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The primacy of the ethical in a cosmopolitan education : Fukushima Daiichi and other global risks Spector, Hannah 2013

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THE PRIMACY OF THE ETHICAL IN A COSMOPOLITAN EDUCATION: FUKUSHIMA DAIICHI AND OTHER GLOBAL RISKS  by Hannah Spector  MFA, Emerson College, 2002 BA, University of Florida, 1994  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Curriculum and Pedagogy)  THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)  April 2013  © Hannah Spector, 2013  Abstract  While this dissertation responds to and builds upon various iterations of why cosmopolitanism?, I also articulate the meaning of a cosmopolitan education in ways that are different from previous arguments and descriptions: as actually existing global phenomena and as an ethical response to such phenomena. Drawing upon Ulrich Beck’s writings on world risk theory and cosmopolitan realism, I discuss the Fukushima nuclear disaster as a case of actually existing cosmopolitanism, or world risk turned catastrophe. At once a local and global environmental disaster that has consequences for a “non-excludable plurality,” the irresponsibility that contributed to and continues to be at play regarding fallout from Fukushima summons a transnational, planetary ethic of responsibility. Whereas nuclear meltdowns and warfare, pandemics, and global financial crises are world risks turned catastrophes whose consequences can be validated empirically, I also consider world risks that are intangible, impossible to ascertain with evidence-based research. By way of the faculty of the imagination, I draw a link between Chernobyl heart deform and United States “school deform”; I also read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, specifically Raskolnikov’s dream of a worldwide plague as an allegory for the breakdown of the faculty of judgment across time and place. What might an ethic of responsibility in response to world risks look like? Drawing upon theoretical writings on cosmopolitanism and empirical realities that solicit responsible actions, I contend that acting with the faculty of judgment and a compassionate heart are vital to re/creating the world. In writing upon judgment, I turn to Hannah Arendt whose style of writing about totalitarianism and its antithesis, freedom, is just as important for understanding what it means to judge and to act responsibly as is the content of what she writes. I question if judgment is the only faculty needed to live an ethical life, to act ethically toward others in an increasingly interconnected, codependent world. While Arendt is critical, even dismissive of the role that compassion has played in politics, I contend that a both/and rather than either/or ethic which includes judgment and compassion ought to work together to re/fashion a world habitable for all.  ii  Preface  A version of Chapter 4, section 4.3. – “Fukushima Daiichi: A Never-Ending Story of Pain or Outrage?” – has been published previously. Spector, H. (2012). Fukushima Daiichi: A neverending story of pain or outrage? Transnational Curriculum Inquiry: The Journal of the International Association for the Advancement of Curriculum Studies. 9(1), 80-97. Though many of the book critiques written on cosmopolitanism and education have originally been published as essay reviews, these critiques have been reworded and rearranged for the dissertation. Spector, H. (2011a). [Invited essay review] The question of cosmopolitanism: An essay review. Education Review. 14(2), 1-14. Spector, H. (2010). Critical assessment of Popkewitz's Cosmopolitanism and the age of school reform: An Essay Review. Education Review. 13(4), 112.  iii  Table of Contents  Abstract .......................................................................................................................................... ii Preface ........................................................................................................................................... iii Table of Contents ......................................................................................................................... iv List of Abbreviations .................................................................................................................. vii Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................... viii Dedication .......................................................................................................................................x Chapter 1: Introduction ...............................................................................................................1 1.1  Why Cosmopolitanism? .................................................................................................. 1  1.2  The Primacy of the Ethical in a Cosmopolitan Education .............................................. 1  1.3  Research Questions ......................................................................................................... 3  1.4  Literature and Mass Media ............................................................................................. 4  1.5  Overview of the Chapters ............................................................................................... 6  Chapter 2: What is a Cosmopolitan Education? .....................................................................11 2.1  Introduction ................................................................................................................... 11  2.2  The Eclecticism of Educational Cosmopolitanism ....................................................... 13  2.2.1 Popkewitz and Civilizing the Uncivil ....................................................................... 13 2.2.2 Pinar and the Primacy of the Particular .................................................................... 16 2.2.3 Todd and Thinking Cosmopolitan ............................................................................ 20 2.3  Cosmopolitanism: Practice and Reality ........................................................................ 25  2.3.1 Kurasawa and Cosmopolitanism as a Practice from Below ..................................... 25 2.3.2 Beck and the Cosmopolitanization of Reality .......................................................... 29 iv  2.4  Indifference and Ethical Responsibility ........................................................................ 34  Chapter 3: On Storytelling: An Activity of Ethical Judgment ...............................................44 3.1  Introduction: Thinking and Common Sense Reasoning ............................................... 44  3.2  On Storytelling .............................................................................................................. 54  3.3  A Plurality of Perspectives............................................................................................ 64  3.4  Between Mercy and Justice .......................................................................................... 76  Chapter 4: An Ethic of Compassion, or What is a Human Being? ........................................81 4.1  The Touchy Territory of Love ...................................................................................... 81  4.2  Political Cosmopolitanism and Hannah Arendt: An In/direct Address to Love for the  World?.......................................................................................................................................87 4.3  Fukushima Daiichi: A Never-Ending Story of Pain or Outrage? ................................. 94  4.4  Storytelling, Revisited................................................................................................. 109  4.5  Forgiving the Unforgiveable, or the Right to Punish? ................................................ 111  4.6  Willing into Loving..................................................................................................... 119  4.7  Loneliness and Belonging ........................................................................................... 127  Chapter 5: Practicing a Cosmopolitan Education: The Case of Crime and Punishment ...139 5.1  Crime and Punishment: An Allegory for a World at Risk? ........................................ 139  5.2  Dostoevsky on Spontaneity, Compassion, and Forgiveness ....................................... 143  5.3  Raskolnikov’s Crime and Luzhin’s “Crime” .............................................................. 152  5.4  Did Dostoevsky Know? Or a Dream both Personal and Social.................................. 162  Chapter 6: Conclusion ..............................................................................................................172 6.1  Return to the Research Questions ............................................................................... 172  6.2  Content and Form, Curriculum and Pedagogy ........................................................... 178 v  6.3  Suggestions for Future Research ................................................................................ 181  Endnotes......................................................................................................................................183 References ...................................................................................................................................199  vi  List of Abbreviations  CP – Crime and Punishment GE – General Electric NCLB – No Child Left Behind NGO – Non-governmental organizations R2T – Race to the Top SARS – Severe acute respiratory syndrome TEPCO – Tokyo Electric Power Company  vii  Acknowledgements  I would like to thank first and foremost my co-supervisors, Drs. William F. Pinar and Anne Phelan, and committee member, Dr. Carl Leggo, for supporting me on this journey. As a high school English teacher in my home state of Florida, I discovered Dr. Pinar’s What is Curriculum Theory? – a book which altered the course of my life. Always humble and gracious, he agreed to meet with me and soon thereafter, I became his student. His scholarship in curriculum theory and cosmopolitanism has had a direct and significant influence on my research as illustrated in this dissertation. From the beginning, Dr. Phelan has been one of my greatest mentors and supporters. Her research interests and scholarship in the writings of Hannah Arendt have contributed to my own work in this area. With undue patience, Dr. Phelan worked closely with me on many drafts of more than one research proposal. Additionally, the experience I gained as her teaching assistant in Introduction to Curriculum Issues and Theory – helping her design the course curriculum and taking on teaching responsibilities – has contributed significantly to my understanding of and teaching ability in curriculum studies. Dr. Leggo’s breadth of literary knowledge, poetic sensibility, and com/passionate humanity has been a great inspiration to my work. He speaks to me in metaphors, and I have responded to those metaphors in the words of this dissertation. I would also like to thank Dr. E. Wayne Ross who fostered my understanding of curriculum studies in the first-year doctoral seminar on the subject. Dr. Ross has been one of my greatest teachers. He also introduced me to what it means to be a doctoral student in education, and with this introduction, I was able to speak at educational conferences and write for educational journals sooner than I would have without his help. He has been a tremendous support as I transition from being a doctoral student to the next phase of my life’s career. I also owe thanks to Dr. Cynthia Nicol who supported me in my work as the PhD peer advisor and in other university service capacities where I have shared my work with others and engaged others on theirs. I would also like to thank the University of British Columbia for helping me financially, with the different scholarships and awards I have received in order to do this work in a room of viii  my own. My cohort colleague and friend, Julia Ostertag, provided me with helpful feedback on my writings on Fukushima. An environmental educator, Julia’s insights into certain eco-justice concerns I raise in this dissertation have been invaluable. I owe her thanks. I am in deep gratitude to my family for their support throughout this process. My mother has read numerous papers I have written, often offering editorial feedback. She has encouraged me to live my dreams. My brothers Sam, Jorge, and George have also been there to lend support and console from the beginning, when writing my first research proposal. Though living across the continent, they have also been at my side during these last phases of completing my PhD and transitioning to the next chapter of my life. Lastly, I would like to thank Alice, who has literally sat by my side for nearly four years as I did this work. She got me out of the house to walk around campus and breathe fresh air every day when I certainly would not have done so otherwise. These walks were welcome reprieves for both of us.  ix  Dedication  In memory of my father, Ronald L. Spector, and sister in spirit, Alicia Tsavaris Mosher  x  Chapter 1: Introduction  1.1  Why Cosmopolitanism?  Why cosmopolitanism? is a question that has gained momentum since the 1990s and responses to it range from critiquing it as a philosophy of empire coming in the guise of global capitalism and the “technologization of human beings” (Cheah, 2006, p. 4) to a sensibility that emphasizes human interest in and responsibility to others around the world (Appiah, 2006). In the discipline of education, the technologization claim is taken up as a form of governmentality via school reforms which aim to civilize uncivil subjects (Popkewitz, 2008), to teach students about human rights and global justice instrumentally (Todd, 2009). In educational cosmopolitanism’s worldly or embodied manifestation, it is enunciated as a disposition that cultivates desire to learn about the old and the new, the close and the distant, the particular and the universal (Hansen, 2008; 2011), as ontological “worldliness” (Pinar, 2009, p. iv) or a subjective sense of “being-in-theworld” that makes narration of selfhood challenging (p. 3). While this dissertation responds to and builds upon such wide ranging iterations of why cosmopolitanism?, I also articulate the meaning of a cosmopolitan education in ways that are different from previous arguments and descriptions: as actually existing global phenomena and as an ethical response to such phenomena, both of which are introduced below.  1.2  The Primacy of the Ethical in a Cosmopolitan Education  By placing the ethical at the heart of a cosmopolitan education, I am not exactly or strictly advancing the work of “moral cosmopolitanism” as it is currently articulated (see Hansen, 2008; 2010; 2011). Key thinkers working in moral cosmopolitanism – e.g., Nussbaum (1996; 1997); Appiah (2006; 2007) – advocate “dispositions such as open-mindedness and impartiality that all persons…can come to take on” (Hansen, 2010, p. 154). Some scholars more than others also argue for a universal moral point of view regarding what our duties are to humanity and the planet while likewise recognizing that there are challenges involved with negotiating cosmopolitan responsibilities to the local and global. Skeptics of cosmopolitanism see its “double demand” as a contradiction that cannot withstand scrutiny (Todd, 2009, p. 139). While 1  moral cosmopolitanism postures not only tolerance to but interest in the lives of others in everincreasingly less distant corners of the world and which can be cultivated through education, the moral strand does not capture all of what this dissertation aims to address in placing the ethical as the central concern of a cosmopolitan education. Indeed, a note of caution is in order regarding conflating morality with ethics. While these terms are not separate from each other and are often thought of in the same way by philosophers, Hansen (2011) draws a distinction between the two: ethics deals with questions of the self: “How shall I live my life?” (p.33); morality deals with questions toward others: “How shall I regard and treat other people?”1 This is not to say that placing the ethical at the center of a cosmopolitan education excludes elements of moral philosophy; nor does the term “ethical” as construed here signify working strictly within the domain of ethics. As a curriculum theorist who has also been a student and teacher of English literature and English education in various contexts, in this dissertation I draw from multiple disciplines and sources in articulating and practicing a cosmopolitan education. And pointing out the perceived similarities and differences between ethics and morality is important for my work here for several reasons. Firstly, the word ethical is in the title of my dissertation and, as such, attention should be given to this word if only because of its nebulous nature. Secondly and as noted in the preceding paragraph, there is a strand of cosmopolitanism called moral cosmopolitanism which Hansen (2008) characterizes differently from other strands that currently include: political, economic, cultural, and most recently educational, the latter coined by Hansen himself. As far as I have read in the literature, a strand called ethical cosmopolitanism does not exist. Lastly, I am not advancing an ethical strand so much as underscoring what it means to live ethically – which does not preclude moral considerations – in an increasingly interconnected world.2 What does it mean to live ethically in an interconnected, codependent world? As will be previewed in the introduction and elaborated upon in the chapters of this dissertation, living ethically summons judgment and compassion for one’s own life and the lives of not-so-distant others. As such, chapter 3 is an exploration of the faculty of judgment. Rather than a philosophical analysis via Kant’s Critique of Judgement, I interpret and follow Arendt’s narrative style to performing judgment, which she calls “storytelling,” for its emphasis on and interpretations of particular events. Arendt draws extensively from Kant in thinking about and 2  performing judgments, as I will, too. Judgment, moreover, fosters an “ethical orientation” (Curtis, 1999, p. 123). Chapter 4 argues for a both/and rather than either/or cosmopolitan ethic that summons both judgment and compassion in working toward a peaceful, sustainable world. For Ulrich Beck (2009), the beginning of the 21st century is characterized by “becoming members of a ‘global community of threats’” (p. 8) or world risks (turned catastrophe) which he names “enforced cosmopolitanism” (p. 55) or “the cosmopolitanization of reality” (Beck, 2004, p. 204). What such enforcement means will likewise be addressed in chapter 4, where I interpret the Fukushima nuclear disaster as a cosmopolitan catastrophe by drawing upon and writing from within the ethical that is the faculty of judgment and the heart’s compassion. These preliminary words on the primacy of the ethical in a cosmopolitan education set up my research questions.  1.3  Research Questions  In this dissertation, I broadly engage with the following questions, responding to them in each chapter, respectively:  What is a cosmopolitan education? In what ways does Hannah Arendt draw upon Kant’s writings on judgment and sensus communis in forming her narrative “storytelling” style of political theorizing? How might this style or interpretive method be a cosmopolitan enterprise?  Why might the cultivation of the faculty of judgment and a compassionate heart be vital to working toward a transnational, planetary ethic of responsibility?  In what ways does reading literature from a plurality of perspectives and with situated impartiality cultivate cosmopolitanism?  These questions serve the purpose of speaking to and performing a cosmopolitan education. The chapters of this dissertation seek to make meaning of a cosmopolitan education in both particular and general ways. In the particular, I analyze texts written upon cosmopolitanism, writings which 3  help me to elucidate the meaning of a cosmopolitan education. I also interpret current, historical, and imagined events which inform actually existing cosmopolitanism. It is through interpreting various particulars that I arrive at a general though not necessarily universal understanding of a cosmopolitan education.  1.4  Literature and Mass Media  While the majority of thinkers that I engage in conversation write from within various scholarly traditions – e.g., political theory, philosophy, curriculum and pedagogy, philosophy of education, social theory – also important to forming the ideas in this dissertation are texts written outside the domain of academic scholarship. I read canonical literature and various mass media sources in speaking upon fictional and factual world risks (turned catastrophe). The study of literature serves several functions here. Interweaving and interpreting dystopian fictions which act as warning signs for a future yet to come, confronting “hypothetical catastrophic futures” (Kurasawa, 2007, p. 113) act to plunge the depths of particular present, real-world global concerns. Novels such as Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, and Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 provide creative avenues for discussing world risks such as environmental (e.g., nuclear) disasters, a utilitarian totalitarian “World State” (Huxley, 1932) characterized by perfunctory conspicuous consumption, and annihilation of the past, of the ability to remember that which is not present, thereby eroding the faculty of imagining which is needed to form judgments about the world. The “objective” of dystopias, Kurasawa (2007) contends, is to “comba[t] presentist myopias” (p. 113). For Pinar (2012), “presentism” replaces “moral improvement and social democracy” with “technological development” (p. 225); presentism is not just found in many dystopian fictions but also in the very reality of our current time (p. xvii). Whether or not the “objectives” of dystopias do what they are meant to do, I include them to highlight how present reality can be found in fiction written in the past and set in the future. Studying literature of the past (looking backward) as much as if not more than using the scientific method (projecting forward) helps humanity to navigate, though not control, what is or might come. I also contend, following Pinar (2012), that without the past there is no present, a dangerous notion indeed if we are to remember what has become the most important words tied to the Holocaust: Never forget. 4  While the aim of dystopian fictions is to provoke discussion on present and future world dangers, “jolt[ing] citizens out of their complacency” (Kurasawa, 2007, p. 113), other literature I include and interpret in this dissertation, specifically the “romantic realism” (Fanger, 1998) of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment in chapter 5, plays a different role. One cannot say that Dostoevsky’s ideological convictions promulgated in his fiction are similar to the concerns raised in the dystopias mentioned above.3 So, why write about Crime and Punishment in a dissertation about cosmopolitanism? Firstly, by performing Arendt’s (1978: 2) style of interpretation which is done through “thinking with the enlarged mentality” (p. 257), or engaging a “plurality of perspectives” (Disch, 1993, p. 666), helps one to “adopt the position of Kant’s world citizen” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 257). In this way, I practice a cosmopolitan education. Secondly, it can be said that Dostoevsky was not only anti-Western but also anti-cosmopolitan. As such, analyzing this story for its content likewise broadens one’s horizon on the meaning(s) of anti/cosmopolitanism. Lastly, I read protagonist Raskolnikov’s dream of a worldwide plague as an allegory for a “world at risk” (Beck, 2009) and a glance toward the meaning of compulsory cosmopolitanism. In thinking and writing upon the ongoing, newsworthy Fukushima nuclear disaster – a particular catastrophe of universal concern – I draw rather extensively from mass media sources. This case provides an opening into reflecting upon global ethical responsibility (via judgment and compassion). While there are certain limitations that mass media offers to the work of scholarly writing, these sources – ranging in “legitimacy” from The New York Times to Japanese blogs which transcribe and translate news and updates devoted to the subject of Fukushima – have nevertheless been important in gathering information and presenting it in a way that is recognizable to an academic audience.4 I also draw from a range of scholarly sources which help in theorizing this planetary catastrophe. One of the problems we face with radioactive fallout from Fukushima is the lack of information coming from “experts.” Indeed, there has been a global media blackout (Reporters without Borders, 2013), a “deadly silence on Fukushima” (Norris, 2011). In other words, not knowing the extent of the problem combined with the suppression of information about the problem makes for difficult research. That said, in collecting and assembling small pieces of information on Fukushima – or what Arendt (1968) refers to as “thought fragments,” fragments of history that are “subject to the ruin of time” (p. 5  206), e.g., governmental reports, documentaries, online news articles, blog posts, fiction, poetry, and scholarly sources, I have worked to create a cohesive narrative on why Fukushima happened and the ways that the world has responded to this global disaster – and one which encourages a greater sense of ethical responsibility to humanity and the planet.  1.5  Overview of the Chapters  Chapter 1: Introduction presents an argument for “why cosmopolitanism” and why now. Additionally, it provides a rationale for the primacy of the ethical in a cosmopolitan education. As this dissertation is a theoretical inquiry which focuses upon historic, current, and imagined events that provoke contemplation on ethical judgment and an ethic of compassion in an increasingly interconnected world, I draw from a variety of texts in and beyond traditional scholarship, such as canonical literature and mass media. Chapter 2: What is a Cosmopolitan Education? analyzes recent scholarship on cosmopolitanism in and outside the discipline of education. Interpretations and articulations of cosmopolitanism and education are diverse: condemning cosmopolitanism as an Enlightenment (school) plan that aims to humanize the inhuman child, including some while excluding others in its meticulous designs (Popkewitz, 2008), critiquing cosmopolitanism as a top-down project for human rights education that hinders rather than helps students form judgments about the world (Todd, 2009), and commending cosmopolitanism as a worldly way of being in the world that is cultivated through self-knowledge and the study of alterity (Pinar, 2009). In setting the stage for my own enunciation of a cosmopolitan education, I also turn to two texts outside of education. In contrast to Todd’s (2009) critique of cosmopolitanism as coming from above, Kurasawa (2007) has created a practice of global justice from below, which he calls critical cosmopolitanism. Writing about actually existing cosmopolitanism or “empirical cosmopolitanization,” Beck (2009) examines world risks which summons a post-national ethics of responsibility. In different ways, each of these texts helps give shape to the meaning of a cosmopolitan education. Such an education, I argue, is cultivated through exercising ethical judgment and an ethic of compassion in an increasingly interconnected world. 6  Chapter 3: On Storytelling: An Activity of Ethical Judgment, firstly, explains the difference between thinking, which is done in solitude, and common sense reasoning via Kant’s writings on sensus communis, which occurs through conversation with others. Common sense, what Saint Thomas Aquinas (as cited in Arendt, 1978: 1) refers to as the “mysterious ‘sixth sense’” (p. 50) forms a bridge between me and you. Common (or community) sense is also needed to help one arrive at judgments about the world. Making judgments are always done in particular instances which help one arrive at general standpoints. Secondly, while scholarship has shown the influence that Walter Benjamin has had on Arendt’s narrative or “storytelling” style of political theorizing, there has been less attention paid to the ways that Kant’s Critique of Judgement has guided the way that Arendt goes about her work, a form of intersubjective inquiry that reveals her interest in disinterest, her “situated impartiality” (Disch, 1993). It is through this style of interpreting the world that Arendt searches for and aims to arrive at truthfulness. Truth, moreover, is different than rhetoric or ideology, which can defeat truth and freedom when in a clash with power. Thirdly, through the process of examining multiple perspectives on Arendt’s style, I aim to not only practice Arendt’s narrative style that I contend is a cosmopolitan enterprise – given its emphasis on intersubjectivity, a style which enlarges the mind thereby leading to worldliness – but judge her writings, particularly those on totalitarianism and Adolph Eichmann as these are subjects that must be thought about as an activity of ethical judgment. Lastly, I question if judgment is the only faculty needed to live an ethical life, to act ethically toward others and the world. While Arendt is critical, even dismissive of the role that compassion has played in politics, I contend that a both/and rather than either/or ethic which includes exercising judgment and compassion ought to work together to re/create a world habitable for all.  Chapter 4: An Ethic of Compassion, Or What is a Human Being? opens with a discussion on the nebulous subject of love. I examine the ways that love has been taken up in educational cosmopolitanism – e.g., not included (Popkewitz, 2008), rebuffed as being a feel-good sentiment that pretends away rather than confronts cultural differences and a shared world of human plurality (Todd, 2009), celebrated in its passionate, material manifestations (Pinar, 2009) – and political cosmopolitanism. In the political strand, the subject of love is significantly absent. 