect others), but “in ourselves.” The economic power which the practice of capitalism concentrates in “capitalists” merely allows them to demonstrate their moral (dis-)abilities and their unwillingness to face the complexities (These fundamentals of human nature are essential to parsing the semantic soup that surrounds the term “capitalism.” I will have more to say in a later posting about the different ways in which that term and its cognates, “capital” and “capitalist” are used.)

It's not difficult to see the practice of “capitalism” as the dominant economic system of the modern era. As with other human activities, its significance is the product of the confluence of means, motive and opportunity. The motivation of capitalists, in my framing, is based in the deeply-rooted nature of humans—a desire for security (both physical and psychological) and the many ways in which that desire is overextended, as most pithily captured in the traditional deadly sins of greed, envy, gluttony, and pride. The laissez-faire mythos may have some nuggets of truth, but it’s mostly about the desire of “capitalists” to claim all the credit for the work of many; in other words: ego (also not a new story).

So, from a historical perspective, the rise of practical capitalism is more a function of the means and opportunity, which are largely exogenous factors, and which we can parse into three angles. First, institutions and practices: banks, corporations, trading networks, advertising, governmental actions, etc. Second, new technologies which have created new productivity and economies of scale and scope (not least in terms of transportation and communications).  Third, population growth and density which have created large numbers of consumers, thereby providing the demand which pays prices well above (the new, lower) marginal cost of goods (i.e, more profitability). These factors are the normal materials of historical analysis and we can trace their manifestation, at both the personal and societal levels. But we can’t forget that without the psychological urge, there would be no capitalism at all.

Beckert focuses on these exogenous factors, principally the first and second. I’ve got a bunch more reading lined up on that score and related topics; perhaps someone has taken on this moral/psychological angle in historical perspective. I’ll be back with more on the semantics, the significance, and the solutions—in due course.

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    Condemned to Repeat It --
    Musings on history, society, and the world.

    I don't actually agree with Santayana's famous quote, but this is my contribution to my version of it: "Anyone who hears Santayana's quote is condemned to repeat it."

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