7  While political cosmopolitanism is built largely upon Arendtian thought, it draws from Arendt’s overtly political writings on the End of the Rights of Man and on the Eichmann trial where Arendt expresses the need for an international tribunal for crimes against humanity. I contend that cosmopolitanism in its political manifestation would be strengthened with attention paid to Arendt’s writings on love as located in the bookends of her life’s career. For Arendt, on one hand, love is an antipolitical force; on the other hand, political phenomena arise out of the mysterious space that is the human heart (Vollrath, 1977). While Arendt was wary of love, she exhibited amor mundi, or love for the world, in everything she ever wrote. That said, Arendt was a fierce critic of the role that compassion has played and ought not to play in the public realm. Drawing upon theoretical writings and empirical realities that solicit an ethic of compassion, I contend that showing compassion is just as important to creating a livable, sustainable world as is exercising judgment. As a case in point, I turn to the current, ongoing cosmopolitan catastrophe that is the Fukushima nuclear disaster which summons both ethical judgment and an ethic compassion for a “non-excludable plurality” (Beck, 2009) effected by the catastrophe, including our home, planet Earth. Looking back in time, I also consider the ways in which the Holocaust and Fukushima provoke conversation on forgiveness (as a form of compassion) and punishment, and on crime and criminals. While the Nazis tried to conceal and even pawn off their crimes on their victims, they are still rightfully deemed the criminals of the Holocaust. It becomes much more difficult to understand criminality when it comes to Fukushima. I ask: What happens if a crime has no perceived actor(s) attached to it? Can it be called a crime? I contend that Fukushima teaches us not only much about Foucault’s “fable” of the “ultimate crime” as its offenses fly under the radar of our (common) senses but also about the problem of responsibility in the atomic age, an age that will never end. I conclude by drawing a connection between the loneliness and isolation human beings experienced under Nazi totalitarianism and the loneliness and isolation people from Fukushima are currently experiencing. It is only through acting with Arendtian “inter-est” – which lies with the power of the mind – and showing compassion – which derives from the mysterious workings of the heart – that a common world can be re/built.  Chapter 5: Practicing a Cosmopolitan Education: The Case of Crime and Punishment considers and performs cosmopolitanism in stylistic terms, interprets Dostoevsky’s novel for its anti8  cosmopolitan content, and underscores its allegorical meaning for a “world at risk” (Beck, 2009). How can a style of interpreting literature be cosmopolitan? In chapter 3, I argue that not only the content of Arendt’s writings are of ethical importance but the style of writing she performs to discuss that content is an ethic in and of itself. What makes her style ethical is that it aims to be fair-minded and does so by moving between – and locating herself from within – a “plurality of perspectives.” This movement “trains your imagination to go visiting” different peoples and places thereby “adopt[ing] the position of Kant’s world citizen” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 257). This moving-between-and-among, which I call practicing a cosmopolitan education, not only helps one to develop the capacity to form ethical judgments but also nurtures interest in disinterest, interest in truthfulness. Crime and Punishment is a provocative case to interpret for several reasons. Dostoevsky’s patriotic, Slavophil sentiments, his xenophobia directed most pronouncedly at the Jewish people, opens up a space for conversation on historical understandings of anti/cosmopolitanism. It was Stalin and Hitler who carried out anticosmopolitan campaigns, ridding their respective worlds of “rootless cosmopolitans,” code language for the Jewish people. I contend that the villain in Crime and Punishment, Peter Petrovich Luzhin, is a stereotype of a proto-cosmopolitan and, consequently, must be deported from the life of the story. Such an interpretation has not been considered as far as I have read in the literature. Quite to the contrary, interpretations of Luzhin and as noted in this chapter seem to all but support Dostoevsky’s own sentiments toward his villain’s vile actions without regard for what horrors lurk beneath the horrible Luzhin himself. To this end, while Dostoevsky preached an ethic of compassion as illustrated in the sub/plots of his stories, an ethic that many literary scholars have emphasized in positive terms, I question how compassionate his ethic is and how ethical his compassion is. In the final section of the chapter, I read Raskolnikov’s dream of a worldwide plague as an allegory for a world at risk. Throughout the whole of this chapter, I move between criticizing and commending Dostoevsky’s writings, his morally problematic “genius” as located in one of the masterpieces of world literature. In this way, I aim to be fairminded, to show “situated impartiality,” toward his literature. Drawing upon Pinar’s (2012) writings on allegory, I also contend that this 19th century novel can teach us a great deal about our present moment and future probabilities and in ways that go beyond Dostoevsky’s  9  ideological intentions. Following Pinar, contemplating the past – in this case a past imagined in fiction – helps us to “find the future” (p. 49).  Chapter 6: Conclusion returns to the research questions and offers suggestions for future research. Here, I respond in more succinct and reflective ways on how the research has helped me to answer the questions I put forth. In this final chapter, I also speak to the ways in which Arendt’s “performative pedagogy” (Schutz, 2001) is just as significant to understanding who her writings “encourage us to be” (p. 127) as is the content or curriculum of what she writes. A cosmopolitan intellectual and self-fashioned writer in conversation with others, Arendt has influenced my own style of writing, a style which aims to perform the primacy of the ethical in a cosmopolitan education.  10  Chapter 2: What is a Cosmopolitan Education?  2.1  Introduction  In “Curriculum and the Idea of a Cosmopolitan Inheritance,” David Hansen (2008) provides an overview of the various strands of cosmopolitan scholarship – political, moral, cultural, and economic – as a prelude to his enunciation of “educational cosmopolitanism” (p. 293). What distinguishes educational cosmopolitanism from the other seemingly distinct strands, he says, is that this developing field of thought draws upon any number of ideas and concerns found within political, moral, cultural, economic, and I would also add environmental cosmopolitan contexts. In this way, educational cosmopolitanism is at once a generative and heterogeneous field of scholarship and one which is “difficult to define,” (p. 2), a phrase Todd (2009) herself uses in describing cosmopolitanism writ large. The difficulty in defining the educational strand might have to do with the vastness of educational scholarship which speaks from within and draws upon a variety of epistemological traditions. That said, the work currently underway in cosmopolitanism and education is largely within the theoretical domains of curriculum studies and philosophy of education. Indeed, the three key texts to be discussed in this chapter, coming from noted scholars in these respective educational subfields – Popkewitz (2008), Pinar (2009), and Todd (2009) – offer quite different perspectives on how cosmopolitanism operates, what cosmopolitanism is, or whose subjectivities might be deemed cosmopolitan, respectively. While these thinkers might be in disagreement about the meaning of cosmopolitanism, as will be noted in the following section, they are in agreement about and critical of the persistent and pervasive role that social engineering and other kinds of instrumentalism have played in the project that is education. And their respective positions on cosmopolitanism are motivated, however implicitly or explicitly, by concerns over the means-end mentality, a mentality that Hannah Arendt (1998) describes perhaps most notably in the 20th century as antithetical to what makes us human. The question: “What is a human being?” (Kant, 2006, p. xii) is an “educational question” (Biesta, 2006, p. 2) and one that will be threaded throughout this dissertation. For Arendt, what makes us human is our ability to act with spontaneity. Acting spontaneously, however, can only occur under conditions of freedom. In this 11  way, we can say that social engineering as a kind of instrumentalism which aims to control human outcomes denies the very source of our humanity. “Cosmopolitanism,” on the other hand, “springs from and grows in the affairs of everyday life rather than awaiting a top-down policy,” says Hansen (2010, p. 160). His is a view that I appreciate and one, as we will see momentarily, that Popkewitz (2008) and Todd (2009) do not subscribe to. With these thoughts in mind, the purpose of this chapter is, firstly, to extend the work begun by Hansen (2008) who, in articulating the idea of “curriculum as cosmopolitan inheritance” (p. 294), maintains that writing a “full-blown analysis of educational cosmopolitanism” (p. 293) in a single article cannot do justice to the richness of the field. As such, section 2.2 of this chapter engages in a review of the scholarship in cosmopolitanism and education. In reviewing this field of thought, I also situate my own articulation of a cosmopolitan education. Such an education forefronts a both/and ethic of responsibility premised on judgment and compassion. To elucidate this ethic, I will secondly draw upon the work of thinkers outside the domain of education – Kurasawa (2007) and Beck (2009) – who help give shape to my own thinking on the subject. A cosmopolitan education is also concerned with studying phenomena of global dimension or what Beck (2004) terms “the cosmopolitanization of reality” (p. 132). In studying such phenomena truthfully rather than rhetorically, it is incumbent upon scholars to write from a place of “situated impartiality” which comes about by seeing and appreciating the world from a “plurality of perspectives,” to invoke Disch’s (1993, p. 666) interpretation of Arendt’s own style of political theorizing. I advance this mode of interpretation as part of the work of a cosmopolitan education. As such, writing about such dissonant perspectives on the meaning of cosmopolitanism and/in/of education serves a dual purpose. While poststructural-minded Thomas Popkewitz (2008) argues that cosmopolitanism is a system of governmentality that tames agency, Pinar (2009), quite to the contrary, underscores cosmopolitanism as a subjective experience and turns to “three passionate lives in public service as testimonies to cosmopolitan individuals” (p. viii). Neither condemning cosmopolitanism nor celebrating it, Todd (2009) treats it to as a top-down project in human rights education that hinders rather than helps students make the kind of judgments necessary for thoughtful – not Eichmann-like thoughtless – living. In certain respects, my dissertation begins where Hansen’s  12  (2008) “toward educational cosmopolitanism” (p. 293) leaves off, aiming to respond to though not answer in full the question: What is a cosmopolitan education?  2.2 2.2.1  The Eclecticism of Educational Cosmopolitanism Popkewitz and Civilizing the Uncivil  Popkewitz’s (2008) study on the relationship between cosmopolitanism and education focuses upon school reform. He argues that cosmopolitanism is inextricably linked to the role that the Enlightenment has played in the civilizing project of mass schooling. Though Enlightenment philosopher Immanuel Kant and his key text on cosmopolitanism, Perpetual Peace, receives scarce direct attention in his study (see p. 14), it is evident that Popkewitz’s reading of cosmopolitanism is critical of this text, inspired by subsequent interpretations of it. Popkewitz argues that “the cosmopolitanism of Kant…was an elite project of government…guided by cosmopolitan reason and rationality (science)” (p. 14). This argument sets up his overall analysis that through the cultural thesis of cosmopolitanism, “society could be perfected by education” and be “directed toward the common good” (p. 15). An “exemplar” of the cosmopolitan cultural thesis, he says, is the fictitious notion of “adolescence” (p. 19), a time in human life when cosmopolitanism works to manufacture “productive and self-responsible” members of society. Influenced by Foucault, Popkewitz frames cosmopolitanism as a normative project in education which aims to tame the untamable, civilize the uncivil while simultaneously instilling society with the belief that we are, in fact, our own agents. Human agency, however, is nothing more than an “invention” (p. 16) promulgated, so it seems, by Kant’s “An Answer to the Question: What Is Enlightenment?” which deceives people into thinking that they can “think for themselves” (p. 14) through the use of reason and scientific methods of observation. By following the methods of rational knowledge, “infinite progress” (p. 15), productivity, and virtue will one day be achieved. Popkewitz adds that the “cultural thesis of cosmopolitanism” (p. 55) operates insidiously, excluding barbaric others from its “domestic science movements” (p. 55) that began with and continues to be at work in the American Enlightenment which has informed school pedagogy since the early 19th century (see p. 57) and which has come to a head in modern school reforms like NCLB (see p. 166-168). Yet, the Enlightenment’s cosmopolitanism, Popkewitz adds, is nothing other than a form of “blackmail” (p. 183). Indeed, how does one 13  “criticize the Enlightenment and then try to escape from its principles of rationality,” asks Foucault (1984, p. 43)? For Popkewitz (2008), this catch-22 characterizes “the problem of cosmopolitanism” (p. xv), which simultaneously includes “reasonable persons” (p. xiii) in “the politics of schooling” (p. xv) and its un/spoken rules while excluding those individuals deemed irrational or unreasonable. Like Foucault whose scholarship often made surprising, counter-intuitive connections across time and space, Popkewitz draws a link between the “philosopher’s stone” – a key symbol in the wizardry of alchemy – and “social engineering…through replication” (p. 154) of cosmopolitan citizens who are forever in the making. He names these individuals “the unfinished cosmopolitan” and turns to public education to explore how this engineering operates. The school and those whose task it is to plan the school aim to “replicat[e]” academic rigor through particular models and methods that are deemed to work; the “enlightened teacher” (p. 155), who is herself meticulously designed, also manages instructional plans that are “formulated through standards” that have been proven to be useful techniques for controlling variables. This form of control “provide[s] stable, harmonious systems of practice…for the purpose of engineering” (p. 162); the child becomes the perfect/ed vehicle to realize cosmopolitan engineering. In short, cosmopolitanism, not unlike panopticism, is a disciplinary technology at once fascinating and frightening. Foucault (1995), too, tells us that “the swarming of the disciplinary mechanisms” (p. 211) that are panopticism can be found quite readily in “the school.” One might also recall that the Panopticon was designed by an Enlightenment-utilitarian philosopher, Jeremy Bentham. While Popkewitz does not mention panopticism in his study of cosmopolitanism, one surmises that these “isms” are similar if not conflated, invisible instruments of (self-)control which maximize human utility, efficiency, and docility aided by the marvels of science. While it is hardly new knowledge that the project of education has been greatly influenced by scientism – beginning with Franklin Bobbitt’s efficiency-minded curriculum, reinforced by Tyler’s Rationale, and fortified with back to basics education reforms – I question what these programs and pedagogies have to do with cosmopolitanism given the cursory critique Popkewitz provides of cosmopolitanism in and of itself. Rather, the word cosmopolitan is often used to describe other subjects, obscuring its meaning: “cosmopolitan notions of empowerment,” (p. 3), “cosmopolitan values,” “cosmopolitan reason and rationality” (p. 17), “cosmopolitan 14  agency” (p. 18), “the cosmopolitan child” (p. 33), and “cosmopolitan urbaneness” (p. 167). Additionally, while Popkewitz argues that Kant’s Enlightenment cosmopolitanism is linked to science, Kant’s seminal essay “What Is Enlightenment” is infinitely more about moral responsibility to others than scientific rationality as the translator of Kant’s essay, Ted Humphrey (as cited in Kant, 1983), states in explicit terms. Kant’s enlightenment “as derives from mere scientifically applicable knowledge is subordinate to enlightenment of a moral nature” (p. 2). To reinforce this point, Humphrey adds that enlightenment for Kant is firstly about “overthrowing the intellectual bondage inherent in rationalism and empiricism”; secondly, progress comes about through “moral growth.” Popkewitz does not draw a connection between Kant’s (1983) statement in the opening of “What Is Enlightenment”: “without guidance from another…‘Have courage to use your own understanding!’ – that is the motto of enlightenment” (p. 33) and Kant’s Critique of Judgement which is concerned with making judgments in the particular, on a case by case basis; and judgments do “not tell you how to act” (Arendt, 1978: 2, p. 258); making judgments, however, do allow one to arrive at a general though not necessarily universal standpoint. In short, enlightenment – at least for Kant – is not technical, means-end knowledge. Moreover, on the subject of a cosmopolitan State, “Kant is hesitant to advocate bringing such an overarching coercive power into existence” (Humphrey as cited in Kant, 1983, p. 14) because of the potential for creating a monolithic despotism. Popkewitz, on the other hand, interprets cosmopolitanism as being a coercive force in much the same way that Foucault sees power coercing everyone and everything to do its bidding. Foucault asks: What is an Author? I ask Foucault and Popkewitz: Who is Power? (A question not to be confused with: Whose Power?) If there is no who, or if agency is an “invention” as Popkewitz (2008, p. 16-17) with the help of Foucault claims, then it follows that no one can be held responsible for anything anyone does because no one is free to act on his/her own. The relationship between “who” and responsibility will be discussed in more depth in the following chapters. To put it another way, the danger of believing that agency is an invention can be seen in the Nuremburg defense, which says: I was just following orders. Interpreting cosmopolitanism through the eyes of Foucault rather than thinking about cosmopolitanism for himself and/or in conversation with contemporary or historical others who have thought carefully on its subject does not make for particularly sound scholarship. Indeed, 15  renowned contemporary cosmopolitan philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah makes one brief appearance in Popkewitz’s study. Popkewitz asserts that Appiah presents “an analytical set of norms” and universals about the notion of belonging (p. 12). It is unfortunate that he does not provide an explanation of what those norms might be. Liberal humanist Martha Nussbaum is integrated a bit more into his critique, concluding that Nussbaum argues for “[c]ivic education...where there is a consensus of shared universal values of reason” (p. 11). Strangely, there is no mention of outspoken critic of cosmopolitanism Karl Marx. But perhaps turning to a structuralist economist like Marx in a poststructuralist study would be ideologically problematic. This is the problem with ideological thinking; rather than aiming to understand the world from a plurality of perspectives, it prefers friendship (with Foucault) over truth. To disregard the role that economic thinking and capitalism have played in American school reforms, as Popkewitz does, is highly problematic. Not exactly a Marxist himself, Pinar (2012) gives credit where credit is due: “school[s] are linked to the economy and structured by ‘business thinking’” (p. 37). Yet, the significant role that thinking “economistically” (Judt as cited in Pinar, 2012, p. xi) has played in school reforms is excluded in Popkewitz’s study. For Popkewitz (2008), “[c]osmopolitanism is a difficult history to ‘tell’.” From within the framework he is working, it is nearly impossible. Popkewitz’s history which is written through a “spiral argument rather than through deductive logic” (p. 20), simply put, spirals out of control. Sometimes a bit of logic and a bit of control are needed. This is not to say that cosmopolitanism and school reform cannot be spoken about together. Inspired by yet working against Popkewitz’s study, I will draw a connection between “world risk society” (Beck, 2009) and school reforms in chapters 4 and 5 of this dissertation.  2.2.2  Pinar and the Primacy of the Particular  In stark contrast to Popkewitz’s (2008) cosmopolitanism as a Foucauldian system of governmentality and social engineering stands Pinar’s (2009) study which narrates the lived experience of cosmopolitanism through “the lives of three passionate public individuals” (p. x) whom he describes as having worldly sensibilities, each of whom become curricula for cosmopolitanism. For Pinar, “[a]s rich and varied as the scholarly literature on cosmopolitanism is…what it lacks is attention to subjectivity and its cultivation through education” (p. x). What Pinar’s study of cosmopolitanism does so markedly different than Popkewitz’s is that it 16  artistically actualizes what Hansen (2008) sees as the “trajectory” of “educational cosmopolitanism” but one year later; an area of scholarship which “is not reducible to or merely parasitic upon a particular political, moral, cultural, or economic outlook” (p. 293). Pinar’s curriculum can be understood as a “cosmopolitan inheritance” (p. 294), which “regards life experience as universally educational” (p. 289). Such an inheritance negotiates and celebrates the old and the new, that which is “preserv[ed]” and that which is “refashion[ed].” Pinar (2009) has written a book that reads like a collage – particularly if we are to understand this art form as a kind of juxtaposition – and devotes over half of this collage to the worldly lives of public philosopher Jane Addams whose concept of “education was experience” (p. 71), museum educator Laura Bragg “and her remarkable Boxes” (p. 97), and artist Pier Paulo Pasolini whose life was characterized by “the cosmopolitan curriculum Pasolini taught” (p. 104) as concrete illustrations of a cosmopolitan education which “invites an ongoing self-reflection associated with solitude while engaged with others” (p. ix). In narrating those lives that have lived public service, Pinar implicitly calls on his readers to engage in service, too, and in ways that speak to one’s own distinct sense of being in the world. Pinar sees cosmopolitanism as an invitation to individual “political action” (p. 5) by writing about those who act, and not only for the human world. Is not such a provocation – actualized in the lives of the written about and the lives who read about the written – the “cosmopolitan inheritance” that Hansen believes curriculum can be? And does not such an invitation necessitate agency in its act of hospitality? One of the key ideas in Pinar’s study is “worldliness,” and he describes at length and in conversation with others what worldliness means. For Arendt (as cited in Pinar, 2009), worldliness is “care for the world” (p. 28) or amor mundi, as opposed to faithful devotion to the afterlife, which is not to say worldliness rejects love of that which is sacred or renounces spirituality not tied to a deity (p. 5). Indeed, experience, which is education, has been “stripped of it sacred meaning…reduced to a means to an end” (p. ix). Of the three books written on cosmopolitanism and education discussed in this chapter, it is Pinar who embraces the subject of passion, as a particular incarnation of love, in its neighborly and visceral expressions. “Worldliness,” adds Pinar, “is a subjective supplement to cosmopolitanism” (p. 4). Interpreting Appiah quite differently than Popkewitz does, Appiah, says Pinar, “emphasiz[es] the primacy of the particular” while “acknowledg[ing] ‘obligations’ owed to others” (p. 27), the notion of 17  “conversation” with “people from other places” (Appiah as cited in Pinar, 2009, p. 27) does not necessarily lead to consensus; however, it can assist with people becoming accustomed to one another. Such a cosmopolitan education is, nevertheless, at odds with the state of public education because of governmental “insistence on linking instruction to test scores” (Pinar, 2009, p. xi). It seems, then, that public schooling and cosmopolitan worldliness are functioning at cross purposes, a position which runs counter to Popkewitz’s assertion which links the two together. The former is highly institutionalized and instrumentalized – e.g., standard based reforms such as “examination driven curricula demote teachers from scholars and intellectuals to technicians in service to the state” (Pinar, 2004, p. 2) – the latter “is a retrospective judgment” (Pinar, 2009, p. 7). No doubt, judgment is needed in educational decision-making – a key idea to be elaborated upon in my discussion of Todd’s (2009) text which focuses precisely on this point – yet teachers are denied the right to make judgments in a system that reduces them to “technicians, ‘managing’ student productivity” (Pinar, 2004, p. 27); a system driven by standards-based outcomes. In contrast to standards formulated for universal application, judgments done in the particular always looks backward “on a life already lived” (Pinar, 2009, p. 63), on an action already made, on an event already witnessed, and do so in order to cultivate ethical foresight, a point to be addressed when I take up the work of Kurasawa (2007) and Beck (2009) in section 2.3. What Pinar’s (2009) readers note in learning about the lives of Addams and Pasolini is that they made their own judgments on and in the world. Addams judged “her own college training” which was a “self-contained cognitive affair” that disavowed her “from engagement with the world” (p. 71). Pasolini judged “bourgeois smugness” (p. 130) in his poetry. And in narrating the lives of these cosmopolitan individuals, Pinar – thinking for himself and in complicated conversation with others who have written extensively on these historic, public figures – forms judgments on those persons deemed significant to the study of cosmopolitanism as a subjective experience. In this way, Pinar interprets the world in much the same way Hannah Arendt (as cited in Disch, 1993) suggests judgments are formed: through narrative or “storytelling” which is done “without banisters” (p. 669), without “applying categories and formulas which are deeply ingrained in our mind” (Arendt, 2003, p. 37). As will be argued in the following chapter, 18  Arendt’s interpretive style is, like Pinar’s, a cosmopolitan enterprise. Judgment, it should also be noted, is different than thinking; the latter is a solitary act that might (not) propel action while judgments, in the Arendtian sense “embrace or reject specific features of a shared world” (Thiele, 2005, p. 710). We can say, then, that the faculty of judgment is of particular importance for cultivating cosmopolitan worldliness as it is done “by putting ourselves in the place of any other man” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 257) not literally but by way of the imagination. This kind of mind-work done “with the enlarged mentality,” helps one to “adopt the position of Kant’s world citizen” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 257). Both Arendt and Pinar are maverick minds who have never adhered to a school of thought, yet they have learned from and converse with the schools which and individuals who make up a history of great thinking. Arendt has been called “too cosmopolitan” (Marcus, 2001, p. 95) for her seeming refusal to identify with any one particular (Jewish) group even though such accusations of cosmopolitanism came about, ironically, after writing her most Jewish work: Eichmann in Jerusalem; if she is a cosmopolitan intellectual, which I believe she is as this dissertation will indicate, the belief that cosmopolitanism is about “the taming of human agency” (Popkewitz, 2008, p. 27) seems doubtful, indeed. (And Pasolini’s films and life were anything but tame.) One might also say that Pinar (2009) is a world citizen himself, for in writing about three individuals in public service – and in internationalizing curriculum studies which goes beyond the scope of my work here – he perceives other perspectives in much the same way Arendt (1978: 2) via Kant describes “training your imagination to go visiting” (p. 257). As cases in point, both thinkers – Arendt and Pinar – developed original styles to study the contents of their scholarly fields; Arendt’s “storytelling” for political theorizing, to be discussed in chapter 3, and Pinar’s “currere” and most recently “allegory” for curriculum theorizing, the latter to be discussed and performed in chapter 5. If cosmopolitanism is about cultivating “self-knowledge that enables understanding of others” as Pinar (2009, p. vii) holds, then cosmopolitanism is also a subject in which Pinar (2012) performs currere, a “strategy for students of curriculum to study the relations between academic knowledge and life history in the interests of self-understanding and social reconstruction” (p. 44) and allegory, which centralizes “understanding self and society through study” (p. 52).  19  “The key curricular question,” Pinar (2009) contends – i.e., “What knowledge is of most worth? – is a worldly question” (p. vii). This question, moreover, is “animated by ethics, history, and politics. As such, it is an ongoing question” that cannot be instrumentalized (Pinar, 2012, p. xv). It requires thinking about and making judgments upon what the curriculum is at any place or moment in time. While it is evident that Popkewitz and Pinar are in agreement on the current state of public education’s crippling effects upon the human spirit, I do not equate this grim reality with cosmopolitanism as a form of governmentality to make the spontaneous human subject docile. That said, I do appreciate Popkewitz’s critique of the role that the scientific method and social engineering has played in trying to control if not annihilate human variables. For in eradicating such variables which are the reality of human plurality, we destroy not only freedom but, in its most extreme instance, life itself as was the case under totalitarianism (see Arendt, 1973). Cosmopolitanism and totalitarianism are not one in the same thing; they do not act on the individual in the same way. As a fully realized system of government (Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Soviet Union), totalitarianism denies one the ability to act. And if cosmopolitanism is a subjective experience or sensibility, as Pinar (2009) and Hansen (2008) hold, respectively, then action in its cosmopolitan sense – and “action” for Arendt occurs through “Being” (Aristotle as cited in Arendt, 1998, p. 199), through “deed and word” (Arendt, 1998, p. 199) – is interpretable in physical not metaphysical terms. Moreover, while Arendt devotes almost 500 pages to articulating the meaning of totalitarianism for its own sake, Popkewitz (2008) has written a book about school reform which he says is linked to cosmopolitanism which is linked to science and also “linked to the problem of the social administration of the child” (p. xiv). His is a difficult argument to follow particularly in juxtaposition to Pinar’s biographical writings.  2.2.3  Todd and Thinking Cosmopolitan  A lucid study of cosmopolitanism and education, Sharon Todd (2009) draws largely upon Arendt’s writings on plurality, thinking, and judging to help frame her critique. For Todd, cosmopolitanism operates instrumentally as illustrated in internationally recognized educational documents and policies on human rights and global justice; documents which aim to transmit to students how to act as good global citizens. Yet, “[f]reedom, justice, and responsibility cannot be dictated at them, but are tough decisions that must be made in everyday living” (p. 67), or in the 20  particular instance as no instance is ever quite the same. While there has been a plethora of scholarship written on education’s instrumental qualities, it is not made clear who other than Todd perceives human rights education in this way. Though Todd says that “[c]osmopolitanism is difficult to define” (p. 2), it nonetheless appears to operate in a means-end way, aiming to perfect human imperfection, which began in the Judeo-Christian “garden” (p. 1) and has since then travelled into the modern world as illustrated in the violence that plagues humanity on individual and socio-political levels, the nation-state being a key paradigm for the latter. In order to “tak[e] cosmopolitanism seriously” (p. 140), Todd adds, it needs to be reframed toward the particular which she says it doesn’t do via Arendt’s work on thinking and judging – for students who “learn about rights…are rarely engaged in the very dilemmas of judgment as an everyday exercise in negotiation” (p. 155) – and Chantal Mouffe’s “radical democratic challenge” (p. 102) in which dissent and “conflict…assume a place in any conception of democracy” (p. 103). As Todd is invested in the particular, her work would be strengthened by paying attention to the particulars of those educational documents, policies, and classroom events that she claims act instrumentally, perhaps through her own document analysis rather than citing other theorists like Luce Irigaray who has critiqued the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. For example, when stating that she “delved into reams of educational materials” on the subject of human rights which showed “the uncomplicated manner in which rights themselves were treated” (p. 51), Todd does not discuss the particulars of those materials. This is both ironic and argumentatively insufficient. Moreover, for a thinker concerned with particulars and wary of universals, Todd’s study of cosmopolitanism would be further invigorated by judging how these texts actually get played out in the lived (particular) experience of education. I recognize that philosophers (of education) do not typically work in the particular but rather with metaphysical ideas. Nevertheless, I am inclined to say to Todd: show, don’t tell. That said, Todd’s book can be read as a primer for educators interested in understanding cosmopolitanism from a philosophical perspective in both its “classic” and “new” forms (p. 25) – classic as understood according to its “appeals to universal humanity, rights, and/or world citizenship” and the “new,” which “emerged in the 1990s” as a “direct response to the mounting pluralism in societies around the globe” (p. 25) and the importance that postcolonialism and poststructuralism now play in scholarship across the disciplines. While there have been books 21  recently published outside the field of education on what Todd refers to as “the second strand” of cosmopolitan thought – texts I mention in this chapter’s introduction such as Kurasawa’s (2007) political perspective on what he calls “critical cosmopolitanism” (p. 194) exercised through “public discourse and action” as an “exercise in world-making” (p. 88) and Beck’s (2009) “cosmopolitan moment” which is characterized by global, “existential threat[s]” (p. 48) – Todd’s (2009) overall thesis rests on the argument that “most educational initiatives…reflect more clearly the classical strand of cosmopolitan thought” (p. 29) which seeks to indoctrinate youth “for global awareness and…a ‘shared humanity’ as a condition of world citizenship” (p. 7). While it is not made clear how Todd defines educational initiatives, we can say rather definitively that Popkewitz’s study is a criticism of the “classical strand” while Pinar’s is a performance of “new cosmopolitanism” (p. 25) with the attention it places on “subjectivity” (p. 26). Moreover, while Todd claims that cosmopolitanism ought to be but is not “connected to the concrete situations in which we find ourselves” (p. 19) – situations in which she says ever so universally that “teachers frequently perform their professional role, like a character in an old, familiar play” (p. 141) and “[g]iven the kind of work teacher do, there is often not a lot of time for thinking” (p. 150)! – Pinar (2009) engages the concrete situations in the “lived-historical problem of ‘my life and flesh’” (p. 8) – a problem which is wide open for interpretation and curriculum-making. In short, Pinar is doing what Todd contends is not being done. While Todd’s text focuses upon education and, as such, is part of the eclectic work of educational cosmopolitanism, it does, at the same time, seem to fall somewhat categorically into the political strand of cosmopolitan thinking. “Political cosmopolitanism,” says Hansen, (2010, p. 153) focuses on issues concerning human rights, global justice, and the building of informal and “formalized methods of hospitality” to those in need, such as immigrants, refugees, and displaced persons. Methods might include “trans-national institution building” as a form of “humane responsiveness to political conflict” and which might extend to “respectful agreements to reduce environmental degradation” (Hansen, 2008, p. 292). While Hansen (2008; 2010) provides an overview of the various cosmopolitan strands of thought, I do not see Popkewitz or Pinar’s studies as attendant to any one of these areas as Hansen describes them. This is not to say that either of these thinkers disregards issues of political, moral, or cultural significance; rather, Todd’s is easier to categorize within one of these delineations – i.e., the political – and it is 22  political cosmopolitanism that will be highlighted in the following chapter given the central role that political theorist Hannah Arendt plays in contributing to my articulation of a cosmopolitan education. In brief, political cosmopolitanism is built largely upon Kant’s Perpetual Peace and aspects of Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism and Eichmann in Jerusalem. As such, there are multiple reasons why Todd’s study acts as a bridge to my own thinking on cosmopolitanism and its significance for education given my own inclinations toward Arendt’s work, albeit areas of her oeuvre that have not been taken up by Todd or other educational scholars writing about cosmopolitanism. Though Todd draws from certain areas of Arendtian thought in critiquing cosmopolitanism, one gets the sense after reading Pinar’s study that he lives (at least in his writings) as Arendt lived her own cosmopolitan life: not only as a critic or judge of the world, but as a lover of it, too. As a case in point, Pinar (2009) states he was so taken by the life of Pasolini that he feared the man would take over his entire book (p. 13). And the book’s dedication, in which his mother takes center stage, is nothing if not heartfelt for the cerebral work he undertakes, inspired by the memory of her life. We can say with Yi-Fu Taun (1996) that when cosmopolitanism is viewed in positive terms, it exudes loveliness for those things which life brings us, such as “splendor and plentitude” (p. 182). When it is perceived in negative terms, Taun adds, it connotes fickleness, “no deep knowledge or commitment” to anything, what Russian poet and novelist Boris Pasternak condemned as a “flea market.” While this negative view might remind us of Hitler and Stalin’s anti-cosmopolitanism – and Dostoevsky’s, too, as will be discussed in depth in chapter 5 – we can also draw a less obvious connection to the way Todd (2009) criticizes cosmopolitanism as a principle. In following “a seemingly benevolent script such as cosmopolitanism” (p. 142), she says, we engage not in deep knowledge or thinking but in Eichmann-like thoughtlessness. Todd appropriates Arendt for her own ends, and ends which do not do justice to understanding Arendt as the complex and sometimes contradictory thinker she was known to be. Quoting Arendt, Todd argues, “[p]articular questions must receive particular answers…there are no general standards to determine our judgments unfailingly” (p. 138). Yet, she does not take Arendt’s appropriation of the Kantian relationship between “enlarged thought” and “cosmopolitan existence” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 259) into consideration when 23  critiquing what she sees as cosmopolitanism’s “paradoxical double commitment” (Todd, 2009, p. 5), its “contradictory logic” (p. 139) to the universal and plural, to solidarity and alterity, and despite the fact that Arendt never articulated cosmopolitanism as an irreconcilable problem. It should also be pointed out that there are few places in Arendt’s oeuvre that speak upon the subject of cosmopolitanism directly if only because this subject has gained scholarly momentum due to atrocities around the world such as genocide subsequent to her death. As Primo Levi (1989) understands, “a genealogy of today’s violence…branches out precisely from the violence that was dominate in Hitler’s Germany” (p. 200). It was the very moral collapse of her native country of Germany that served as the point of reference for almost everything that Arendt wrote. For Levi, any type of violence, even “preventable violence,” begets more violence. Is Levi thus not arguing for perpetual peace? It is interesting that both Popkewitz and Todd build their studies against classic cosmopolitanism and by way of “cogent apologist for cosmopolitanism, Martha Nussbaum” (Todd, 2009, p. 8) who, it is indicated, argues for “a mode of living that distances [the child] from everyday activities through abstract and universal categories that define the just and good as the citizen” (Popkewitz, 2008, p. 11), who “appeals to a sense of shared humanity…that invokes universality of reason and moral capacity” (Todd, 2009, p. 29) when there has been a wealth of works written about cosmopolitanism in the twelve years leading up to their respective publications. Todd supports and extends Papastephanou’s position that the belief in such a shared human existence is “naïve” and “idealistic at best” (p. 30). The contention that a shared human existence is naïve or idealistic brings me two different understandings of cosmopolitanism which break open the confines that constitute Todd’s thesis, which is premised on the position that cosmopolitanism (in education) is a technical, means-ends driven project. These understandings come from Kurasawa’s (2007) cosmopolitanism as a practice from below for global justice and Beck’s (2009) cosmopolitanism as a phenomenological reality that becomes manifest through “unintended side effects [sic] catastrophes (e.g. climate change)” (p. 41) that characterize a world at risk. Todd, we are reminded, claims that cosmopolitanism ought to be reframed to include more attention to thinking, judging, and plurality. Alluding to Adolph Eichmann at the end of her study, Todd (2009) asks: “how much thoughtlessness can we tolerate” (p. 149)? While Todd 24  appears rather intolerant toward cosmopolitanism as it purportedly stands – as a “comforting philosophy…couched in some nice language of ‘care,’ ‘love,’ or ‘empathy’” (p. 20) – we ought not so easily dismiss the power that the heart plays in human affairs, either. It was Arendt (1994) herself, recalling King Solomon, who said “that only an ‘understanding heart,’ and not mere reflection or mere feeling, makes it bearable for us to live with other people, strangers forever, in the same world, and makes it possible for them to bear with us” (p. 322). In other words, an understanding heart draws from the resources of the mind (“reflection” and the rational) and the heart (“feelings” and the irrational) in building a shared world that is habitable not only for human beings.  2.3 2.3.1  Cosmopolitanism: Practice and Reality Kurasawa and Cosmopolitanism as a Practice from Below  In Todd’s (2009) chapter “Promoting a Just Education: Dilemmas of Rights, Freedom, and Justice,” she argues that the work of human rights education “must be made in everyday living,” adding that understanding and working through ethical issues in the particular constitutes “the project of facing humanity itself” (p. 67). Todd introduces the work of Lyotard who asks modernity to carefully reflect upon “the universality of principles, like freedom and justice, which frequently have [sic] been used as a means of oppression” (p. 69-70). For Lyotard, justice takes place on a “case-by-case” basis and “without definitive criteria” (p. 70). Also drawing from Arendt, Todd adds that “judgment occurs in action” (p. 71), reiterating this point in the last chapter of her book: ethical questions must be “adjudicate[d] in concrete circumstances” (p. 139). Nevertheless, her argument about how cosmopolitanism usually functions seems to change at different places in her study. In these last pages, Todd says: “it seems to me that privileging rights on principle denies the very cornerstone of human plurality upon which cosmopolitanism is usually grounded” (p. 139). If cosmopolitanism is usually grounded in the plural, in difference, how does it also “often” “support consensus” (p. 6) rather than radical democratic “cross-cultural conflict” (p. 105)? How is it that “the cosmopolitan dream of empathy and reciprocity across cultures” which does not “provide us with an adequate model” (p. 103) for democracy can also mean the following?: 25  My suggestion here is instead to make the difficulties of judgment itself a central part of any cosmopolitan outlook acknowledging that it is precisely the difficulties to be countenanced in adjudicating between rights and particular contexts where the heart of cosmopolitan thought truly can be found. (p. 139)  Either Todd has changed her mind about what cosmopolitanism boils down to or she is trying to have it both ways. Perhaps Kurasawa’s (2007) discussion of a critical cosmopolitan practice from below rather than a top-down model in which “cultural difference and distributive justice, produc[e] a vision of all of humankind’s incorporation into a pluralist yet just world order” (p. 160) is what Todd is advocating. While Kurasawa’s (2007) focus on “solidaristic ties without bounds” (p. 161) is somewhat different from Todd’s predilection for alterity, he sees cosmopolitan solidarity as a “transnational mode of practice whereby actors construct bonds of mutual commitment and reciprocity across borders through public discourse and socio-political struggle” (p. 160). This mode of “ethico-political labour” (p. 194) does not sound all that different from what Todd terms “thinking cosmopolitan.” It seems that putting an “ism” on the end of “cosmopolitan” poses a problem for Todd, as if the “ism” turns it into a thoughtless project. As Freeden (2003) points out, “not every ‘ism’ is an ideology…and not every ideology is dropped from a great height on an unwilling society” (p. 1). Nevertheless, both scholars, Todd and Kurasawa, are reluctant to consider top-down and bottom-up, “linear” and “non-linear” (Beck, 2009, p. 122), “official” and “unofficial” (Benhabib, 2006, p. 163) public actions which together can benefit the work of human rights and global justice. A cosmopolitan education summons a both/and rather than either/or ethic of responsibility. Todd draws from Arendt’s political theory to support a vision of alterity while Kurasawa calls upon Arendt’s words of solidarity. “For solidarity,” says Arendt (as cited in Kurasawa, 2007, p. 157), “because it partakes of reason, and hence of generality, is able to comprehend a multitude conceptually.” And Kurasawa’s discussion on human rights does go in a different Arendtian direction from that of Todd’s; he deepens and extends one of Arendt’s key, albeit brief, concepts essential to the work of global justice: that of “the faculty of forgiving” (Arendt, 1998, p. 237), a faculty which is tied to an ethic of compassion as much if not more than it is to 26  ethical judgment-making. For Arendt, the “expected and even calculated” (p. 241) response to a transgression is revenge. Revenge functions as a way to assert one’s sovereignty. Forgiveness, on the other hand and in the true sense of the word, is spontaneous-irrational. It “can never be predicted; it is the only reaction that acts in an unexpected way” (p. 241). Forgiveness is thus a form of natality because it acts anew. The beauty and grace of forgiveness is that it releases us “from the consequences of what we have done” (p. 237) thereby allowing us to recover from that “single deed” which otherwise we would be confined to forever, unable to act in the presence of others which is the world. For Kurasawa (2007), forgiveness “amounts to no more and no less than an ‘ethical gamble’ (Morin 2000: 25)” (p. 93). As such, it functions in non-calculative, antiinstrumental ways. It becomes an instance of what is meant by freedom. “If men wish to be free,” says Arendt (2006a, p. 162), “it is precisely sovereignty they must renounce.” In other words, forgiveness provides an escape from the postmodern trap which says with Todd (2009) that freedom is a “fiction” (p. 75) and that “agency” is an “invention” (Popkewitz, 2008, p. 16, 39). Kurasawa (2007) has written a careful, judicious study on the subject of human rights and global justice, including a chapter on forgiveness in which he discusses truth and reconciliation commissions in multiple instances (p. 56-93). And this practice of cosmopolitanism from below works in altogether different ways than “best practices” which come from above. It is at once cruel and absurd to suggest that there is or ought to be a best practice or code for acts of forgiveness. As Young-Bruehl (2006) puts it, “making promises and forgiveness” (p. 95) are “the two forms of action that most deeply address the uncertainty and risk of action in general—and that are the strongest counters to the repressive Hobbesian Leviathan” (p. 95-96). While forgiveness has the potential to free the perpetrator so that the perpetrator might perpetrate again, this is part of the ethical gamble that freedom entails. Forgiveness also acts as a beacon of hope, like natality itself and is “eminently worthwhile to take if global justice is to survive” (Kurasawa, 2007, p. 93). While forgiveness is done by looking back on a past transgression, a “worksite of forgiveness” (p. 58) such as the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission has also helped to pave the way for other similar commissions, which together aim to help prevent further atrocities from happening. I recognize that there are those who see such work as naïve, 27  containing underlying notions about progress, and while the future cannot in any certainty be known – indeed, for the postmodern it is totally opaque and indeterminate (see p. 105) – this does not mean we should be apathetic to or dismissive of possible atrocities that could happen in the future. Kurasawa speaks briefly upon the notion of global injustice’s “early warning” (p. 106) signs that can be detected albeit never fully predicted with the help of “both analytic contingency and ethical responsibility.” Beck (2009) extends Kurasawa’s work on foresight when speaking upon the in/ability to predict the un/predictable, a refreshingly complicated thesis to be addressed shortly. The chief political theorist of the 20th century to write upon the subject of ethical foresight, if indirectly, was Hannah Arendt. Indeed, Origins is just as much a “field manual” (Young-Bruehl, 2006, p. 35) to help humanity detect new versions of totalitarianism even in their infancy, to be attuned to totalitarian elements operating even in the most seemingly stable democracies such as the United States (see Pinar, 2012), as it is a narrative theorizing how totalitarianism came to power. This is one of the many reasons “why Arendt matters” (YoungBruehl, 2006) today and to the contemporary theorists that I draw from in this dissertation. It should be pointed out that those cosmopolitan-minded thinkers who appeal to Arendt and that I pay respect to in this chapter – Kurasawa, Todd, and Beck – do so for their own particular reasons that do not touch upon the anticipation aspect of her work. In other words, attention to foresight – not so-called cosmopolitan “alchemy” (Popkewitz, 2008, p. 103) or crystal ball “prophecy” (p. 156) – in Arendtian thinking has yet to be attended to in scholarship on cosmopolitanism. The following chapters will address this omission. Origins, however, is not a book about forgiveness; it is an interpretive study that, if anything, implies condemnation though not revenge. What Origins and truth and reconciliation commissions have in common is that their subjects are past atrocities whose respective aims are to help make the future a safe place. In this way, we can say that judgment and forgiveness – a both/and rather than either/or ethic – play a necessary role in shaping a world habitable for not only humankind. Is this not noble reason enough to think, to judge, to forgive? Both Todd (2009) and Beck (2009) address the subject of global ethical responsibility albeit in different ways and which help activate my articulation of a cosmopolitan education. In speaking toward the subject of responsibility, Todd (2009) turns to Lyotard who, like Arendt, 28  argues that both “justice and responsibility are based neither on criteria nor content” (p. 69) even though human rights education is erroneously taught through “principles” rather than through “communicative practice.” Teaching and learning in top-down, instrumental ways do not allow students to practice making judgments that “occur in action” (p. 71). Because judgment is performed on a “case-by-case” basis and “without definitive criteria” (p. 70), students have less of any opportunity to learn to act responsibly in situations that require responsible action. In other words, there exists a sharp divide between classroom learning and the cultivation of individual and collective responsibility in and for the world beyond classroom expectations – expectations which are not driven by concerns of worldly significance but by the demands of “examination-driven curricula” (Pinar, 2012, p. 2) that are “severed from situations” (p. 53) that give one’s life meaning. Being a responsible student-citizen means passing the test – not exactly what Arendt, Todd, Pinar, Kurasawa, or Beck means by acting responsibly. Turning to Levinas, Todd (2009) adds that “responsibility [is] at the heart of human rights”; responsibility is an “ethical project, not a project of rationality” (p. 74). When it comes to speaking upon notions of responsibility, this is where Todd’s appropriation of Levinas ends. Much of Levinas’ life work, however, inverts philosophy, i.e., the love of wisdom, to the wisdom of love, which is ethics. Speaking about the “approach of the face” (Levinas as cited in Cohen, 1986, p. 23) that is the Other, Levinas contends that this “proximity” (p. 11) is “the most basic mode of responsibility” (p. 23) and is one which I see resonating with cosmopolitan “obligations to strangers” (Appiah, 2006, p. 165). What Levinas teaches and which Todd does not directly address is that moral obligations derive from the heart as much as they do from the mind. And we must keep in mind that Todd’s (2009) criticism of cosmopolitanism is that it needs a stronger commitment to thinking and judging which fall under the mind’s (rational) work more so than the irrationality of the heart’s compassion. It is my position that we ought to consider how an ethic of compassion and ethical judgment are central to the work of a cosmopolitan education. The following chapters aim to address this both/and ethic.  2.3.2  Beck and the Cosmopolitanization of Reality  Theorizing world risk society, Beck (2009) speaks upon notions of ethical responsibility in a more expansive way than Todd or Kurasawa by considering (manmade) phenomena that 29  unintentionally put humanity and the planet in jeopardy. Such phenomena account for “the actual cosmopolitanization of reality” (Beck, 2004, p. 132). What does “cosmopolitan realism” (Beck, 2009, p. 209) mean and how is Beck’s articulation of cosmopolitanism similar to or different from the other enunciations we have looked at thus far? Cosmopolitanism “cannot become a reality deductively by applying philosophical principles” (p. 61); rather, it comes at us unexpectedly and im/possibly through events that constitute a world at risk, through “climate change, terrorism, nuclear energy, nuclear weapons” (p. 12), through the “symbolic code of 9/11…of the 2004 tsunami, of Hurricane Katrina, of avian flu” (p. 69). And since the publication of Beck’s 2009 book, I add the cosmopolitan catastrophe of the Tohoko earthquake and tsunami and Fukushimi Daiichi Nuclear Plant meltdown to the growing list. The role of global, social media in enabling and representing such events is also noteworthy. Indeed, what was once a distant Other has become the “immediated neighbors of all others” whether or not anyone likes it or wants it (p. 56). This is what Beck means when he says that cosmopolitanism is “compulsory” (p. 188); it also has an enlightening function in that global media provides the socially vulnerable – as in the case of Hurricane Katrina (p. 57) – an otherwise non-existent voice, after-the-fact. In the case of natural disasters like Hurricane Katrina, the disenfranchised are more vulnerable as they do not have access to the same information or methods to prepare for or escape from looming catastrophes. Interpreting cosmopolitanism in this way repositions it from being a metaphysical idea judged by philosophers (of education) to be silly or serious. To put it in phenomenological terms, when at least 45 tons of highly radioactive water has leaked from the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant which may have seeped to the Pacific Ocean (Tabuchi and Fackler, 2011), 40 gallons that we know of has spread to the open ocean (AFP, 2011), and radiation has been detected nearly 400 miles away from the Japanese coast “with water showing readings of up to 1,000 times more than prior levels” (Skoloff and Ritter, 2012), this is a serious and ongoing concern of global environmental, health-hazard proportion that affects all of us regardless of cultural, social, sexual, political identifications. It is something that cannot be escaped no matter if you are dis/advantaged or under/privileged. This is what Beck (2009) means by “compulsory cosmopolitanism” (p. 188). “What concerns everyone,” moreover, “can only be resolved by everyone,” contends dramatist Friedrich Durrenmatt (as cited in Beck, 2009, p. 131) in the 30  appendix to his play about scientific ethics and intellectual responsibility, The Physicists. Indeed, a catastrophe of Fukushima’s magnitude begs us to take seriously the ways in which a “planetary ethics of responsibility” (see Beck, 2009, p. 15) can, in fact, be realized and one which I will re/turn to in the conclusion of this dissertation. The critical question at stake is how we will confront global risks such as nuclear power plant disasters: through modern forms of “denial,” through postmodern “apathy,” or through cosmopolitan “transformation,” (Beck, 2009, p. 48)? The information made public concerning the fallout from Fukushima, for example, paints a rather hopeful (modern) picture. Even though areas of the Pacific Ocean waters have high levels of radioactive contamination, it is not harmful claims oceanographic expert Bueseller (as cited in Skoloff and Ritter, 2012). Rest assured, says professor of molecular medicine and radiation research Dr. Shunichi Yamashita (as cited in Greene 2012) who also heads the official study of the radioactive impact on the Fukushima population: “The effects of radiation do not come to people that are happy and laughing. They come to people that are weak-spirited, that brood and fret” (p. 3). This distorted logic is even less logical than a reductio ad Hitlerum; perhaps it is what remains of the samurai spirit. In a lecture given in Fukushima City soon after the nuclear meltdown, Yamashita (as cited in, 2011) had these uplifting (modernist) words to say to the public: The name “Fukushima” will be widely known throughout the world. Fukushima, Fukushima, Fukushima, everything is Fukushima. This is great! Fukushima has beaten Hiroshima and Nagasaki. From now on, Fukushima will become the world number 1 name [when it comes to radiation/nuclear incident]. A crisis is an opportunity. This is the biggest opportunity. Hey, Fukushima, you've become famous without any efforts! [a chuckle from the audience] Why not take advantage of this opportunity? For what? Recovery.  Whether resilient or in denial after the nuclear explosions, the people living in Japan continued busily working and walking their young children to school soon after the accident. Those who were hesitant to do so were considered “overreact[ive]” and “silly” (, 2011).  31  In the face of cataclysmic events, denial and apathy are prevailing reactions. Arendt and Beck, however, see a way out of unhelpful modern and postmodern responses. Arendt (1973) wrote Origins “against a background of both reckless optimism and reckless despair” (p. vii). In the 21st century, world-shattering events like Fukushima, like the threat of global financial markets collapsing, like the immanent plague avian influenza and possible other empirically verifiable and unmeasurable metaphysical plagues as will be discussed in chapter 5, “set free a cosmopolitan moment” (Beck, 2009, p. 48) that are in an Arendtian sense, natal. It is Arendt who Beck appeals to at this “cosmopolitan moment.” “Freedom” he says with Arendt, “means strangers acting in concert. Freedom is founded on this ability to make new beginnings” (p. 49), and out of the ashes. In her closing remarks to Origins, Arendt states: “every end in history necessarily contains a new beginning…Beginning, before it becomes a historical event, is the supreme capacity of man” (p. 478-479). While Arendt and Beck can mistakenly be read as cynical, even apocalyptic writers given the terrors and anticipation of terror in their respective subject matters, they do not end their studies on notes of doom or denial but on natality and calls to action. Beck (2009) calls for a solidaristic global ethics of responsibility. No doubt such a call is imperative, especially in the face of widespread denial-optimism that is used as a coping mechanism to survive momentarily but a mechanism that is not sufficient for humanity and the planet as we know it to survive in the long term. As Beck (206) says in other places, we are now “compelled to build bridges in order to survive” (p. 67). One might argue that the cosmopolitan “transformation” (Beck, 2009, p. 48) response to world risk society is just as naïve (hopeful) as modern responses given the ways in which Japanese leaders like Shunichi (2011) and the Kan administration downplayed Fukushima Daiichi’s risks to the public (see Fackler, 2012). Yet, we would be senseless to assume that anything other than cosmopolitan transformation can provide a way for the world to carry on into the future. Nevertheless, can transformation occur if those who hold great amounts of power deny the risks of world risk society? If we did not have scholars like Beck – and anti-nuclear activists like Helen Caldicott, whose work will be addressed in chapter 4 – who confront head-on the world’s most risky manmade risks, what or better yet who (given that responsibility is attached to a who not a what) would we have? I do not disagree with the imperatives that we “need to take pluralism seriously” (Todd, 2009, p. 4) or that “judgment demands thinking beyond the standard scripts” (p. 142); nor do I 32  quarrel with the critique that “the phenomena of schooling” has included some while excluded others from its project (Popkewitz, 2008, p. xv). Given just how sweeping-universal such statements are, judgments on them – which are particular affairs – is impossible. I question, however, if it is helpful let alone just to scapegoat cosmopolitanism – the “rule or principle” (Todd, 2009, p. 141), the “idea” (Popkewitz, 2008, p. xiv) – as a cautionary tale about what it means to be thoughtless or incriminate it as a “cultural space…with great wealth,” “sophisticat[ion],” and urbanity that looks down upon, literally, from “high-rise apartments and brownstones of American cities” (p. 167) those living in urban poverty.5 With that in mind, it is our duty not only as educators but as individuals who share a planet with a “non-excludable plurality” (Beck, 2009, p. 57) to return to the question that Pinar (2009; 2012) continually turns curriculum theorists back to: “what knowledge is of most worth?” when thinking about and teaching toward each and every pressing issue of our time, and issues that cannot be understood without studying the particularities of our distant and not-so-distant past that has led us to this “hyper-modern” – not “post-modern” (Beck, 2009, p. 55) – moment in time. One of the great characteristics of hypermodernity is its skill at severing itself from the poor, pathetic past, which is a weight that must be shed to launch ourselves into the fantastic future. It can be said that hypermodernity and the current culture of “presentism” (see Pinar, 2012, p. 58), a culture which also lacks historical consciousness, are soul(less) mates. As will be discussed in chapter 4, Fukushima is an exemplar hypermodern case to study – not from a hypermodern perspective but for a cosmopolitan education – as it provokes us to think about this un/anticipated catastrophe from an ethical and cultural6 perspective given the fact that the nuclear reactors were clearly not built to safely withstand an earthquake and tsunami of Tohoko’s magnitude. This is but one instance of “organized irresponsibility” (Beck, 2009, p. 2729) which had the intension of creating risk gains which have turned into risk losses of unimaginable proportion and duration. Yet, it is the ethical dimension of world risk society that goes largely unstudied. Instead, under school reforms – which I argue are also global risks – such as Race to the Top, extra points and funding are given to schools that prioritize STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math). We might call this another case of “organized irresponsibility” to be studied as part of a cosmopolitan education given that STEM (see Report to the President, 2012) and the Race to the Top Executive Summary (2009) as a whole are not 33  concerned with questions of ethics whatsoever. In the mid-20th century, Arendt asked us “to think what we are doing.” While there are many avenues one can go down in addressing such a simply written yet profoundly complex statement, I see her words as an invitation to address the ethical dimension in what we are doing. I will take up this address with attention to how rationalistic traditions and aesthetic (literary) traditions, how ethical judgment and an ethic of compassion are central modes of being and acting that form part of a cosmopolitan education.  2.4  Indifference and Ethical Responsibility  Cosmopolitanism and education mean different things to different thinkers. This is no surprise given the reality that each and every one of us is writing from within our own experiences, beliefs, and interests. That said, it still feels rather remarkable just how very different these differences are. It is not my project, however, to create harmony where there is cacophony. It is my duty, however, to study the writings that have been written on its subject, each of which informs and helps give shape to my own contribution to this area of scholarship. In the case of Fukushima, an ongoing event of actually existing cosmopolitanism, one might question if those in power are “thinking cosmopolitan” (Todd, 2009) at all. Is thinking cosmopolitan, however, the only thing that is needed in practicing a cosmopolitan education? It is my position that the cultivation of ethical responsibility which derives from and is cultivated in the mind and the heart is needed to sustain a world habitable not only for humankind. Such is the work of chapter 3 and 4, respectively. Beck (2009) speaks of an antiquated methodological nationalism in an era that beckons methodological cosmopolitanism. As a sociologist interested in new methods for social science research in and for “world risk society” (p. 47), his concern has to do largely with empirical-analytical cosmopolitanism. My research is well within the realm of conceptual analysis, which is not to say that boundary-transgressing phenomena do not inform the meaning of a cosmopolitan education. Indeed, I will re/turn to risky phenomena at different points in this study that take place within national boundaries yet have immanent global, “boundaryless” (Beck, 2006a) ramifications, including creating a society of individuals educated under federally funded school reforms such as STEM education which disregards (global) ethical concerns in the curriculum. For example, is STEM education as it currently stands a sustainable education for a world at risk? Additionally, and with the help of Arendt (2003), an “intersubjective or 34  representational” (p. 141) style, what might also be termed “cosmopolitan hermeneutics” (see Beck, 2009, p. 189), to study literature of the past that informs the present and future will be analyzed and performed in chapters 3 and 5, respectively. While I take cosmopolitanism seriously, as a subject that requires urgent attention, it cannot be denied that there exists rampant indifference to the fate of others and the not-so-distant fate of the planet. Pinar (2012) speaks of a culture of presentism in which the desire for immediate gratification “blurs the boundaries not only between past and future but between self and other.” The question: “what knowledge is of most worth” has been transmogrified into “what’s in it for me” (p. 225), or “what’s your test score” (p. 53)? No doubt, the culture of presentism and escapism – in which handheld gadgets are a potent symbol – cultivates complacency and offers an easy retreat from ontology to fantasy. One might recall Montag’s wife, Mildred, in Ray Bradbury’s (1953) science fiction novel Fahrenheit 451 – an allusion to the temperature at which books burn – plugged-in to her “Seashells stuffed in her ears” (p. 46) with little care for the world in which she lives. Why should she care? It is a world in which nothing is said and at a very loud decimal. While novels like Fahrenheit 451 and other dystopian novels such as Brave New World (Huxley, 1932) and The Handmaid’s Tale (Atwood, 1998) are meant to provoke “public debate and a spur to action, inviting citizens to engage in the labour of preventive foresight,” says Kurasawa (2007, p. 103), reading these books today, we see just how very close we are to their respective fictitious realities. Prophetic, yes, preventative, I’m not so sure. This is not to say that literature and other art forms which might or might not be designated “aesthetic cosmopolitanism” (see p. 187-190) do not have the capacity to move people’s hearts and minds to meaningful action. Certainly aesthetic appreciation can and does connect people at distant corners of the world who would not be connected otherwise; converting this connection to political commitment is the bigger challenge of the work of global justice. While Kurasawa contends that dystopian fiction “nurtures [ethical] foresight” (p. 102), I suggest that it teaches us how the future can be found in the past, which is where much of my own work is located.7 It is Joyce Carol Oats (1994) who said in the title of her modern classic short story: “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” A title that modernizes the biblical passage from the Book of Judges: “Whither goest thou? and whence comest thou?” But it is only through studying the story in full, from beginning to end, that we arrive at the title’s allegorical meaning. 35  Collective indifference to the fate of others and the fate of the planet is one of many challenges the labor of global justice faces. Kurasawa (2007) speaks of a modern world in which “numerous mechanisms of psychological, emotional, and social distancing…immunize or shield most persons from the suffering of others” (p. 40). It is not a far leap from feeling indifferent to acting passively as a bystander, especially when responsibility can be displaced onto others working in the name of principles, institutions, governments. As Arendt famously stated, “where everyone is guilty, no one is.” One concern which propels Kurasawa’s work on critical cosmopolitanism as a practice from below has to do with formulating ways in which individuals can be held responsible for past wrongs and take responsibly in the present. Individual responsibility, however, is different than moral individualism. Societies that value “excessive forms of moral individualism” (p. 41), a kind of neo-liberalist mentality, also build gated communities, a simultaneously real and representative gesture that works at counter-purposes with that of opening up conversation which might or might not lead to solidarity. This is the same mentality that believes if I vote for my favorite contestant on “reality” television, I am participating in civic engagement. These gates and television programs are metaphorically similar to the gibberish talking “walls” that speak to Mildred in Fahrenheit 451, atomizing her from her husband and her friends who also hear the talking walls but don’t listen to the “walls” hidden curriculum that make up Bradbury’s hypermodern – given that the burning of books erases the past – world. Indeed, a narrative imagination like that of Bradbury’s has the ability to make reality that much more real, and the past and future that much more present. Counter to Kurasawa’s contention that modern mechanisms act to distance people from each other, Beck (2009) points out how they can bring people together as was the case with the 2004 Asian tsunami in which amateur filmmakers brought images of death and destruction into our living rooms, images which “forbid apathy” (p. 69). This event provoked an “unprecedented willingness to donate to the relief efforts” (p. 58). The same can be said for the Tohoko earthquake and tsunami in which humanitarian efforts came from over 100 countries, dozens of NGOs, and corporate and private donations. Shunichi (2011) is right: Fukushima has become world famous! Beck (2009) speaks of a “planetary sense of pain” (p. 69) in which “the face of tragedy could have been our own…The old-fashioned word ‘collective fate’ has acquired a new aftertaste of reality, as a cosmopolitan, traumatic experience that shocks and unites the hyper36  individualized world risk society” (p. 70). Social media provides a platform to otherwise undisclosed realities which give “rise to cross-border compassion” (p. 59) as also illustrated in the case of a young man who received a machete to his face by a group of attacking thieves while defending a Kenyan orphanage. The story and image of a freshly stitched and swollen face went viral and subsequently the orphanage was able to upgrade its defenses with donations provided by people from 46 countries within a matter of days (Straziuso, 2012). The “globalization of compassion” (Beck, 2009, p. 58) might also be called the beauty and spontaneity of the human heart. As Derrida (1994) knows and Dostoevsky (1989) aestheticizes, the real gift does not think about giving before it gives. Can spontaneous gift-giving to (distant) others – or an ethic of compassion – be cultivated? I contemplate this question in chapter 4. It would be naïve to suggest that giving on a nation-state level, particularly by those who yield power, is free of attachments. What role does ethical judgment play in practicing a cosmopolitan education? While we can speak and write about judgment as a form of action in the abstract, it only “becomes manifest in the guise of an example” (Arendt, 2006a, p. 243). With that in mind, I conclude this chapter by turning to a recent case in the news which provokes contemplation on notions of ir/responsibility, judgment, and imagination. The news story “In Cheating Cases, Teachers Who Took Risks or Flouted Rules” (Otterman, 2011) concerns the issue of “test tampering or grade changing” in multiple schools throughout New York City. The article reads like a long list publicizing names of teachers and administrators, who were reprimanded, resigned, retired, or were fired over various cases of “cheating scandals.” Motivations for these “cheating schemes” are both brazen and banal, including “inflating the statistics used to evaluate a school and helping a favorite student become eligible to graduate.” Names of the investigators are withheld but their work at exposing these offenses is showcased. One school apparently “participated in a ‘herculean and dishonest’ effort” at giving students answers to a state Regents exam ahead of time. Investigators wrote that “students were not merely permitted but were openly encouraged to cheat.” The article ends with a quote from the Council of Supervisors and Administrators announcing that the city is dealing with the test tampering issue, “and we are probably better at it than anywhere in the country.”  37  This story is a curious case to consider in relation to the faculty of judgment as the various strata of (school) society involved – students, teachers, administrators, the federal government who funds public education and school reforms in which standardized tests are currently the key ingredient, and the writer of the news story itself – are in in one way or another acting irresponsibly, failing to use good judgment, yet it is teachers who are being criminalized most pronouncedly.8 I am not suggesting that the administrators or teachers involved in cheating operations were acting in the name of Thoreauvian civil disobedience. That said, in a culture where a school’s most important responsibility is to have students pass a standardized test, democratic education has become a thing of the past. Moreover, the cheating scandal story functions as an example of the breakdown of the faculty of judgment across a spectrum of society. As will be discussed in chapter 5, when the faculty of judgment erodes in individuals across society, an un/predictable global catastrophe of apocalyptic proportion is underway. While this news story does not appear to be explicitly relevant to the subject of cosmopolitanism, when understood as a world risk like many other world risks Beck (2009) speaks of, it takes on cosmopolitan significance. The problem with collective test tampering – which is different than a collective of bystanders who are more or less obedient supporters of a regime – is not simply a problem with those who tinker with the test but those who create the conditions in which a test defines the life and death of a school, and with it, people’s livelihoods. If a system is morally bankrupt and authoritative, what is the right thing to do? When should a rule be “flouted”? Someone must have known that the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear reactors were not built to code, but either did not care about speaking up (indifference), felt pressure not to (irresponsibility), and/or did not expect the unexpected (no imagination). And we know how the rest of that un/predictable story has played out, though it will never be over.9 “If you start out with a story,” says playwright Friedrich Durrenmatt (as cited in Beck, 2009, p. 129), “you must think it through to its conclusion.” And when it has been thought through to the end, “it has taken the worst possible turn,” a turn that “is not foreseeable,” that “occurs by accident.” It is not an accident that Beck (2009) draws a thematic connection between the “architecture” (p. 129) of drama and that of world risk society. Indeed, Durrenmatt teaches us how the sciences need the humanities and how the humanities need the sciences so that they have something to write about, paint, and perform. 38  But will the scientists care to read what the ‘non-expert’ dares to write; the Sophoclean worst case scenario? Theoretical physicist and Nobel laureate in physics, Steven Weinberg (1994) contends that the physicist “should not expect [philosophy] to provide today’s scientists with any useful guidance about how to go about their work or about what they are likely to find…it is just that a knowledge of philosophy does not seem to be of use to physicists” (p. 167-168). Of course philosophy is not useful in the utilitarian sense of the term because philosophy’s questions deal with issues of meaning and science’s deal with questions that seek to be answered with irrefutable facts. One wonders what Weinberg and other physicists might make of the usefulness in reading, of all things, a play. It was German philosopher and dramatist Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (as cited in Arendt, 1998) who asked: “and what is the use of use” (p. 154)? What a useless question! Regarding the school cheating scandals cited here, what might we learn about the educators who flouted the rules of the standardized tests? No doubt, there is more to the story than the information provided in Otterman’s (2011) news article which criminalizes them and no one else. Does Popkewitz (2008) provide ways for us think about this case?: Enlightenment cosmopolitanism made me do it! Writing for one of the more distinguished newspapers in the world and not for the editorial section, do journalists like Otterman have a responsibility to think more deeply, broadly, imaginatively – with “situated impartiality” (Disch, 1993, p. 666) – when writing on the growing phenomenon of standardized test tampering? We know that Arendt was criminalized by society at large for her own journalistic writings on the Eichmann trial, which judged virtually everyone involved in the trial, from Eichmann, to those who testified against Eichmann, to the Judenrat “collaborators” who, of course, were not even at the trial, to the Israeli court proceedings themself. As Arendt (2003) put it, “the discussion of the right or the ability to judge touches on the most important moral issue” (p. 18). “There exists in our society a widespread fear of judging” (p. 19) because very few are willing to take responsibility for what they have done or not done when something needed to be done. We can say that Otterman (2011) has made her judgment by the simple fact of listing the names of those who have participated in one way or another with the “cheating scandal.” At the same time, because there is no editorializing, does this mean that the article is free from bias? We are reminded that Todd 39  (2009) believes: “given the kind of work teachers do, there is often not a lot for time for thinking” (p. 150). Does this mean that educators or students can claim that they don’t have time to think about their actions, especially when it comes to thinking during the short, stressful span of a timed test? How much thinking is put into multiple choice test design for that matter? What knowledge do the tests deem is of most worth? While these questions are not necessarily cosmopolitan ones from a philosophical perspective, the actions of individuals and collectives as recounted in the Otterman (2011) article act as a kind of warning sign for the breakdown of the faculty of judgment which is a global risk. As Beck (2009) makes clear, it is the “organized irresponsibility” (p. 27-29), acting without good judgment on a grand scale and with global ramifications, that characterize im/probable catastrophes at the beginning of the 21st century. Pinar (2012) describes the current state of public education as authoritarian: “Converting public schools into cram schools institutionalizes just such authoritarianism; in doing so, school reform threatens social democracy in America” (p. 3) and freedom itself. While the authoritarian culture of test-driven public education which has created conditions for collective test tampering “engulf[ing] school districts” up and down the east coast of the United States (see Otterman, 2011) does not have the same immediacy as other global risks such as avian flu or radioactive contamination of the atmosphere, we have an obligation to think the rather large story of “school deform” out to its conclusion, too. So far, school deform – which has plagued the United States since the ironically titled A Nation at Risk was published – has not caused teachers and students to wear medical masks on their faces during school hours for fear of catching the flu. Nor has it provoked school officials to use Geiger counters to check for radionuclide levels on playground equipment and school food, at least on this side of the Pacific Ocean. On the other hand, school closures bear an uncanny resemblance to the town of Namie, Fukushima, which is no longer in existence. Evacuated due to “alarming radiation levels” (Okazaki, 2011), traces of what once were there still remain. Environmental health hazards also act as a backdrop setting in Atwood’s (1998) novel The Handmaid’s Tale: “Chemicals, rays, radiation, the water swarmed with toxic molecules” (p. 112). It is a world in which conception is nearly impossible and those few who can conceive might give birth to “unbabies,” those physically deformed newborns who are sent straight to the “shredders.” In the opening scene of the novel, a group of women are being ‘educated’ for their 40  new roles as handmaids in a large, open room that was once a high school basketball stadium. The “hoops for the basketball nets were still in place, though the nets were gone…a palimpsest of unheard sound” (p. 3) fills the narrator, Offred’s, imagination in a place where talking is now forbidden. The only freedom Offred has exists inside her mind and heart, an inward, dark freedom that has nothing to do with “[f]reedom as a demonstrable fact” which can be seen in the light of day that we call politics (Arendt, 2006a, p. 147). This private, heartfelt freedom begins to fade as time slips by. Nearing the end of her story, Offred is “beyond caring” (Atwood, 1998, p. 270), having become both “reckless” (p. 268) and “faithless” (p. 269) in ways not so different from the indifferent, reckless abandon, the “anything goes but boredom” (Botwinick, 2004, p. 53), atmosphere that characterized 1930s Weimar Germany. It should be noted that an anything goes attitude which implies doing whatever one wants is different than freedom as the latter needs a “common public space” to act in “the company of other men” (Arendt, 2006a, p. 147) and is done in some kind of organized fashion. It is in such cases as Offred’s – under antipolitical totalitarianism, under “an ‘authoritarian’ pedagogy” (Pinar, 2012, p. 3) – that inner freedom potentially leading to outer freedom can be cultivated if individuals are able “to have an image in my mind of something that is not present” (Arendt, 2003, p. 139). The mental ability to imagine something different allows one to step away from, to place distance between oneself and another which is precisely what totalitarianism aims to destroy: “the space between” (Arendt, 1973, p. 466) that allows plurality, freedom, and politics to exist. Political action can only happen under conditions of freedom, and freedom is founded on “the human condition of plurality” (Arendt, 1998, p. 7). What is so frightening about Atwood’s story is just how quickly the handmaids adopt the position and rules of the authoritarian mindset. This is how totalitarianism works: it presses people together so tightly that subjectivities “disappear into One Man of gigantic dimensions” (Arendt, 1973, p. 466). The handmaids do not judge their life circumstances which have been forced upon them because they have lost the tools to imagine something different. Judgment, Arendt (1978: 2) via Kant reminds, is cultivated by “training your imagination to go visiting” (p. 257). The more one’s imagination visits other times and places different from one’s own, the closer one comes to “adopt[ing] the position of Kant’s world citizen.” “Linked abilities” (Young-Bruehl, 2006, p. 166), the faculty of imagination and the faculty of judgment work between the particular and the general, the subject of the next chapter. 41  If I want to paint a pretty flower, I imagine flowers I have seen but I also imagine the most beautiful flower that has never been seen or painted. If I need to make a judgment, I do not passively accept the thoughts or rules of another, yet I take into consideration the “standpoint” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 258) of others in forming the particular judgments that I make which, when done over a period of time, sometimes a lifetime, help me arrive at my own “general, though perhaps not universal [standpoint]” (Arendt, 2003, p. 140). It is the latter, in particular, which contains a “positive ethical motif” (Gadamer, 2004, p. 19) as it allows one to distinguish what ought (not) to be done. In speaking upon Arendt’s lectures on Kant, Curtis (1999) hones in on the ethical quality to making judgments:  To take responsibility as citizens for the world and the public well-being, we must visit our world in the tension-filled, dual mode of community member and solitary being. The communicative involvements of each open us out upon different “worlds” that must be mediated within each judging person for judgment to foster the ethical orientation for which Arendt’s ontological concerns call. (p. 123)  The intersubjective movement between the particular and the general, between the self and other is also referred to as sensus communis, or common sense (see Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 258-272). It is in cultivating one’s imagination and exercising one’s judgment that we are able to make sense of our lives and the world. In his appeal to the Roman concept of sensus communis, Vico maintains that the faculty of imagination is particularly important for educating youth who have yet to “tread the path of critical research. Youth demands images for its imagination and for forming its memory” (Gadamer, 2004, p. 19). How can these faculties be trained? In listening to storytelling or narratives we use our imaginations; in thinking critically about and discussing with others the meanings of the stories, we practice using our judgment. These exercises, says Arendt drawing from Kant, allow one to visit different places, to become “well-traveled; not isolated but connected; not provincial but cosmopolitan” (Young-Bruehl, 2006, p. 166). As part of the both/and ethic of a cosmopolitan education, in chapter 3, I will turn my thoughts to sensus  42  communis with particular attention placed on Arendt’s performance of judgment through her style of political theorizing that she calls storytelling. In this chapter, I have provided a critical review of several key texts written in the newly forming field of cosmopolitanism and education. I do not subscribe to a Foucauldian reading of cosmopolitanism like that purported by Popkewitz (2008) for the primary reason that (ethical) responsibility cannot be exercised if agency is a myth. It is a postmodern myth to say that human beings have no agency – even if the agency one has is limited based on life circumstances. It is human beings who have modernized and hypermodernized the world in which we live. In chapter 4, however, I will draw a connection, like Popkewitz does, between school reform and cosmopolitanism, albeit imagined in a different way. In short, school reform or the more accurately termed “school deform” (Pinar, 2009, p. 151) could result in empirical cosmopolitan catastrophes. While I appreciate Todd’s (2009) concern that education ought to pay heed to Arendtian style thinking and judging, I do not think that cosmopolitanism stifles thinking and judging and it certainly does not in its subjective manifestations (see Pinar, 2009). While these three key texts on cosmopolitanism and education provide a wealth of ideas, concerns, and problems to consider in helping me to articulate my understanding of a cosmopolitan education, it is Kurasawa’s (2007) bottom-up practice of critical cosmopolitanism and Beck’s (2009) “cosmopolitan moment” of world risk society (p. 15) which help give shape to the ethical dimensions of a cosmopolitan education that most pronouncedly inform my work in the following chapters.  43  Chapter 3: On Storytelling: An Activity of Ethical Judgment  3.1  Introduction: Thinking and Common Sense Reasoning The aim of totalitarian education has never been to instill convictions but to destroy the capacity to form any. Hannah Arendt (1973, p. 468)  In his philosophical study Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers, Kwame Anthony Appiah (2006) refers to the role that narrative imagination has played in human affairs throughout history. He speaks in both general terms about the narrative imagination – e.g., “[w]e wouldn’t recognize a community as human if it had no stories, if its people had no narrative imagination” (p. 29) – and in particular terms – e.g., “the Ananse stories I grew up with in Asante, weren’t just read or recited: they were discussed, evaluated, referred to in everyday life.” Reflecting upon human affairs in this way, i.e., moving between issues of general significance and those of particular interest, Appiah performs intersubjectivity, a moving between different perspectives that resonates with the philosophical notion of sensus communis, or common sense, which is practiced by traveling to other places with the faculty of imagination. In the Critique of Judgement, Kant (as cited in Arendt, 1978) calls this movement “enlargement of the mind” (p. 257). Indeed, “positivism” – which interprets the world from a hypothetical Archimedean vantage point – “gets in the way of the cosmopolitan project,” says Appiah (2006, p. 18), due to its insistence on seeing and subsequently understanding the world in terms of facts rather than or along with making sense of the world by way of recognizable human values. Though Appiah does not directly discuss the “how” (method or pedagogy) of his “what” (content or curriculum), this chapter asks if there is or are cosmopolitan styles that might or might not coincide with writing upon content that is of consequence to a cosmopolitan consciousness, such as narrative imagination. I will also consider why such a style may be valuable for inquiring into today’s “new questions” and “unprecedented circumstances” that Hannah Arendt helps us to think so much about (Derrida, 2001, p. 7). In the last few years, scholars of literature have published critical analyses of fictional narratives they call Cosmopolitan Style (Walkowitz, 2006) and The Cosmopolitan Novel (Schoene, 2011). Yet, there has been little “meta” attention paid to the ways in which scholars 44  who study the empirical, phenomenological world and whose concerns might be deemed cosmopolitan are seen to perform a cosmopolitan narrative style to communicate the content of their ideas. One of a few who ventures in this “meta” direction is Farah Godrej (2009). Interested in the ways non-Western texts have been studied by political theorists, Godrej aims is to provide “an account of a methodological self-conscious approach to comparative political theory” as a way to open the doors for a “genuine…cosmopolitan political theory” (p. 135). Such a cosmopolitan political theory, says Godrej, is rooted in a hermeneutic gesture of “selfunderstanding in relation to the text” (p. 148), a move that bears similarity to the “method of currere” (Pinar, 2004, p. 35) and allegory (Pinar, 2012) in curriculum studies which both seek to understand the relationship between “self and society through study” (p. 52). Differently, Ulrich Beck (2009) discusses the meaning of “methodological cosmopolitanism” for sociological research as a way “to interpret boundary-transcending anticipations” (p. 177). In this way, Beck’s proposed cosmopolitan methodology is focused more upon knowledge acquisition than it is on making meaning of phenomena that have already occurred. With Godrej and Beck, we see that there is interest in thinking about cosmopolitanism in methodological terms and for their respective disciplines. Somewhat differently, my intent is to study methods or styles already performed – specifically that of Arendt’s – to arrive at new understandings of the old, which help us to make sense of the cosmopolitan present and to guide thinking and judging of issues of ethical importance – e.g., rights, responsibility, justice – that effect our present and future. With these thoughts in mind, the aim of this chapter is to interpret Arendt’s narrative style for its own sake and, in the following chapter, for the sake of other reasons, namely in order to understand our cosmopolitical present. In chapter 5, I will draw from and perform Arendt’s way of thinking and judging by way of interpreting a piece of world literature from the 19th century – Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment – which helps us think about our past, present, and un/predictable future circumstances. If one might be able to fashion a style to inquiry deemed cosmopolitan, a style that should also not to be conflated or confused with a Cosmopolitan Style found in fiction writing (see Walkowitz, 2007), it would behoove us to attend to ways in which such a style has come about, which means first tracing how past scholarship has influenced a “cosmopolitan sensibility” (Hansen, 2008, p. 289). For in studying the past, which includes studying artistic artifacts of the past, Pinar (2012) explains, “we find the future” (p. 49). Finding 45  the future, however, does not mean utilizing scientific techniques which aim to control future outcomes as some have claimed is cosmopolitanism’s intent (Popkewitz, 2008). As mentioned, there are few places in Arendt’s writings that discuss cosmopolitan existence or citizenship directly. For one reason, cosmopolitanism as an area of study has gained traction subsequent to her death and due to technological innovations which have made the world much smaller, though doubtfully happier or wiser. That said, those scholars who have helped form the field of political cosmopolitanism, such as Derrida (2001), Benhabib (2006), and Honig (as cited in Benhabib, 2006) draw extensively and rather exclusively from Arendt’s more visibly political work on “the right to have rights” as located in Origins and the need for an international criminal tribunal as described in Eichmann. These two texts are also the primary ones I look to in this chapter if for different reasons. It is in one of her most philosophical and least worldly studies, The Life of the Mind (the other being her dissertation, Love and Saint Augustine), however, where Arendt shows her cosmopolitan colors quite distinctly though it is also where her style is more theoretical than it is narrative. I contend that it is in her least political texts where Arendt (1978) traces the roots of “new cosmopolitanism” (see Todd, 2009, p. 25-27), with the emphasis she places on Kantian (as cited in Arendt, 1978) “reflective judgment” and issues of moral imperative which ascend “from the particular to the universal” (1: p.69). It is also here and in her Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy (1982) where Arendt (1978: 1) discusses sensus communis, a kind of thinking and perceiving done in the world of appearances – and not in solipsistic Cartesian cogito ergo sum solitude – as it “includes others who perceive like I do” (p. 50). Saint Thomas Aquinas was the first to refer to common sense as a “mysterious ‘sixth sense’,” for it cannot, like the other senses, be traced back to one specific bodily organ yet it only comes about with the five senses working together. In this way, the sixth sense forms a bridge between me and you. Arendt draws a distinction between Aquinasian common sense reasoning and Cartesian thinking. The former is rooted in the body; the latter derives from and stays within the mind and the mind alone. As a theorist of the phenomenological world who is writing about the life of the mind, Descartes’ “error,” says Arendt, was that he hoped “he could overcome his doubt by insisting on withdrawing from the world altogether, eliminating every worldly reality from his thoughts” (p. 52). In short, Cartesian doubt values “self-sufficiency” and a kind of “self46  inspection” that is unworldly (p. 48) and un-communal. As The Life of the Mind can be read as a response and resistance to the frightening phenomenon of totalitarianism, it becomes that much clearer why Arendt is concerned with the survival of common sense reasoning. Moreover, nothing about totalitarianism is sensible and everything that totalitarian leaders say cleverly follows the logic of a geometric proof. Logicality, especially when hammered into people’s heads over a period of time, becomes so overwhelming, as Stalin (as cited in Arendt, 1973) well knew, “you must either surrender or make up your mind to utter defeat” (p. 472). It can likewise be surmised that one of the reasons why Arendt did not think of herself as a philosopher is because the philosopher’s life stays almost exclusively within the thinking mind; it is a place that can be both “unreliable and treacherous” (Arendt, 1973, p. 476) as it lacks tangibility, “realness,” and the plurality needed for common sense reasoning. Without common sense, sensus communis, it is impossible to survive, and Arendt is concerned with survival. Storytelling provided Arendt with an alternative and middle-way between the two extremes of common sense reasoning (or scientific method) and philosophical thought (or Platonic idealism). But more than just a middle-ground, stories break the unbearable silence and otherwise indescribable isolation that would be human existence without them. As curriculum theorist Susan Edgerton (1996) states, “stories are survival material” (p. 75).10 For the aim of the “devastating sand storm” (Arendt, 1973, p. 478) that is totalitarian domination is not just to destroy the ability to survive, but to destroy the very source of life itself, otherwise known as natality. Beck (2009) appeals to Arendt in “the ‘cosmopolitan moment’ of world risk society” (p. 48), a place of “(mis)fortune” that opens up possible new beginnings, or natality. Arendt and Beck’s written words have more immediacy to them when contextualized in the recently spoken words of a seven year old girl, Mutsumi, evacuated from the Fukushima prefecture. In the documentary film Children of the Tsunami (BBC, 2012), Mutsumi wears a dosimeter on her person that monitors radiation levels. Like the other children from Fukushima, she is required to wear the instrument, called by the children their “glass badge,” as part of a long-term scientific experiment of which the children have unwittingly become. Mutsumi says to us who view her story: “So that we can carry on living into the future, we’re going to have babies, and make more people, so we have to be careful [emphasis added].” Though her words are wise and sensible, we 47  cannot say that her wisdom and sensibility are common to all. Without understanding the cosmopolitan moment in this way, a moment that requires careful consideration and thoughtful action from everyone but especially from the so-called experts, we revert back to either acting with modern optimism-denial or respond to the illusion of infinite progress with postmodern nihilism-apathy, both of which have the very real potential to lead humanity as we know it into total oblivion. In contrast to the philosophers who thinks for thinking’s sake and need no method for their work, stands the scientists who thinks for the sake of other reasons, namely to come up with “better, more promising approaches, called methods” (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 54) in the search for new kinds of knowledge. The problem with modern science is that the scientific hunger for knowing more is never satiated because there is always something more to know. As a case in point, the mayor of Date City in the Fukushima prefecture, Shoji Nishida (2012), has encouraged farmers to grow rice in areas where levels of radioactive contamination exceed national safety levels. The explanation provided for growing it is “to identify the reasons for cesium detection in rice, and to study the effect of decontamination.” 11 Here, we see an illustration of the ways in which there is always something more that the scientist can discover, can test, and can improve through trial and error. In this sense, scientific processes are the “most refined mode of common sense reasoning” (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 57). Even if the materials that a scientist works with are invisible to the naked eye, such as atoms, what they study is not invisible in the same way as that of the philosopher’s materials, which are thoughts. While one cannot see Descartes’ proof that God exists or that “there are no dangerous thoughts; thinking itself is dangerous” (Arendt, 2003, p. 177), scientific work with atoms becomes tangible to the naked eye through the innovation of, say, nuclear power. And in a world that values tangibility and tangibility that can do something material-practical such as generate energy, there is little room or value for uncommon philosophizing, as this latter kind of work, of which ethics is a branch, contains no perceptible product. In other words, ethics is useless. We are reminded that schools which prioritize “a rigorous course of study” in STEM and in cooperation with “industry experts, museums, universities, research centers, and other STEMcapable community partners” (R2T, 2009, p. 4) are given extra points, “15 points, all or nothing,” which materialize into funding in the Race to the Top (R2T) educational reform 48  program. In other words, STEM education is very useful. Part of a cosmopolitan education, which values the cultivation of the faculty of imagination, asks the question: how might educational reforms like NCLB and R2T present themselves to the world over time? When students educated under these reforms currently, for example, work in STEM-type professions in the future, professions which involve taking actions that affect humanity and the planet, what will our future look like? How would the imagined future – a future we are reminded is envisioned in dystopian fictions – be different if the mission of STEM and other educational initiatives of its ilk included a “precautionary principle” (Ewald as cited in Beck, 2009) of Cartesian doubt, much like that articulated by the little girl Mutsumi of Fukushima who said, “we have to be careful”? According to Ewald:  Before any action, I must not only ask myself what I need to know and what I need to master, but also what I do not know, what I dread or suspect. I must, out of precaution, imagine the worst possible, the consequence that an infinitely deceptive, malicious daemon could have slipped into an apparently innocent enterprise. (p. 53)  While writers like Todd (2009) have formulated their critique of cosmopolitanism as a principle which cultivates thoughtlessness, the Cartesian principle as paraphrased here requires that the imagined STEM student now turned physicist or engineer imagine the worst possible turn, a turn that those involved with the building of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plant either chose not to or did not know how to imagine. Why didn’t they? One explanation might be that their job is to examine evidence, not imagine different possibilities of which there is no evidence to support those possibilities. The issue at stake, however, is that there are no “guarantees that the new [scientific] evidence will prove to be more reliable than the discarded evidence” (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 54). For example, what we know today about how genetically engineered foods effect human health will be different from what we will know tomorrow. Here, we see how a scientist’s expertise at common sense reasoning could use some help from the philosopher’s thinking for thought’s and judgment’s sake. It is the “very great thinker” Kant (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 65), who in the Critique of Judgement, describes the differences between sensus communis, or community sense, and private 49  sensations such as how a meal tastes, how a bed feels, how a home smells, how a person looks, or how a language sounds. The difference between the two is that the latter is “merely passive, we react, we are not spontaneous, as we are when we imagine something at will or reflect on it” (Arendt, 1982, p. 70). As Arendt points out, at the “opposite pole” of private sensations “we find moral judgments.” When people reflect on and communicate with others about their personal tastes and pleasures, collective or community agreements can be formed. When we judge, says Kant, we judge as “a member of a community” (p. 72). What is important to note in the faculty of judgment, however, is that it begins in the particular, with an individual response and ascends to general agreement “the less idiosyncratic one’s taste is, the better it can be communicated” (p. 73). While I do not need others to agree or disagree with me that this apple tastes good, I do need the presence of others when making judgments and even if those judgments are not strictly moral. As a former high school English teacher, I often had my students bring in drafts of their essays to share with other students in the class. The class would critique each other’s writing with a sense of “impartiality” or what Kant calls “disinterestedness” as to how well their peers articulated ideas, insights, and arguments about a piece of literature. Their critiques were impartial in the sense that they had nothing quantifiable to gain from the process. Given that students asked for regular opportunities to do this kind of work, we might say they had “an ‘interest’ in disinterestedness” (p. 73). Practicing this form of judgment-making together as a class and over a school year had the un/intentional, spontaneous effect of helping students learn to judge their own individual writing; they imagined not only the places that they travelled via the literature they studied but also imagined themselves “at the standpoint of others” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1982, p. 71) that were their classmates’ perspectives as they wrote and rewrote their essays in solitude. This kind of work in which we “compar[e] our judgments with the possible rather than the actual judgments of others” (Kant, 1914, p. 170) is what Kant means by acting as a member of a community. In her lectures on Kant’s Critique of Judgement and sensus communis more specifically, Arendt (1982) adds:  But in the last analysis, one is a member of a world community by the sheer fact of being human; this is one’s “cosmopolitan existence.” When one judges and when one acts in 50  political matters, one is supposed to take one’s bearing from the idea, not the actuality, of being a world citizen and, therefore…a world spectator. (p. 75-76) It is at this point where Kant’s Critique of Judgement begins to join up with his major Enlightenment concern for “inalienable human rights” (p. 75) as articulated in Perpetual Peace. Such rights can only come about when we understand that all humankind has “common possession of the earth” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1982, p. 75); from a new cosmopolitan vantage point which is less inclined to anthropocentrism, I would revise Kant’s statement to say that what we have in common is that we are hosts and guests not possessors of the earth. Where democracy is an anthropocentric system, “cosmocracy,” says Skolimoski (2003) is democracy “extended to all beings” (p. 154). Being a host and a guest means honoring rather than conquering the place we call home. This commonality brings us back to the reasons why Kant and Arendt believe that judgments are made when one is a member of a more or less free community. Arendt revisits Kant’s notions of human rights throughout nearly everything she wrote but most meticulously and extensively in Origins. Here, she traces the disintegration of inalienable human right as illustrated at the end of the First World War which ushered in a series of civil wars and the subsequent displacement of peoples. Using literary tropes of epistrophe and anaphora, Arendt (1973) describes the precarious situation in Europe at the time. The civil wars:  were followed by migrations of groups who, unlike their happier predecessors, in the religious wars, were welcomed nowhere and could be assimilated nowhere. Once they had left their homeland they remained homeless, once they had left their state they became stateless; once they had been deprived of their human right they were rightless, the scum of the earth. (p. 267)12  While there has been valuable scholarship written on the role that Walter Benjamin has played in helping Arendt shape her narrative style (e.g., Benhabib, 1990; Herzog, 2000), if we are to understand her style in cosmopolitan terms, which this chapter aims to put forth, it is equally important to consider how thinking and common sense reasoning have helped Arendt device a style for writing about a form of government, totalitarianism, that no one at the time had 51  seen or experienced before. Because totalitarianism was unprecedented in terms of its ability to destroy the capacity to think under its “irresistible force of logic” (Stalin as cited in Arendt, 1973, p. 472), the “officially recognized or officially controversial instruments” (Arendt, 1953, p. 77) of the social sciences could not assist Arendt in her work as they were devised to make sense out of phenomena humanity had already experienced and understood. Nor would thinking as the philosopher thinks be an effective approach to writing about her anti/political subject matter. In this way, we see a methodological problem in writing about what Arendt calls “Ideology and Terror: A Novel Form of Government.” And though “Arendt almost never discussed methodological problems, [h]er writings contain only scattered remarks on this topic” (Vollrath, 1977, p. 161), in studying the style of her work – what Vollrath calls her “method” – which can be seen most readily in Origins,13 we learn not only why she has often been misunderstood but also come to understand that her style of theorizing subjects of an ethical import was an ethic in and of itself. Storytelling provided Arendt with a flexible structure to make judgments upon the moral and epistemological crisis that was totalitarianism. As Disch (1993) explains, “[u]nderstanding Arendt’s storytelling is critical to making sense of her appropriation of Kant’s Third Critique” (p. 668), the Critique of Judgement. And making moral judgments and acting responsibly is a subject of increasing concern in this cosmopolitan moment which is fraught with unethical actions on a global scale and of global significance.14 Arendt’s (1953) “rather unusual approach” (p. 77) to political theorizing has been discussed in positive terms by multiple scholars already; it has also been “attacked by social scientists” (Disch, 1993, p. 668) for not engaging in sounder forms of empirical research. It is the former critiques of Arendt’s work and Arendt’s work itself that help shape my own, which is inspired by the ideas of “storytelling as critical thinking” and moral perception via Kant’s Critique of Judgement. What does storytelling have to do with the current cosmopolitan moment? For Beck (2009), world risk society must be understood through storytelling, too. “Indeed, the ‘stories’ of world risk society must be thought through to their conclusion…[and] with the attempt to anticipate the worst possible turn” (p. 129). These turns, says Beck, inspired by Arendt and Durrenmatt are unforeseeable, unimaginable, and unpredictable, and their accidental actualizations bind humanity together in compulsory and  52  unlikely ways. It is not that Earth is being attacked by aliens; rather we are attacking our own planet. The paradox of cosmopolitanism asks: how do we save ourselves from ourselves? For its skeptics, cosmopolitanism’s “contradictory logic” of having responsibilities to the local and global, to the particular and universal dooms it to failure (see Todd, 2009, p. 139); for others, cosmopolitanism is a space of challenges though not solutions for living together in a common world that is “not founded on a common past” (Beck, 2009, p. 12) and which is threatened by the incalculability of incalculable risks. As Beck explains, we live in a world where it is becoming increasingly difficult to make distinctions between perceived threats, which create deliberate and unwarranted hysteria, and actual threats, which warrant some form of action. For example, we do not know for sure what the terrorists are up to – when they will strike, if they will strike, or how they will strike. This lack of certainty can and has created a culture of fear and paranoia which results in “a seemingly rational ‘totalitarianism of defence against threats’” (p. 9). Such examples put world risk society in an awkward situation. Another problem we face is that “risk research” (p. 11) uses scientific methods to identify that which is unidentifiable and unpredictable. Does this then mean we should drop the scientific method and use what Beck refers to as “attitude research,” a kind of subjective research that is “viewed and analysed…as an individual reaction and response to ‘objective’ risks as measured by various ‘heuristics’ of individual judgement and understanding” (p. 11)? No doubt, it is the latter where “prejudices and mistakes are assumed to lie,” Beck adds. Moreover, how is it possible to respond to the scientific victories turned crises that modern man has created without science’s help? Herein lays one of the stymieing ironies and double-binds of our time. As Beck appreciates in his own appeal to her work, Arendt is the theorist who gave new meaning to the words “unpredictable,” “unprecedented,” and “incomprehensible” sixty years ago in her “field manual” (Young-Bruehl, 2006, p. 60) for the unprecedented that is Origins, words which takes on yet again new and important meaning in the 21st century of which has experienced such unprecedented and unimaginable manufactured catastrophes as 9/11 and the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster to name but the bookends of a frightening ten year period, the former of which Young-Bruehl (2006) called to our attention in Why Arendt Matters. As will be discussed in the next chapter, Arendt is also the theorist par excellence of situated paradoxes whose unparalleled perceptions of invisible phenomena can be of help, says Beck (2009), in this 53  “cosmopolitan moment” which calls for “transformation” (p. 48) and “a call for new beginnings” (p. 49), echoing Arendt (1998) on natality as “the miracle that saves the world” (p. 247). The world could use some saving. In their ability to “illuminate the earth…stories can save the world” (Herzog, 2000, p. 17), too. “The ‘exemplary validity’ of stories links people together, creates communication, hence opposes the destruction of the public world, which Arendt calls darkness.” Might storytelling, in its Arendtian sense, be a cosmopolitan enterprise? If it is, it is in our interest to reflect upon Arendt’s storytelling, an innovative “method of political thinking” (Vollrath, 1977, p. 160) that confronted an incomprehensible past of which helps us navigate though not control “an ocean of uncertainty” (Arendt, 1998, p. 244) that is the future.  3.2  On Storytelling  Conceptually, we may call truth what we cannot change; metaphorically, it is the ground on which we stand and the sky that stretches above us. Hannah Arendt (2006a, p. 259)  One of the few places Arendt discusses methodological issues is in a response to a book review on Origins written by Eric Voegelin, a review which will be directly addressed in the next section of this chapter. Here, Arendt (1953) describes “the problem of method” as a “problem of ‘style’” (p. 78), which is “bound up with the problem of understanding” (p. 79) the unprecedented event of totalitarianism. Describing the unprecedented by adhering to “officially recognized” (p. 77) methods within the political and historical sciences was not an option for Arendt because these instruments which relied on Archimedean thinking did not draw the kind of distinctions, clarifications, or judgments that make up her work. Because totalitarianism and the senselessness of its actors’ actions can never be fully understood as they fall outside the utilitarian nature of the majority of action, “organized research” on the camps – the true “central institution of totalitarian organizational power” (Arendt, 1973, p. 438) – such as “questionnaires, interviews, statistics, or the scientific evaluation of these data” is as “wrong as it sounds plausible” (Arendt, 1994, p. 323). Thinking and writing about totalitarianism from within the tradition of philosophy, on the other hand, also proved problematic for Arendt because of philosophy’s Platonic reliance on abstract thinking, on principles and “‘pre-articulated’ rules” 54  (Nussbaum as cited in Disch, 1993, p. 670) which function as “banisters” (Arendt as cited in Disch, 1993, p. 669) to help one navigate the unnavigable, i.e., totalitarianism, a novel form of government. As Disch (1993) points out, since Plato turned his back on politics after Socrates’ execution, philosophy no longer had the “ethical resources to understand totalitarianism and resist it” (p. 669). Because its nature is to describe particular events, storytelling provided Arendt with a style to write about and to make judgments upon a subject that demanded an ethical response. Hence, Arendt’s later re/turn to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Kant’s Third Critique which take up the subject of practical judgments. For Aristotle (2002), “practical judgment is concerned with action, so that it needs to have both universals and particulars, or more so the latter” (p. 109). Arendt’s (1953) style is not historiography either, which “is necessarily salvation and frequently justification” for the events being described; rather, it is an “analysis” of the “elements which crystallized into totalitarianism” (p. 78), elements not origins as the monograph mistakenly suggests. For example, stating that the majority of prisoners in the camps were nothing other than “ghastly marionettes…which all behave like the dog in Pavlov’s experiments” (p. 455) and who go “like dummies to their death,” or that the camps were “hell on earth” (Arendt, 1953, p. 79) was more truthful, more “objective,” than statements about the camps “of a purely sociological or psychological nature” (p. 79). In other words, the only way to write truthfully about the camps was to do so by making judgments upon them. Arendt (as cited in Disch, 1993) was acutely aware that telling the facts of the death camps without narrating its truths only succeeded “in making a true story sound unconvincing” (Arendt, 1946, p. 671) as in the case, she says, of The Black Book: The Nazi Crime Against the Jewish People. Like Virginia Woolf’s writing, Arendt’s contains “more truth than fact” (Disch, 1993, p. 688). To add to the difficulty of writing about that which defies explanation, Arendt (1953) adds that using the “image of hell” (p. 79) was not meant to be taken “allegorically but literally.” One can more fully appreciate the distinction she makes here when she describes the act of thinking “whose language is entirely metaphorical and whose conceptual framework depends entirely on the gift of metaphor” as the “instrument enabling us to know and deal with the world” (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 123). And dealing with the world for Arendt was always an ethical undertaking, yet one which must avoid “moralizing” or “sentimentali[zing]” (Arendt, 1953, p. 55  78) its subject in order to maintain its power of integrity. Arendt is not as interested in defining the phenomenon of totalitarianism “so much as answer[ing] its ethical and epistemological challenge” (Disch, 1993, p. 689). As a cosmopolitan education encourages the cultivation of ethical responsibility in a world that is already alarmingly cosmopolitan – e.g., the Fukushima nuclear disaster has health and ecological ramifications of global proportion and seismic duration – and considers other world risks such as a public education system in which examination-driven curriculum has nothing to do with teaching practical judgment or cultivating caring world citizens, the particular outcomes of which are risky to say the least, we ought to consider the ways in which Arendt’s concerns surrounding the ethical implications of totalitarianism can help us think about what we are doing in and for the world today. This world includes that of public education. As risk society theorist Anthony Giddens (1999) knows, “the idea of risk and responsibility are in fact closely linked” (p. 1). In 1960, Arendt delivered a paper in which she described her style of political theorizing as “my old-fashioned story-telling” (p. 11), a “representational narrative” (Benhabib, 1990, p. 183) form of writing that cannot be pigeonholed into a particular school of thought. In Arendt’s (1953) own words: “My first problem was how to write historically about something – totalitarianism – which I did not want to conserve but on the contrary felt compelled to destroy” (p. 77). Arendt’s earlier writings do “appear more dogmatic than innovative” (Disch, 1993, p. 675) without understanding the relationship between style, perspective, and content. Nonetheless, her ability to tell the story of totalitarianism is from my perspective unsurpassed in any of the other stories she has told because of the difficulties she faced in describing the indescribable. Indeed, humanity is better equipped to understand the musselman, for example, through metaphors and paradoxes – e.g. a marionette; a living corpse – than with “factual” terminology – e.g., someone 6 feet tall weighing 75 pounds, with shaved head, dysentery, scabies, and/or typhus. Yet what makes Arendt’s style of theorizing unique is not simply her use of literary conventions in writing about subjects of a philosophical, anti/political, and historical nature whose truths are more often than not “beyond words” (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 117). Her storytelling also aims to be fair-minded by locating itself from within a “plurality of perspectives” (Disch, 1993, p. 666). This is how it gets its bearings, not through triangulation – a method in the social 56  sciences that Pinar (2012) calls candidly: “ugly jargon” (p. 48) – but rather through “situated impartiality” (Disch, 1993, p. 666). Such situatedness does not speak from a place of neutrality nor single-mindedness. It does, however, present a space in which “judgments can be formed” (Arendt as cited in Disch, 1993, p. 672). Arendt’s style of theorizing is not as interested in telling the facts of a particular event or prescribing to a set of principles but, rather, aims to “tell provocative stories that invite contestation from rival perspectives” (p. 667). Indeed, such invitations were accepted by others who felt unnerved that Arendt appeared more at home when writing from the perspective of an anti-Semite than from a Jew’s (see Benhabib, 1990, p. 184). One might say that Arendt (1998) theorized her own style of theorizing when describing the discovery of the Archimedean point in the world of the natural sciences, noting that the laws of nature were subsequently applied to the human world via the social sciences (p. 323). The good news is that we have thinkers such as Arendt who clarify that human activities do not follow the same rules as the rise and fall of the ocean tides. Moreover:  [T]he action of the scientists, since it acts into nature from the standpoint of the universe and not into the web of human relationships, lacks the revelatory character of action as well as the ability to produce stories and become historical, which together form the very source from which meaningfulness springs into and illuminates human existence. (p. 324)  The unintended consequence of the truly remarkable story of modern science is that, generally speaking, humankind participates in the world as if we were not participants at all. It is as if we have accepted the false-truth that we are atoms, behaving however we want to in a world where “everything is permitted” (Arendt, 1973, p. 440), and the fallouts of these ‘everythings’ such as those from Fukushima Daiichi are still being denied even when we do not know exactly what they are. They can’t be good. As Arendt clarifies, the world in which everything is permitted is tied to self-interested “utilitarian motives” that are, for example, evident in the lives of such notorious amoral careerist-opportunists as Adolf Eichmann (see Arendt, 2006b) and disbarred medical researcher Andrew Wakefield and other researchers of his ilk (see Naik, 2011). This is not to say that Eichmann had the IQ of Wakefield or that Wakefield is a Nazi. Both men, nevertheless, failed to use their individual human judgment when calculating how to advance 57  their own careers in which other human lives were seen as superfluous to their own ends. In this regard, their respective actions were still useful in the strict sense of the term and however perverse that might sound. As Arendt (1973) explains, it is only within the world of anti-utilitarian totalitarian domination where “everything is possible [italics added]” (p. 440). As a case in point, the Nazi war machine was seriously handicapped by the “enormous, costly extermination factories” and transportation machinery that shipped “millions of people back and forth,” giving the “whole enterprise an air of mad unreality” (p. 445). Levi (1989) provides further explanation on what makes totalitarianism anti-utilitarian when describing how concentration camp prisoners, before being sent to their deaths, not only suffered “gratuitous cruelty” (p. 107) but also underwent “senseless and scientifically useless tortures” (p. 123) – well, just because. This, of course, is what makes the Holocaust so unbelievable – it falls outside the realm of common sense reasoning and logic.15 Ironically, because Nazi crimes were beyond the pale of human imagination, it made it that much easier to commit them. As Holocaust survivor David Rousset (as cited in Arendt, 1950/1994) once said: “Normal men don’t know that everything is possible” (p. 241). They do know, however, that everything is permitted. Dostoevsky’s (1989) central question in Crime and Punishment: “is there or is there not such a thing as crime?” (p. 216) helps to tease out the distinctions between the all is permitted and all is possible universe. Raskolnikov concocts an “extraordinary man” theory in which a select few extraordinary, Napoléon-like people can transgress laws in ways that ordinary people cannot. In theory, if Raskolnikov can come up with a utilitarian principle in which committing a crime (murder) is justified and carry out that crime without consequence, then what he has done is not criminal because it was for the sake of a so-called greater good. In this way, Raskolnikov is still working within a framework where “everything is permitted.” The extraordinary man theory can also be found operating in the non-fiction world. In 1903, the Japanese educator Tsunesaburo Makiguchi (2002) said: “this is a time when a man who steals from an individual will be arrested and punished as a thief, but a man who robs people of their state and their culture is hailed a hero” (p. 14). The use of waterboarding or water torture by the United States military in the 21st century, however, begins to blur the lines between the realm in which everything is permitted 58  and everything is possible. The question: Is waterboarding useful? as a technique to illicit information implies that it might (not) serve utilitarian ends; if it does not, and it is still used, then it becomes an end in itself – torture for the sake of torture – in much the same way as those crimes done by the Nazis. Levi (1989) describes the concentration camp, or the “everything is possible” universe as one in which “the transformation from human being into animals was well on its way.…an inhuman regime spreads and extends its inhumanity in all directions, also and especially downward” (p. 112) even if such inhumanity is not part of a conscious top-down plan. In the case of the crimes committed at Abu Ghraib, moreover, it has only been the “ordinary” soldiers – those soldiers at the bottom of the chain of command – that have been punished. Those at the top, the “extraordinary people,” remain above the law. Rather than bringing to justice those at the top of the chain of command who engaged in torture and warrantless wiretapping under the Bush administration, the Obama administration has criminalized former United States National Security Agent turned wiretapping whistleblower and truthteller Thomas Drake via the Espionage Act. “This has become the specter of a truly Orwellian world where whistleblowing has become espionage” (Drake as cited in Goodman, 2011). Here we see how the imagined dystopian future a la 1984 written about in the past has become present reality. Arendt (1973) describes the “everything is possible” universe in the following way: “What meaning has the concept of murder when we are confronted with the mass production of corpses” (p. 441)? For Arendt, the musselman acts as the central image in a world where all is possible. Those “inanimate men, i.e., men who can no longer be psychologically understood” and whose conditioned reflexes defy human understanding. Yet the question: How is it possible that millions of people could walk like sheep to their own deaths? is one that remains at the mind’s limit. When explaining their experiences in concentration camps, survivors, too, cannot believe what actually occurred. We can say that in this kind of universe, experience does not necessarily help one arrive at understanding. Is a world grossly contaminated by human manufactured radiation one in which everything is permitted or everything is possible? In the case of Chernobyl, the consequences of radiation exposure – which have been more damaging than those of the Hiroshima “atomic plague” (Burchett as cited in Greene, 2012) – have created unique and unprecedented genetic mutations and cardiac conditions in children of Belarus and Ukraine (see DeLeo, 2003). The 59  images of these Atwoodian (1998) “unbabies,” like the images of the musselman, brings us to Kant’s (2006) anthropological question: “what is a human being”? (p. xii) – a key “educational question” (Biesta, 2006) to be explored in the following chapter. While we do not know for certain what exactly the consequences of Fukushima Daiichi will be on the human mind, body, and soul – a disaster that has been described as worse than Chernobyl and 72,000 times more devastating than Hiroshima (see McNeill, 2011) – we do know that this event and immanent other events of global proportion such as climate change bring upon us the principle in which anything is possible. We are reminded that the Nazis not only destroyed life, but they also tried to destroy evidence of their crimes in the hopes that no traces of lives once lived would remain. Strangely, in the year 2012, the burning of radioactive debris back up into the atmosphere as a way to make disappear the reminders of it have gone largely unnoticed, at least outside of Japan. Such are examples of Orwellian “memory holes,” which aim to alter or destroy inconvenient truths. The way Orwell (1983) describes memory holes is worth noting:  When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. (p. 33) It appears that human beings are less concerned with the ongoing burning of radioactive waste in Japan – whose lethal fumes can cause cancers and death across uncountable regions of the world indiscriminately – than we have been with the burning of Nazi death camp corpses. Yet the dual creations of these Orwellian “memory holes” attest to a world in which anything is possible; a world which Raskolnikov – as we will see in chapter 5 – describes as having “no real barriers” (Dostoevsky, 1989, p. 23). Can a relationship be drawn between storytelling and a world in which all is possible? In contrast to memory holes, stories, such as testimonials, remind us of what was, of what happened, of what it means to have survived and to be here now to tell the world. Storytelling connects us to the past in ways that the refined process of common sense reasoning that is the 60  scientific method does not. Without stories of those who have survived the im/possible, it is as if the im/possible never happened. In the academic world, nevertheless, storytelling as a mode of scholarship does not hold the same cachet as that of quantitative analysis, at least in the United States where federal funding is most often provided for large scale, number-crunching research. And with educational reforms which provide extra funding for schools that have STEM programs rather than or along with programs that cultivate artistic and ethical learning, what could be more dangerous for the future of our world? “Under certain conditions” says Disch (1993), “a story can be a more powerful critical force than a theoretical analysis” (p. 665). As a theorist herself, Disch’s rather restrained statement about the capacity of storytelling can be more fully appreciated in the words of novelist Tim O’Brien (1998) who in the midst of telling a series of fictional war stories in his short story “How to Tell a True War Story” goes meta on the art and ethics of telling war stories:  A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the large waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. (p. 76) Like O’Brien, Arendt recognizes the dangers in moralizing and/or sentimentalizing in telling a story that contains little if any virtues. A rather well known story of creating “cheap sentimentality at the expense of great catastrophe” (Arendt as cited in Graver, 1997, p. 130) is the heart-warming theatrical award winning and money-making version of Anne Frank’s diary, a book frequently found in the curriculum, and most often remembered and understood by its readers for one line – “I still believe that people are really good at heart” – clinging to that line as if for dear life.  61  We should also note an important difference between the fiction writing of O’Brien and non-fiction writing of Arendt whose aims together are to speak the truth which is different than speaking facts, which is not to say that either thinker thought we should give up on facts in speaking the truth. That said, when it came to trying to make sense out of the facts of what the Third Reich did and the lies that they concocted, The Black Book did not succeed at its task because the authors were “submerged in a chaos of details…unable to understand or make clear the nature of the facts confronting them” (Arendt, 1946, p. 291).16 In this way, and perhaps this way only, O’Brien’s fiction about war is more truthful than any war facts standing on their own. And his fiction writing might be a more truthful way of teaching about war than the way it is currently taught in many history classrooms. It is the factual truths of war, nonetheless – when it started, who started it, when it ended, which countries were involved, how many people died, who won, and so on – that are, generally speaking, taught and tested in schools. As Arendt (2006a) knows a “factual statement—Germany invaded Belgium in August 1914—acquires political implications only be being put in an interpretive context” (p. 245). When such factual truths are not interpreted, in no way can they lead to action but rather only toward passive “acceptance of things as they are” (p. 246). In the case of standardized exams which often use multiple choice questions to test student learning, machines can do the grading, of course, without thinking about a student’s answer. These facts, however, are as meaningless as that of the scientist’s whose work is not about telling stories which are those things that do provide the “revelatory character” Arendt speaks of in The Human Condition and “Truth and Politics.” This begs the question: If facts that one learns in school lack meaning, then what is the meaning behind learning all those facts? One can surmise that learning facts for fact’s sake could serve the interests of the nation or more recently, learning for the global “knowledge economy…[which] does not include critical literacy skills” (Spring, 2009, p. 44) or learning to interpret the facts laid out before one. Indeed, being literate for the knowledge economy “is purely instrumental for completing work related to tasks” (p. 45). Among other things, what is missing in the national standardized test-taking and knowledge economy models of education is emphasis on ethics. In contrast to learning for the interests of the nation-state, Roth (2007b) introduces “cosmopolitan learning” (p. 10-29), which cultivates the ability for teachers and students to scrutinize “how far their will-power and 62  judgement are developing, i.e. how far their ability to understand, use argument and show respect, tolerance and solidarity is developing” (p. 26) without seeking to adapt, assimilate, or initiate “publically reproduced knowledge” (p. 27). Cosmopolitan learning, Roth adds, is neither “instrumental” nor “strategic” (p. 20). I would add that a cosmopolitan education also places value on the cultivation of the imagination as described in Kant’s Critique of Judgement. Although using one’s imagination is a solitary affair, the imagination allows one to travel metaphorically to other places and perspectives, thereby adopting “the position of Kant’s world citizen” (Arendt, 1982, p. 43). Different from O’Brien, Arendt’s (1973) storytelling in Origins seeks to expose and understand the “gigantic lies and monstrous falsehoods” (p. 333) concocted by totalitarian leaders and believed by virtually all walks of life within totalitarianism’s grasp. Lies, such as The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, were eventually “established as unquestioned fact” under the Nazis and taught in Nazified schools despite the fact that Protocols had been exposed as a “literary forgery” (Graves, 1921) aimed to promote anti-semitism before the Nazis even came to power. Using Nazi logic, one can assume that even if Graves’s (1921) discovery of the truth behind the lie that is Protocols had surfaced in a classroom or elsewhere at this time, it would be treated as further evidence that not only were the Jews planning to take over the world, but because their plan had been leaked to the Gentile world, the Jews (in the form of Graves who must be a Jew and The Times which no doubt is owned and operated by Jews) were trying to cover up their plan via journalistic lies in order to secure global domination in open secret. Additionally, because Arendt was Jewish, her study of totalitarianism cannot be trusted; in fact, there is no such thing as totalitarianism. This latter point is proved by the very fact that it took her 500 pages to unsuccessfully define it, and those pages are filled with contradictory contradictions. Finally, it is in our best interest to help destroy cosmopolitanism before it destroys us. And cosmopolitans are signifiers for the “eternal mushroom of humanity” (Hitler, 1992, p. 113) that can be found everywhere exploiting everyone, and if you are found to be a cosmopolitan or have cosmopolitan connections, you and your family will be treated as enemies of the State. One has to be deaf, dumb, and blind to not see similar patterns surfacing in the post 9/11 supranational political climate, except the enemy has changed (and can change again). And if 63  you have any doubts, lone, home grown Norwegian terrorist Anders Behring Breivik learned his murderous tactics from Muslim extremists which just goes to show that all terrorists are Muslims (and all Muslims are terrorists) even if they are not. Simply put, both facts and fiction do what you want them to do in a world that lives and dies by the principle that “everything is possible.” This is what Arendt (1973) means when she says that under totalitarian power an “insane consistency rules the world” (p. 392); a consistency, Stalin well knew, that is so powerful one must either capitulate or accept total defeat.  3.3  A Plurality of Perspectives  In her essay “Truth and Politics,” Arendt (2006a) describes the political role of a “storyteller – historian or novelist – [which] is to teach acceptance of things as they are” (p. 258) or in other words to act as a truthteller. Truthtelling is not rhetoric which “can destroy truth” (p. 255) and has destroyed it when in a clash with power. As Arendt explains, the pursuit of truth is a “disinterested” (p. 258) enterprise. She traces this pursuit to Homer who with “equal eye” praised the glory of “friend and foe” regardless of winners and losers, adding that “Homeric impartiality” gave birth to “the first teller of factual truth”: Herodotus. And without Herodotus’s “so-called objectivity…no science would ever have come into being.” While Arendt differentiates between telling the truth and making an argument, it seems clear that the quest for truth weighs heavier for her than engaging in “argumentative speech,” particularly if we see argument or rhetoric existing somewhere on a continuum between truth and propaganda. But then again, Arendt (2006c) is a theorist of the public realm where action takes place through “the drawn out wearisome processes of persuasion, negotiation, and compromise” (p. 77). These actions take place between people with similar interests in much the same way Kant describes sensus communis. These processes can only occur under conditions of freedom, and the subject of and aspiration for freedom rests at the heart of Arendt’s life work. For Arendt, freedom occurs not by being left alone to live out one’s life in a gated community or remote cabin in the mountains of Montana – though isolation in certain circumstances and for stints at a time can be productive as in the case of poesis – but arises in “the company of other men” who need a “common public space to meet” (Arendt, 2006a, p. 147) where words are heard, deeds are  64  seen, and events are discussed (p. 153). As Arendt explains, “to be human and to be free are one and the same” (p. 166). This sameness returns us to the question which rests at the heart of Kant’s philosophy “not in its transcendental sense” (Louden as cited in Kant, 2006, p. xiii) but “in its cosmopolitan sense of the word[:]…What is a human being” (Kant, 2006, p. xi-xii)? It is certainly not the musselman who is nothing but “a bundle of reliable reactions” (Arendt, 1994, p. 240), an entity of “conditioned reflexes…without the slightest trace of spontaneity” (Arendt, 1973, p. 457), imagination, or curiosity. In fact, the musselman epitomizes the transmogrification of freedom itself: totalitarian rule at its finest. Under totalitarian power, the capacity to communicate intersubjectively is annihilated, no doubt, because the goal of the camps – the true center of totalitarian rule – is to first destroy the inmate’s mind, body, and soul before being completely obliterated into non/human ashes. The ability to think intersubjectively – which is neither socalled objectivity nor anything goes subjectivity – and which is not present in the musselman’s mentality, provides occasions to make judgments that are “only possible through imagination” (Young-Bruehl, 2006, p. 167). One’s imagination is cultivated through listening to stories or narrative. In speaking upon “Benjamin’s influence on Arendt’s political storytelling,” Herzog (2000, p. 1) holds that these respective thinkers held the “conviction that stories had the capacity to save the world.” If this is the case, it would behoove us to reflect on several stories whose subject is communication. On Primo Levi’s (1996) first day in Auschwitz – in which he learns as a matter of course that “no one here speaks willingly” (p. 29) – he recalls how he was “driven by thirst” and reaches his hand out the window from inside the prison barrack, breaking off an icicle. A guard “brutally snatches it away from me. ‘Warum?’ I asked him in my poor German. ‘Heir ist kein warum’ (there is no why here) he replied, pushing me inside with a shove.” Levi soon realizes that in order to survive, it is better not to try to understand why anything because there is no understanding in this non-world, “because now it is all over and we feel outside this world and the only thing is to obey” (p. 23). Despite the camp truth that “if we speak, they will not listen to us, and if they listen, they will not understand” (p. 27), the human desire to make oneself understood is painfully illustrated in the story of a three year old boy of Auschwitz, named  65  Hurbinek by the remaining Ka-Be (i.e., infirmary) camp-survivors who stayed on after the evacuation. Hurbinek: could not speak…but his eyes, lost in his triangular and wasted face, flashed terribly alive, full of demand, assertion, of the will to break loose, to shatter the tomb of his dumbness. The speech he lacked, which no one had bothered to teach him, the need of speech charged his stare with explosive urgency: it was a stare both savage and human. (Levi, 1987, p. 11) One Hungarian teenage boy took a fatherly liking to Hurbinek, “the little sphinx… immune to the distressing power he emanated.” He brought Hurbinek any scraps of sustenance he could find in the camp rubble and cared for him with loving hands and spoke slowly to him in Hungarian. One night, Hurbinek said a word, a word though that no one in all the different languages could understand. “Hurbinek continued in his stubborn experiments for as long as he lived. In the following days everybody listened to him in silence, anxious to understand…but Hurbinek’s word remained secret…nothing remains of him: he bears witness through these words of mine” (p. 12). While poignant – Hurbinek and the teenage boy who cared for him live on in our imaginations – and world-shattering – nothing remains of Hurbinek who was never able to speak his thoughts and feelings about a world that he and no one else could ever understand even if he had the language to do so – this story is not sentimental. Through Levi, Hurbinek’s life-story is transformed into “the experience of those who are listening to his tale” (Benjamin, 2007, p. 87). For Arendt (1978: 1), words in and of themselves are neither true nor false, thus “implicit in the urge to speak is the quest for meaning, not necessarily the quest for truth” (p. 99). Levi (1987) also teaches us that the desire to speak is synonymous with the desire for meaning, the desire to make sense of the world. Hurbinek cannot make sense of the world even if it were a world that made sense because his young imagination never had the chance to be cultivated. He “had never seen a tree” (p. 12), says Levi, and no one had the will-power to describe a tree to him. How then is it possible to imagine something that has never been present? And Levi’s question “Warum?,” when the icicle is taken away from him, is answered with violence; it is a question not so 66  different than the one a child – who lives in relative freedom – asks a parent or teacher and is confronted with the reply: Because I said so. With Levi’s storytelling in mind, we can say with Arendt (2006c) that while the Nazis tried to create fully realized Orwellian “holes of oblivion” (p. 232) in which the plan was not only to first burn books and then destroy human life but to leave no trace that human life ever existed, their plan failed. And one of the ways it failed is through the regime’s inability to extinguish the resilience of the human spirit and its need to communicate and tell stories even when one didn’t have the language to do so. We know something about the particular boy who was Hurbinek, and while Hurbinek’s story is unique, we can imagine, however generally, other children at this time and in this place who met the same fate. While it is difficult to recognize Auschwitz as a community of people – a “sensus communis” in the way Kant (as cited in Arendt, 1978: 2) describes “the idea of a sense common to all, i.e. of a faculty of judgment” (p. 268) – Auschwitz’s unrecognizability becomes somewhat recognizable to those who listen to its stories and with the help of storytellers like Levi and others who bear witness to crimes that would otherwise go untold. This is not to say that all people who bear witness have “the gift…to find the language of the true storyteller” (Benhabib, 1990, p. 186). Storytelling is a craft that turns non-tangible thoughts into “thought things” (Arendt, 1998, p. 169) which, like other forms of reification, build works that stand the test of time, the greatest of which are civilizations. Like poetry which is meant to be spoken aloud, the “memorability” of the story will “determine its durability, that is, its chance to be permanently fixed in the recollection of humanity” (p. 170). In other words, stories connect our present selves with the past, and Arendt was particularly concerned with how to tell a story. Indeed, one of the critiques that Arendt (2006b) launched toward the handling of Adolph Eichmann’s trial was regarding the stories that witnesses told while on the witness stand, many of whom were not “survivors” but held “some prominence” in the eyes of the prosecution because they had “published books about their experiences, and who now told what they had previously written, or what they had told and retold many times” (p. 224). It was descriptions of this tenor that were interpreted by critics in Arendt’s disfavor. Indeed, one might get the impression that if Arendt had heard each witness’s story only once, she had heard them one too many times. Her deeper point, however, had to do with the inability of most witnesses to “tell a 67  story” (p. 224) in the way she thought a story should be told. But this point was lost on a large segment of her readership that could not get past her tone, which, as I see it, is neither wrong nor surprising on their part. Arendt’s method is not exactly an open book, but her tone in Eichmann in Jerusalem is. Though she does come off as cold, haughty, and flippant in places, this aspect of her writing has not always been separated from her keen and sober observations of the “show trial” (p. xx) proceedings themselves, the judges “seated at the top of the raised platform, facing the audience as from the stage in a play” (p. 6). The trial, no doubt, got on Arendt’s nerves. This is not to make apologies for Arendt’s journalistic writing. Eichmann is not her magnum opus, and the narrative style she used in Origins whose aim was to “tell a story of an event or situation from a plurality of perspectives” (Disch, 1993, p. 666) was not fully realized when reporting on the events of a trial that she sat and observed and judged. We can say with some confidence that not everyone who read Eichmann felt their perspectives were considered. Moreover, while Arendt’s “portrait of Eichmann” has been called “a masterpiece” (Lowell as cited in Ezra, 2007, p. 150), I am hesitant to use such a word when judging Eichmann in full for reasons that Arendt herself might be impatient toward: Eichmann elicited and can still elicit an unintended visceral response in her readers which, as I see it, has to do with her own visceral response to the trial. What complicates matters more is that her commentary is articulated in a kind of language that seems both objectively detached and subjectively irritated rather than intersubjectively invested; she reproaches the court for not asking the thoughtless, banal, clichéspewing Eichmann the right questions (see p. 34), she suggests that the prosecution asked witnesses “cruel and silly questions” (p. 12) about why they didn’t fight against the Nazis harder when they clearly could have, she accuses the Judenrat (Jewish Council), who could be found “[w]herever Jews lived,” of having “cooperated in one way or another, for one reason or another, with the Nazis” (p. 125) in such a way that led to countless more deaths than would have been the case hadn’t they – this was “[t]he whole truth” about “the total number of victims,” she says, and she chastises all of Israel for not having “even bothered to discuss” (p. 270) Jaspers’ proposal to try Eichmann in an international court, a proposal discussed during a radio interview before the trial began and subsequently published in a now defunct German scholarly journal for socio-political thought, Der Monat.  68  At times, Eichmann reads like a narrative report on the stupid, the stupider, and the stupidest. Arendt, however, plays the role of sagacious spectator in a monologue concerning the morons of the world. This could get on any reader’s nerves for these reasons alone. And those of us who appreciate, believe in, and learn from Arendt’s critique of the standard “objective” methods employed in social science research, might be caught off guard with her switch to a quasi-omniscient perspective which seems to function rather ineffectively to mask “the existential closeness of the subject matter” (Benhabib, 2001, p. 66) she clearly must have felt. Indeed, her switch to grand arbiter creates a rather disturbing effect. When we speak of Arendt’s “amor mundi, a love of the world” that she “struggled to hold” (Young-Bruehl, 2004, p. xvii) onto but “had come to understand as one that unites self and others” (p. 327), we should also say that Arendt’s love of the world is a tough love. It is a kind of love far different than love articulated as mercy, compassion, and forgiveness and often aligned with the teaching of Jesus of Nazareth. One of the unforeseen dangers that Arendt was up against in writing Eichmann versus that of Origins, The Human Condition, or The Life of the Mind was that she presented her honest opinion not simply on a trial but on living, breathing human beings, many of whom were victims of the Nazi regime. This is different than writing about the rather abstract “peculiar onion-like structure of the [totalitarian] movement” (Arendt, 1973, p. 413), a world as far removed in time as the ancient Greek polis, or Saint Augustine and the not exactly well known theologianphilosopher Duns Scotus. If to be human means to be free, then it also means to speak one’s mind, and a lot of minds were speaking when it came to Eichmann. And if Arendt’s aim is to “tell provocative stories that invite contestation from rival perspectives” (Disch, 1993, p. 667), then contestation she received. In the intellectual world alone, the controversy surrounding Eichmann became “the most bitter public dispute among intellectuals and scholars concerning the Holocaust that has ever taken place” (Rabinbach, 2004, p. 97). This story ought not to be forgotten when talking about Hannah Arendt and the art and ethic of storytelling. For Arendt, telling the story of totalitarianism which also included Eichmann’s trial was an act of journalistic writing but also one of historical judgment-making. And Arendt drew a sharp distinction between making judgments and showing empathy. Writing from a place of empathy, on one end, or from a position of objectivity on the other was an act of Sartrean bad 69  faith that “served to disguise the standpoint of the narrator or the historian” (Benhabib, 1990, p. 182). If Arendt’s critics wanted her to show more love to the Jewish people, they were in effect asking her to falsify how she interpreted facts on the ground. Arendt was a dispassionate truthteller and she arrived at truths by practicing Kant’s sensus communis, or taking the standpoint of others, which did not mean “empathizing or even sympathizing with the others, but rather the ability to recreate the world as it appeared through the eyes of others” (p. 183). If storytelling invites rival perspectives, then it would be irresponsible to not consider Benjamin’s (2007) perspective on the subject of storytelling itself, given his influence over Arendt’s style, too. Storytelling is older than and different from novel writing as the former “comes from the oral tradition” (p. 87) and involves “a man listening to a story…in the company of the storyteller” which is different from “the reader of the novel” who is completely absorbed in its suspense, “isolated more so than any other reader” (p. 100); as it were, poetry is meant to be uttered aloud “for the benefit of the listener.” One of the reasons for the demise of artful storytelling and listening, says Benjamin, has to do with the devaluing of experience itself not only in “the external world but of the moral world as well” (p. 84). Such devaluing became ever more noticeable with the traumas of First World War. Benjamin asks:  Was it not noticeable at the end of the war that men returned from the battlefield grown silent—not richer, but poorer in communicable experience? What ten years later was poured out in the flood of war books was anything but experience that goes from mouth to mouth…a generation that had gone to school on a horse-drawn streetcar now stood under the open sky in a countryside in which nothing remained unchanged but the clouds, and beneath these clouds, in a field of force of destructive torrents and explosions, was the tiny, fragile human body. (p. 84) Benjamin’s insights into the shocking silence and silence as a consequence of shock at what human beings had done and were capable of doing to themselves in the first decades of the 20th century creates a particularly forlorn picture knowing that he died (committing suicide while attempting to flee the Nazis) two years before the first Nazi death camps were even built. It is fairly common knowledge that for some years after the Second World War no one wanted to 70  listen to the stories of Holocaust survivors, and those were the few survivors who wanted to share their stories with the world; the vast majority, however, just desired to move on – to new lands, to new lives, and even to new religions in some instances. How strange it must have been to find out that your grandparent, who you’ve known (but somehow never really known) all your life and assumed was born and raised Catholic like yourself, (was?) (is?) actually Jewish and a camp survivor. Stories like this are not fictitious and even if they were, they would teach us truths regarding what must have been the crushing solitude, indescribable isolation, one experiences under totalitarianism. And if Benjamin is right in the above passage, experience itself is destroyed. Benjamin (2007) describes the demise of communication in a secular world which has “quite gradually removed narrative from the realm of living speech” (p. 87); Arendt (1973) supports this view not only in her study of totalitarianism which transforms isolation into feelings of loneliness and superfluousness, but also in The Human Condition where she describes the “mass phenomena of loneliness” (Arendt, 1998, p. 59) as indicative of living in a modern laboring society which creates conditions of sameness not togetherness nor solidarity under “the somatic experience of labouring together” (p. 214). Had he lived, might Benjamin have been strangely encouraged by the contentious communication that Eichmann has inspired? We might say that Eichmann is a masterpiece of storytelling in the Benjaminian sense as it prompts communication on a subject that was initially not as widely communicated if for different reasons and which is wildly different than the fatigue that some people experience today when confronted yet again with this subject; a fatigue that has not tired The New Yorker, which was the original publisher of Arendt’s Eichmann report and which continues to intermittently publish articles related to it (e.g., Kirsch, 2009). A half century later, the story lives on. In writing Eichmann, Lowell (as cited in Ezra, 2007) believes that Arendt was motivated by a “heroic desire for truth” (p. 150). If this is the case, which I believe it is, it is as if Arendt took up Benjamin’s (2007) challenge when he said “the art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out” (p. 87). With Eichmann in mind and the “reawakened interest in [Arendt’s] work” (Elon as cited in Arendt, 2006b, p. xxii) broadly speaking, we can say that the desire for truth is not dead altogether.  71  It should be pointed out that Arendt’s style has been criticized by a number of political theorists invested in studying totalitarianism and fascism, such as Eric Voegelin and A. James Gregor, respectively, for not adhering to the proper and popular scientific instruments of her day. In his review of Origins, Voegelin (1953) argues that the book is marked by methodological problems. The first of which he addresses is that the “emotionally determined method” (p. 70) prohibits it from taking full advantage of “the theoretical instruments which the present state of science puts at her disposition” (p. 72). While the book contains “certain theoretical defects” thereby contributing to its lack of cohesion, he says, its strength, nevertheless, is an emotional charge that is “untainted by partisanship” and almost entirely free of “ideological nonsense” (p. 71). In addition to his methodological critique, Arendt’s book is philosophically problematic. Totalitarianism – which Voegelin calls a “liberal” (p. 75) phenomenon! – came about because God is dead. For Voegelin, the “spiritual disease of agnosticism is the peculiar problem of the modern masses” (p. 73). In other words, there is indeed a source, one source, for how and why totalitarianism came to power. It should be noted that Voegelin’s conservatism has been coopted by the right-wing in the United States for a different agenda. Germino (1964) argues, however, that “Voegelin is neither left-wing nor right-wing because he is neither a publicist nor an ideologist” (p. 392). The same, of course, can be said of Arendt. Similarities and differences withstanding, Arendt (1953) does not see an original origin for totalitarianism other than the fact that people in the modern world are no longer bound to any kind of “common interests” (p. 81) at all which are needed to bind individuals together and separate them, a loss of the space “between” Arendt (1998) describes as “the rise of the social” (p. 38-49), or modern world alienation that is allegorized so well in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. If people do not have common interests then it follows that a community sense, or sensus communis, cannot be formed or maintained; these interests can be material or immaterial. I include Voegelin’s explanation for what he sees as the source of totalitarianism as it catechizes the ideas that will be taken up in chapter 5 of this dissertation which center on the writings of Fyodor Dostoevsky, who has a similar outlook on the problem of modernity. The difference between a thinker like Dostoevsky and that of Arendt is that the former is clearly working within an ideological framework; Arendt’s vantage point always begins with the facts of a phenomenon. She says as much: Origins  72  “proceeds from facts and events instead of intellectual affinities and influences” (Arendt, 1953, p. 80). In terms of other methodological or stylistic critiques of Arendt’s work, Gregor (as cited in Luban, 1984) argues that “Arendt has proceeded ‘without empirical research of any sort’” but rather uses “a great deal of literary and speculative fill” (p. 247). “Metaphor,” Gregor adds, “generally conceal gaps in argument or the absence of supporting evidence.” In other words, Arendt’s work is fluff. She has not used precise, scientific methods but rather has engaged in what Beck (2009) reminds us is a kind of “attitude research” (p. 11) which is still looked down upon by the scholarly world writ large. Never mind that all words function as metaphors to express human thought. Indeed, in the field of curriculum theory, Herbert Kliebard (1982) also challenges the assumption that metaphors are but “ornament[s] to speech and writing” (p. 13). Similar to Arendt, Kliebard describes how “metaphor represents a fundamental vehicle of human thought,” particularly those thoughts that lie “beyond immediate perception.” In this way, metaphors provide a medium to perceive that which was previously unperceivable, to know that which was previously unknowable. Story, which often includes using metaphors, nevertheless, does not hold the same academic “status of authority” (Edgerton, 1996, p. 75) as other more “legitimat[e]” methods despite the fact that it is the thing which allows us to “create and recreate our lives.” The “logicality of ideological thinking” (Arendt, 1973, p. 474), on the flip side, has also “proved” that Origins cannot be trusted. Logicality adds: How deceptive is it that Arendt, who we have already verified is part of the Jewish conspiracy to take over the world, actually suggests that it was the so-called totalitarian regimes which planned and succeeded for a time period in taking control. It is she, not Hitler or Stalin, who has turned reality on its head! I am not suggesting that Origins or any of Arendt’s works are above criticism. As Disch (1993) notes, storytelling invites contestation. Yet, we must be careful. This problem of not recognizing irony when one hears it is a problem that crosses disciplines. After reading many scathing reviews of Eichmann, Arendt (as cited in Ezra, 2007) said that she was “delighted” (p. 160) with literature scholar Ronald Berman’s (as cited in Ezra, 2007) review in which he actually suggested that “Eichmann…rather liked Jews” (p. 160). Ezra clarifies: “Arendt said no such thing.” It seems that Berman must have misinterpreted Arendt’s tone when speaking on Eichmann’s only concern which was climbing up 73  through the ranks of the Nazi elite. If helping or harming anyone could be useful to his career, then why not? Nonetheless, Arendt states that Berman’s review was “the most perceptive and…most intelligent one that appeared” (p. 160). The flip side to the issue of not hearing irony when a text smacks of it is that a reader hears and only hears irony at the expense of not carefully listening to other aspects of his tale, which in the case of Eichmann, contains sincere and astute perceptions about the accused, the court proceedings, and the dilemma of responding to what has become one of the most pressing issues of our day: global justice. All the initial back and forth between Arendt and her critics and between Arendt’s supporters and her critics which came in book reviews and replies to book reviews and more book reviews on books that were written in response to Eichmann and replies to those book reviews from Arendt herself, looking back now, might seem a bit much; but it is this back and forth that creates, when examined together as we are doing here, a kind of plurality of perspectives that Arendt expressed in writing Origins and that helps one to arrive at judgments, generally speaking. In order to understand Arendt’s intersubjective style, it is not enough to simply describe it; we must also perform it, for all understanding involves interpretation, and all interpretation includes application. Arendt (2006a) said as much: if we want to talk about courage, we turn to an example of courage such as Achilles; if we want to think about goodness, we look to Jesus of Nazareth; if we want to learn about filial duty, we read King Lear (see p. 243). Narratives provide a way to understand and make sense of the world. Philosopher of education and former student of Hannah Arendt, Maxine Greene (1995) describes the value of narrative in much the same way. “[W]hen we understand our lives we do so in narrative form…our stories while different are nonetheless connected by the same need to make sense, to make meaning, to find direction” (p. 165). It is thinking about story – and in much the same way Appiah (2006) describes how he did with his family in Ghana – that we are able to imagine courage, goodness, duty, and risk. In thinking upon these images in particular instances, we are able to practice making judgments upon them thereby adopting “the position of Kant’s world citizen” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 257). The world citizen “think[s] with the enlarged mentality” and does so by using her travelling imagination. My aim is to also go visiting and to think critically upon the standpoints that I visit. I deliberately choose standpoints to visit that are similar and different in  74  perspectives and orientations. In this way, I aim to centralize the ethical in a cosmopolitan education. Returning to the subject of irony, the greatest irony (and greatest strength) regarding Eichmann is not verbal but situational. And situations, events, can best be understood with the perspective that time provides. The situation we speak of here pertains to the book’s epilogue which was rarely part of the polemics; it is in this section of the text where Arendt speaks of “crimes against humanity [italics added]” (p. 273) and the very real possibility of genocide becoming a way to rid the world of superfluous peoples, all of which make Eichmann particularly relevant today (not that the question of the Jews isn’t). And these crimes have only proliferated throughout the world since Arendt wrote the report. It is the work of political cosmopolitanism, the strand of cosmopolitan thought to be taken up in more detail in the following chapter – and particularly that of Benhabib’s (2006) whose interest in situating the “right of hospitality…at the boundaries of the polity” (p. 22) – which draws from and builds upon Arendt’s own reflections on the trial and what she sees as the need for a “permanent international criminal court” (Arendt, 2006b, p. 270) to be created “if genocide is an actual possibility of the future” (p. 273). Globalization, Young-Bruehl argues, can have “beneficial features” such as connecting people and improving education “including education in political processes” (p. 76), but it also “implicates the entire world in a mentality that – with an Eichmann-like indifference to life and death – identifies people as superfluous” (p. 76) in its “imperialist techniques” that can and do have devastating consequences of which “we are only beginning to understand” (p. 75). And the Arendtian notion of “superfluous people” (YoungBruehl, 2006, p. 74-76) is of pressing concern today as reflected in mass amounts of poverty, starvation, and homelessness. In this sense, I would argue that Young-Bruehl’s latter concern speaks from within the context of what Beck (2009) calls postmodern “apathy” (p. 48) or reckless abandon as a reaction to world risk society; another reaction, which Beck calls the “cosmopolitan moment” is “transformation.” Global threats such as climate change “opens up the (mis)fortune of a possible new beginning (which is no excuse for false sentimentality)” (p. 49). It was Arendt, says Beck, that “anticipate[d] the irony of risk.” I would add in more specific terms that her study of action anticipated the irony that is the cosmopolitan moment.  75  What provides humanity with hope is the Arendtian and Bradburian birth of the new that is the faculty of action. Different from the mythical phoenix bird which is reborn out of the ashes not to remember its past, says Bradbury (1953), humanity has a duty to remember the old so as not to forget whence we came: We know the damn silly thing we just did. We know all the damn silly things we’ve done for a thousand years and as long as we know that and always have it around where we can see it, someday we’ll stop making the goddamn funeral pyres and jumping in the middle of them. (p. 163) This is Bradbury’s hope, no less. Pinar (2012) calls for much the same in his critique of “presentism” (p. 58) that defines the current state of education. Drawing from “Walter Benjamin’s interest in allegory,” Pinar recognizes that “[w]ithout the past, there is no present” (p. 59). We can say that the new looks to the old for guidance in the present but is not immobilized by the past, either. In the words of the young child Mutsumi of Fukushima (BBC, 2012), our mistakes teach us “to be careful” in order to “carry on living into the future.” This section of the chapter opened with a discussion of what Arendt means by freedom – which, for her, is synonymous with being human – and its inversion, total domination. In doing so, we looked at several stories, perspectives on storytelling that deal with the subject of communication, and the power that tone can play in communicating stories of historical and political significance. If the present can be understood by studying the (totalitarian) past, if the past “spill[s] into our experience of the present” (Pinar, 2012, p. 54), then we might pause to consider at this moment in time and in our own particular and general – though not necessarily universal – contexts, where on the continuum between total freedom and total domination do we see ourselves standing? And how does the ground that you stand on feel under your feet?  3.4  Between Mercy and Justice Is there or is there not such a thing as crime? Fyodor Dostoevsky (1989, p. 216)  76  In an opinion-editorial news article, David Brooks (2011) looks at the “limits of empathy” in an era which has become increasingly attuned to the perceived promises that “sympathetic care” can provide for past wrongs and present circumstances. Brooks references community organizations, religious groups, peace activists, and schools which aim to cultivate such empathy. While Brooks does not fully clarify why the “empathy craze” (Pinker as cited in Brooks, 2011) has become what it is today, one might speculate that the desire to foster in ourselves a sense of compassion and care for others is tied to two rather new and interrelated phenomena that, when instrumentalized, are in danger of imposing an idea of reconciliation that is artificial, subsequently undermining the very idea of the transformation intended. One of those phenomenon has to do with the subject of forgiveness in an age of gross global injustices such as slavery, “internment of so-called ‘enemy-aliens’,” and genocide (see Kurasawa, 2007, p. 57-58). A second phenomenon has to do with the desire to delicately negotiate a spectrum of differences that we are confronted by in our daily lived experiences such as im/migration as a ramification of globalization and the subsequent new diversities found in school classrooms. Regarding the latter, “teaching empathy,” says Brooks (2011), “is a safe way for schools and other institutions to seem virtuous without risking controversy or hurting anybody’s feelings.” Todd (2009) attributes the top-down “global harmony and peace” (p. 2) project in education, of which Brooks’ speaks, to cosmopolitanism – a thesis that I consider to be a kind of selective-reduction to a rich and fertile field of scholarship that is rooted in the particular as can be seen in such works by Kurasawa (2007), Beck (2009), and Pinar (2009).17 The crux of Brooks’ editorial is that cultivating empathy has never proved to motivate people to act morally when called to moral action. Brooks (2011) concludes by suggesting that moral action is connected to “a sense of duty” that comes about by structuring our lives around “sacred codes” that compel us to act. “The code” is “a source of identity” whereas empathy is little more than a “sideshow.” Based on the code, it seems for Brooks that doing not being and acting without thinking or judging are the way to live one’s life and the way life has, for the most part, been lived. Brooks says these codes are “pursued with joy.” Citing research on the relationship between feeling empathy and ethical action, Brooks says that the former is “easily crushed by self-concern.” Empathic feelings, he adds, can actually hinder justice and the “nasty work of making moral judgments.” It is not made clear whether these judgments come about by adhering 77  to a set of standards or are deliberated upon case by case. Nevertheless, Brooks provides a rather generic example of a jury who feels sympathetic toward the apologetic defendant who is subsequently given a lighter sentence. In the spirit of the particularities of cosmopolitanism, let us invert this generalization and contextualize it by taking a brief look at a rather well known trial in literary history as part of our move to an ethic of compassion in chapter 4. The clever, stingy, cold-hearted villain Shylock in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice is asked by the defense to show mercy toward the naïve, financially generous, and beloved merchant of the play, Antonio, who is in breach of his loancontract with the usurer Shylock. An observant Jew who is quick with his tongue, having no less than memorized his code, the Torah, the best that his interlocutor, Antonio, can say in response to Shylock’s verbal panache is: “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose” (I, iii). Listening to Antonio spar with Shylock is like watching a tennis match between a likeable, mild-mannered, yet rather pathetic journeyman player and temperamental if not obnoxious Grand Slam tennis ace, John McEnroe. The court-play is lopsided, ridiculous, and strangely entertaining. When an altogether shrewder Portia, disguised in her judge costume, shows up at Shakespeare’s court, Shylock exclaims hastily: “A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!/ O, wise young judge, how I do honour thee!” Unbeknownst to Shylock, Portia comes with a premeditated plan to ask Shylock to show mercy: “…Therefore, Jew,/ Though justice be thy plea, consider this,/That, in the course of justice, none of us/Should see salvation…” (IV, i). The Jew Shylock is unmoved by thoughts of Christian mercy or salvation. He craves justice, judgment, and the bond which calls for a pound of flesh to be cut out closest to Antonio’s heart. We can say that though Shylock and the court are speaking the same language, it is not the same language they speak. Ironically, when the tables quickly turn on Shylock, the court gives him a lethal dose of his own venom. Whether Shylock “gets as much as he deserves” (II, ix) – the silver casket, metaphorically speaking – will be debated for as long as Shakespeare is relevant. We can say, however, that attitudes toward Shylock have shifted dramatically depending on time and place. The Third Reich loved to show Merchant in its theatres. The post-Holocaust Laurence Olivier production makes Shylock look like he’s being sent to the gas chamber. A 21st century Scottish production of the play sparked outrage among Jews who saw the flyer advertising it. It is a rather funny image: The character playing Shylock is dressed in Hassidic clothing bejewelled 78  with platinum gold side-locks. The quote “If you wrong us shall we not revenge” written in “bold letters” (Cornwell, 2006). The chutzpah! And the Jews were just getting over Mel Gibson’s film Passion of the Christ, no less.18 In contrast to Pinker (2007) who believes that “we have been getting kinder and gentler” (p. 18) through the wonders and feats of evolutionary progress, we can also trace the socioeducational “empathy craze” Brooks speaks of to religious origins just as much as it might or might not have genetic ones. As such, we are faced with another irony concerning Eichmann. Many Jews lambasted Arendt for not showing enough compassion for the Jewish people; Harap (1964) cites survivors who have “condemned her unfeeling, cold-blooded insensitivity” (p. 224) toward how Jews behaved when confronted by the daily reality of too many horrors to list or imagine. Her friend and fellow scholar Gershom Scholem (as cited in Ezra, 2007) accused Arendt of not showing “Ahabath Israel: ‘Love of the Jewish people’” (p. 147). If Scholem were to scratch the surface, he would find that Eichmann is Arendt’s most Jewish work. If the ironies could get anymore perverse, in her lifetime Arendt found herself in a parallel universe to that of Shylock who, in his own trial, is forced to convert to Christianity, a religion in which showing mercy, compassion, and unconditional love are some of its most sacred tenets. But death becomes her. As Kirsch (2009) notes: “It is hard to name another thinker of the twentieth century more sought after as a guide to the dilemmas of the twenty-first” (p. 62) than that of Hannah Arendt. Elon (as cited in Arendt, 2006b) once recalled Arendt saying “that the saddest form of fame was posthumous fame” (p. xxii). Some ironies really do hurt. If empathy undermines justice as Brooks suggests, it also would seem that justice undermines empathy. Brooks contends that “nobody is against empathy. Nonetheless, it’s insufficient.” What might happen when we turn his statement around and ask: no one is against justice, but is it sufficient? When asked, “[s]hould we serve justice or truth?”, Susan Sontag (as cited in Hansen, 2011, p. 13) replied to the surprise of her audience: “It has to be truth, in order to serve a justice which is not yet.” In other words, “the passion for truth,” says Hansen (2011, p. 13), “is poignantly disinterested,” whereas the passion for justice “can produce unjust methods” as illustrated in the problem of Shylock and in the trial of Eichmann. In the next chapter, I will consider the “passion of compassion” (Arendt, 2006c, p. 78), work which will delve into the role that love via Saint Augustine and Duns Scotus play in the writings of Arendt’s political 79  theorizing. It was Saint Augustine in City of God – a canonical text often considered the most cosmopolitan book of the Middle Ages (Edward, 2001) – who called mercy: ever ancient, ever new. Moreover, Arendt “found her central metaphor of ‘natality’” (as cited in Arendt, Scott, and Stark, 1996, p. 181) in Saint Augustine’s writing on love in its caritas, neighborly sense. In this chapter, I have examined why Hannah Arendt used a narrative style of theorizing the unprecedented. On one hand, the standard methods of social science research did not prove effective means to understand totalitarianism for largely two reasons: these methods were developed in order to navigate the precedented-navigable and to achieve the so-called “greatness” of sine ira et studio (Arendt, 1953, p. 78), or objectivity. Writing about totalitarianism “objectively,” i.e., as a scientist, was, for Arendt, immoral in its amorality. On the other hand, writing from within the tradition of Platonic-influenced philosophy also proved problematic as this tradition had abandoned politics after Socrates death, leaving it without the ethical tools to make sense of and resist totalitarianism (Disch, 1993, p. 669). Influenced by Immanuel Kant’s theory of sensus communis and literary critic Walter Benjamin, Arendt resurrected an “old-fashioned” method that allowed her to make judgments where judgments needed to be made. As a bridge to Arendt’s writings on and performance of judgment-making, I next turn to the subject of love found in and outside of Arendt’s own writings and as related to cosmopolitanism. A cosmopolitan education is built not only upon the capacity to show interest in the world and to make judgments upon it but also to have compassion for others and to forgive where forgiveness sets free not only the transgressor of the offense but the transgressed, liberating both parties from the past – not to forget the past like the phoenix bird but like its “first cousin…Man” who has the capacity to remember (Bradbury, 1953, p. 163) – in order to begin the world anew.  80  Chapter 4: An Ethic of Compassion, or What is a Human Being? Imagine the open admission of love to be something highly prized in the academy as a key ingredient in leading new work or a necessity in nonfiction writing that is canonized from now on. Virginia R. Domínguez (2000, p. 389)  4.1  The Touchy Territory of Love  Love is an infinitely nebulous wonder. Its nebulousness makes it difficult to give scholarly words to without having a love-thing – such as a Shakespearean sonnet – to act as a sounding board. It is also an unconventional if not problematic topic for research in education and other social sciences where knowledge acquisition – e.g., developing means-end research questions, collecting data, interpreting findings, drawing conclusions, developing new questions based on those conclusions, ad infinitum – is standard operating procedure. How does one collect data and draw conclusions on love? Moreover, if Jack were to spend his entire life reading and writing books about love in its cupiditas (intimate) and/or caritas (platonic) formations, the latter recently articulated as hospitality in its political cosmopolitan incarnation, this does not mean that he is any more knowledgeable about what it means to show love or be hospitable than does Joe, who has never read a book on this subject in his life yet has been called by his friends and family a person who acts with warmth, care, and open-heartedness to neighbors and strangers alike. While my research is oriented toward meaning-making more so than it is knowledge acquisition, love is nonetheless a touchy subject matter – indeed, “a sticky wicket in educational circles” (Huebner as cited in Pinar and Hillis, 2008, p. 363) – for either kind of work due to its sacred, private connotations. The idea being, if love is brought out into the public for consumption or interpretation it will lose its magical qualities. Similarly, Arendt (1998) said: “Because of its inherent worldlessness, love can only become false and perverted when it is used for political purposes” (p. 52), an argument I shall return to near the end of this chapter. In his 1963 study of man’s relationship to man, curriculum theorist Dwayne Huebner (as cited in Pinar and Hillis, 2008) noted that love is “infrequently…discussed in the psychological and educational literature” (p. 77). “Somehow it feels more tough-minded to study discord. The scientist fears that if he looks at affiliated sentiments he may seem sentimental” (Allport as cited in Huebner as cited in Pinar and Hillis, 2008, p.78). Moreover, “the notion of love in human 81  relations carries with it almost a mystical, esoteric sense, an idea of softness and romance or a feeling for the young or weak” (Huebner as cited in Pinar and Hillis, 2008, p. 77). If love is equated with weakness, it thus comes as little surprise that it has been spurned in the realm of scholarly discourses which value strength, power, and agility of the mind. Have attitudes toward love in educational scholarship changed since Huebner’s time? In the realm of cosmopolitanism and education, love articulated as worldly passion and a “subjective sense of the sacred” is embraced in the writings of Pinar (2009, p. 5). In his own “reverence for life,” Pinar writes about those cosmopolitan lives that inspire such reverence. While Pinar might write as an intellectual about another intellectual-artist, Pasolini, with a sense of passion about his life and at considerable length, it is doubtful that Pasolini’s scandalous life or scandalous films will be studied in many educational settings anytime soon, not despite being “a most ‘excellent pedagogist’” (p. 99) but because of his excellent anti-establishment pedagogy. Todd (2009) also writes about the subject of love as an ethic in her book on cosmopolitanism and education. It seems that she is more at ease when writing about and advocating discord and conflict as democratic practice than in exploring the possibilities that love can play in shaping the world. Not that love is necessarily about consensus, but there is a clear preference in Todd’s work for fight or agonism – popular not only in the argumentative culture of the academy (see Tannen, 2000) but in television culture as illustrated in such spectacle-shows as Jerry Springer where guests of different orientations and identities fight verbally and sometimes physically – “whereby enemies can become legitimate adversaries within the field of human plurality” (Todd, 2009, p. 105). In order to take cosmopolitanism “seriously” (p. 3), Todd says, it must attend to the “violence and antagonism which plague our lives,” something that it apparently does not do in its current “comforting” (p. 20) formation. Todd sees the act or practice of loving at odds with what it means to take responsibility for understanding the “concrete situations” (p. 19) that is our humanity and for working toward global justice. To put it another way, facing humanity is an ugly business that cosmopolitanism – which Hansen (2011) maintains “begins in open-hearted responsiveness” to the world (p. 37) – seeks to circumvent by expunging the human stain from the human. Promoting feelings of “empathy and sensitivity” (Todd, 2009, p. 30) toward others is an ingenuous, romantic way of pretending to “fac[e] cultural differences” and a shared world of human plurality. For pluralism 82  to have “real political meaning” (p. 103), Todd adds, “conflict must assume a place.” Todd casts the workings of the heart as woefully ineffective in confronting humanity in all of its pockmarked imperfections. Philosopher of education Klas Roth (2007a) puts plainly the problem of postmodern ethics like that backed by Todd: “Advocates of postmodern ethics also argue that, were we to act upon our knowledge or understanding of the other as Other, we would inevitably act violently and not responsibly” (p. 114). In other word, there is a slippery slope between providing a public-forum for enemies to “become legitimate adversaries” (Todd, 2009, p. 105) and acting violently rather than responsibly toward those same enemies. It is interesting that Todd frames much of her own criticisms of cosmopolitanism by way of Arendtian political theory when much of political cosmopolitanism is built in constructive terms upon Arendtian thought. Perhaps her narrowly conceived understanding of Arendt rests on the fact that Arendt’s own intellectual trajectory is riddled not only with numerous paradoxes as have been noted by many Arendtian scholars already, but also because “a thinker such as Hannah Arendt invites many readings and interpretations” permitting “the identification of different strands of argumentation” (Benhabib, 2006, p. 165), which have, today, come to construct the beginning of a political cosmopolitan tradition indebted to Arendt herself. This tradition, however, draws rather extensively from Arendt’s overtly political writings, specifically The Origins of Totalitarianism and Eichmann in Jerusalem. Yet, it is in the bookends of her life’s career – Love and Saint Augustine and The Life of the Mind – where Arendt describes the importance that love plays in shaping the world. To call Arendt a scholar of love, however, is something of an overstatement. As Young-Bruehl (2006) notes, an “anthology on love collected from the works of philosophers around the world probably would not include anything by Hannah Arendt” (p. 204). In writing this statement, however, Young-Bruehl draws attention to Arendt’s writings on love as located in The Human Condition, which are but a few paragraphs in which she is not exactly at her most effervescent on the subject. In this particular reference to Arendt’s thoughts on love in its cupiditas manifestation, Young-Bruehl does not mention that her former teacher did write her dissertation on various manifestations of love in the writings of Saint Augustine, a dissertation originally written in 1929 which she began revising in the 1960s. In other words, Love and Saint Augustine was not something she left behind – literally or psychically – after fleeing the Nazis, a move which propelled her politicization which has come 83  to define her work as scholars have come to see it. Moreover, the territory of love is returned to rather extensively in her last book when discussing the ways in which the will can be transformed into love. As Scott (2002) notes, it was not only the subject of natality which Arendt appropriated from Saint Augustine’s “beginnings” but also that of love as cupiditas and caritas; the latter “preserves both plurality and community” (p. 29). We can say with some confidence that natality, plurality, and community (or belonging) rest at the center of Arendt’s life work, and these three interconnected subjects likewise hold great value in scholarship on cosmopolitanism.19 Has the subject of love fared any better in other works written in the political strand of cosmopolitanism? From what I have seen, it appears to be largely absent. Doing a simple search for the word love in a number of key texts in this area of scholarship reveals the following: In Patrick Hayden’s (2005) Cosmopolitan Global Politics and Seyla Benhabib’s (2006) Another Cosmopolitanism, love comes up as a reference to Martha Nussbaum’s book For Love of Country. In effect, it doesn’t really come up at all. In an article by James Brassett and Dan Bulley (2007) entitled “Ethics in World Politics: Cosmopolitanism and Beyond?”, we find the word love once, in the acknowledgment section where the authors “give special thanks to our wives for their constant love and support throughout (and sometimes despite) this project” (p. 17). While the latter reference could use some feminist unpacking, I am not suggesting that because the word love itself is largely vacant in these texts that love broadly conceived is completely absent from them either. As Huebner (as cited in Pinar and Hillis, 2008) points out, “conversation, however, seems to be a form of love in action” as it “demands an ‘openness to the world’, a relative freedom to face the events and people of the world” (p. 78). Huebner’s point resonates with Appiah’s (2006) as discussed at some length already in the previous chapter. For Appiah, conversation rests at the heart of the cosmopolitan enterprise; these “conversations across boundaries” (p. xxi) are unavoidable given the reality of global transactions that constitute world communication today; these conversations are not only literal but metaphorical given the importance that story and the traveling imagination play in cosmopolitan thought. Echoing Appiah, Hansen (2011) maintains that a “cosmopolitan-minded education does entail traveling, but with an accent not on physical movement per se but on intellectual, ethical, and aesthetic journeying” (p. 2). In other words, loving the world is inferred 84  but not stated outright in these aforementioned texts. Appiah is likewise wont to point out that conversation does not necessarily lead to consensus. In this way, love does not exclude agonism from its practice; however, it does not privilege agonism over other ways of engaging difference, either. Arendt’s amor mundi is a tough love that is expressed differently than articulations of love as a practice and as a form of compassion. Interesting, in Of Hospitality, Derrida (2000) does bring up the question if “hospitality should be linked to love” (p. 27) but fails to elaborate on this “enigma.” It is precisely this enigma which I aim to explore in this chapter, and I will do so by considering the ways in which political cosmopolitan thinkers – whose work centers largely around hospitality – exclude particular aspects of Arendt’s writings, namely those areas focused on love. As Scott (1988) points out, the problem with “the extraordinary density and obscurity of both Augustine’s and Arendt’s systems of thought” (p. 401) have often resulted in Arendtian scholars and scholars who cite Arendt for their own ends constructing “a particular explanatory model who insist on throwing out a number of key pieces to the puzzle which do not fit their own view of Hannah Arendt’s agenda” (p. 405). In fact, the major players in a cosmopolitanism concerned with the subject of human rights and global justice and to be addressed here – Derrida (2001), Benhabib (2006), Honig (as cited in Benhabib, 2006), Kurasawa (2007) and Todd (2009) – have each in their own way selected, as if following suit, the most concrete and obvious areas of Arendt’s writings in forming, responding to, and questioning theories and practices of hospitality. More specifically, my interest lies in the areas of Arendt’s oeuvre that have not been included in forming this area of scholarship; areas which, I suggest, offer new, productive possibilities for a body of study which has not attended to the ways that medieval philosopher Saint Augustine – whose “concept of love would facilitate the ‘founding’ of new public realms” (Scott, 1988, p. 404) – has influenced Arendt’s work. Arendt’s (1978: 2) writings on “the primacy of the will” (p. 125), which is able to be “transformed into love” (p. 143) have been sorely overlooked in forming the burgeoning landscape of political cosmopolitanism. In this chapter, I will also turn to the boundary transcending event of Fukushima Daiichi as my central example in exploring what it means to show love toward the lives of others. Fukushima and other un/predictable “cosmopolitan event[s]” (Beck, 2009, p. 67-71)20 as related to notions of hospitality and compassion will act as illustrations to the many ways that love provides the 85  figurative sustenance for the world to carry on into the future. This is not to say that literal nourishment is unimportant to notions of hospitality. As Virginia Woolf (1989) once remarked:  The human frame being what it is, heart, body and brain all mixed together, and not contained in separate compartments as they will be no doubt in another million years, a good dinner is of great importance to good talk. One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. (p. 18)  I quote Woolf here not only to indirectly point out how an event like the Fukushima nuclear disaster causes damage to the ecosystem and subsequently the food we eat but also to pay heed to the ways in which the different compartments (the heart and the mind), and the different academic disciplines, when working together, helps us to examine issues from a plurality of perspectives in the hopes of arriving at some general understanding. I will conclude by considering the relationship between loving and belonging, inspired by thinkers in and outside the field of cosmopolitanism. These thinkers include socio-political scholar Fuyuki Kurasawa (2007) whose cosmopolitanism includes “simultaneous appeals to the hearts and minds of others” by “draw[ing] upon expressivist and rationalist traditions of thought” (p. 44), social psychologist Erich Fromm (2006) who contends that loving is an art or practice, and theologicophilosophical humanitarian Jean Vanier (1998) who describes the process of becoming human as a journey from inner loneliness – and loneliness as Arendt (1973) knows “has become an everyday experience of the evergrowing masses of our century” (p. 478) – to mutual belonging which “is the to-and-fro movement of love” (Vanier, 1998, p. 28). The purpose in turning to these latter thinkers is to draw attention to the powerful role that love can play, but has not as of yet, in re/forming political cosmopolitanism and the ways in which neighborly love has been largely though not completely lost in the hypermodern world of which Fukushima Daiichi is a potent illustration.  86  4.2  Political Cosmopolitanism and Hannah Arendt: An In/direct Address to Love for the  World? This section of the chapter will provide an overview of the ways in which cosmopolitanism has been taken up thus far in its political manifestation. The purpose in providing such an overview is two-fold: to understand political cosmopolitanism for its own sake; to consider in the following sections how the work done and not yet done in this area help us to think through one of the more pressing issues of our time: the Fukushima nuclear risk turned un/predictable catastrophe and other global risks which will, in only a matter of time, become un/predictable disasters, too. It is thinkers like Hannah Arendt and Ulrich Beck who write about the past and historical present in such a way as to be mindful of future totalitarianisms and world risks, respectively. As a distinct area of study within cosmopolitanism, political cosmopolitanism is particularly indebted to Kant’s (1983) Third Article for Perpetual Peace and Arendt’s (1973) formulation of “the right to have rights” as articulated in Origins and in her report on the Eichmann trial in which she expresses, sometimes ambivalently, the need for an international tribunal in cases of crimes against humanity; a crime that Arendt (2006b) equates exclusively with genocide (p. 269). Scholars of political cosmopolitanism – not necessarily synonymous with the more broadly conceived area of cosmopolitics (see Cheah and Robbins, 1998; Latour, 2004; Cheah, 2006; Stengers, 2010; Stengers, 2011) – focus upon ways to develop in/formal transnational practices of hospitality and global justice in response to human rights violations and “environmental degradation” (Hansen, 2010, p. 153). Several thinkers in this area of scholarship advocate juridical institution-building (e.g. Benhabib, 2006) while others hope to cultivate bottom-up practices of “ethico-political labour” (e.g. Kurasawa, 2007, p. 194); Honig (as cited in Benhabib, 2006) calls for non-linear forms of Arendtian-style “world-building” (p. 117) in which she takes her cues from poststructural-minded thinkers such as Derrida (2000; 2001), who advocates cities of refuge as a duty and right to un/conditional hospitality, and Foucault, whose work often critiques governmentality (see Benhabib, 2006, p. 162). The thread that links these thinker’s works together is the ways each draws upon the writings of Arendt in forming their particular arguments concerning (human) rights and global justice. Those threads, 87  however, do not include the areas of Arendt’s writings that deal specifically with the ways that love as a practice resonates with showing hospitality to others. In his essay On Cosmopolitanism, Derrida (2001) takes up the subject of the cosmopolitan right to asylum for refugees in need of sanctuary and the “political difficulty” (Critchley and Kearney as cited in Derrida, 2001, p. x) that such a project entails. Derrida likewise pays homage to Arendt, “closely scrutinis[ing]” (p. 6) her writings on “The Decline of the Nation-State and the End of the Rights of Man” by describing the need for cities of refuge for the “stateless,” “homeless,” “deported,” and “displaced persons” (p. 6) as the nation-state has clearly failed in this capacity and despite the fact that Arendt herself “does not speak of the city” (p. 7) as an alternative mode of protection for those with such a need. Nonetheless, Arendt’s (1973) explanation for the “disintegration of political life” that was the nation-state and which between the wars was pervaded by a “hatred of everyone and everything” (p. 268) acts as a springboard for today’s unprecedented circumstances concerning human rights violations (Derrida, 2001), such as those in Japan after and in (lack of) response to Fukushima (Human Rights Watch, 2012). As Derrida (2001) recognizes, Arendt herself was wary of establishing a world government which might not be “capable of sorting things out” (p. 8).21 For Arendt (1998) political life or action which dissolves under totalitarianism “corresponds to the human condition of plurality” (p. 7). Derrida does not mince words when it comes to the role that Arendt’s (1973) writings on “the problem of the stateless people” (p. 276) plays regarding today’s problems of statelessness and homelessness. “Arendt was writing of something the veracity of which still holds today” (Derrida, 2001, p. 8); he also recognizes that “we are still a long way from the idea of cosmopolitanism as defined in Kant’s famous text” (p. 11), Perpetual Peace. In his concluding remarks, Derrida asks his interlocutors to carefully consider “two other paradigms” (p. 21) in thinking toward cities of refuge: the conditional and unconditional right to hospitality as described by Kant, who is the second thinker after Arendt that Derrida generously draws from in “dig[ging] out the logical structure behind the image of cosmopolitanism and question[ing] it” (Critchley and Kearney as cited in Derrida, 2001, p. x).22 It is as if Derrida sets the stage for the ways in which political cosmopolitan writers after him define its structure or terrain. Indeed, the notion of a “logical structure” in the sense used by Critchley and Kearney, I would argue, is 88  inseparable from Kant’s categorical imperative. While there is “extensive debate” on Kant’s Universal Law formulation regarding “what our duties are” (Taylor, 2003, p. 601), in the realm of political cosmopolitanism, this debate has not extended to how these duties are conceived – by way of moral imperatives which are built upon rational thought and deliberation and/or moral obligations which derive from the heart. The clash between modernist-inclined Benhabib and postmodernist agonist Honig – two political theorists whom, in speaking on the subject of cosmopolitanism, “invok[e] Hannah Arendt, the democratic theorist to whom she and I are both, in different ways, very much indebted” (Honig as cited in Benhabib, 2006, p. 102) – is a case in point. In describing “the rise of an international human rights regime,” (p. 27), Benhabib (2006) draws from Kant’s cosmopolitan inheritance in which “the Eichmann trial and the Arendt-Jaspers exchange surrounding it…stand at the beginning of the evolution of cosmopolitan norms” (p. 20) which are still unfolding today. Like Derrida, Benhabib is interested in constructing a set of ethics that are not rooted within the context of the nation-state; on the other hand, she contends that Arendt’s “anxiety” surrounding the establishment of an international tribunal “must be faced by any serious deliberative democrat” (p. 18). In other words, she does not shy away from a Universalist moral standpoint even though Arendt (1998) believed that action, which is political life, “can function only under the condition of plurality” (p. 238). Arendt, however, was a multidimensional thinker who did not think in terms of modernism or postmodernism per say, nor was she an “antimodernist,” “political philosopher of nostalgia” as Benhabib (1996, p. x) rightfully points out (see Kateb, 1984). Rather, the foundation of her theorizing is rooted in particular events. From actually existing phenomena, she formed judgments that could be seen in premodern, modern, or postmodern lights. One thing that Voegelin (1953) got right about Arendt is that her writings are “remarkably free of ideological nonsense” (p. 71). This lack of nonsense, as he put it, helps me to think about global catastrophic events in this historic moment – like Fukushima – for the events themselves rather than from an ideological vantage point. With predetermined perspectives in mind – perspectives that are value-laden rather than free of value, a freedom that Arendt aimed for in her theorizing – Honig (as cited in Benhabib, 2006) appears to be just as concerned with critiquing Benhabib for her apparent failure to understand “Arendt’s analysis of the Eichmann trial” (p. 103) as she is with advocating an 89  Arendtian-Derridian “agonistic cosmopolitics” en lieu of Benhabib’s “subsumptive normative cosmopolitanism” (p. 117). The enactment of agonistic cosmopolitics might include, says Honig, “underground railroads” and “cities of refuge” (p. 118), which act to “inaugurat[e] all sorts of extrastatist relief, aid, trade, and learning between us” (p. 119). The problem, however, is that Honig’s “hostility toward institutions,” which characterizes her postmodern influenced agonistic cosmopolitics, excludes the productive possibilities that the juridical can play in transforming the public domain. In other words, her Foucauldian suspicion of the State – that the State is and always will be “agencies of repression” (Benhabib, 2006, p. 163) – undermines action that only states, institutions, and laws could sanction and protect. Benhabib recognizes this as much in her own critique of Honig who dismisses the productive “interplay between the official… and the unofficial public sphere” (p. 163) of human rights work. To my point, neither thinker considers what I suggest is the productive interaction of moral obligations that derive from rational discourse and an ethical consciousness which speaks from the heart. The reasons that the workings of the heart might be disregarded in political cosmopolitan theorizing might well have to do with the intellectually rigorous style of scholarship that characterizes this field of thought. In his own discussion on love as the “most highly valued form of human interaction,” Huebner (as cited in Pinar and Hillis, 2008) points out that many educational scholars avoid writing about sentiments so as to avoid appearing sentimental (p. 77). To Huebner’s point, Todd (2009) sees cosmopolitanism as a “comforting philosophy…couched in some nice language of ‘care,’ ‘love,’ or ‘empathy’” (p. 20). It appears that Todd understands love to be a useless, trivial sentiment when it comes to the gritty work needed for building a just world. Rather, radical democratic practices that rely upon dissent and conflict play a more productive role in the work of human rights and global justice. Following in the footsteps Ranciere, she adds, “democracy is that volatile instant which allows the entry of equality into the social order as conflict” (p. 107). Yet, it is the heart – the strongest muscle in the human body – where love emanates from and that opens up a space for spontaneous, hospitable action toward others. While Arendt (2006c) was suspicious of sentiments having a place in the political realm – e.g., her critique of the French Revolution in which Robespierre capitalized on pity for the poor is perhaps the most potent example of her suspicion-aversion (see p. 79) – she is also highly attuned to the vital role that spontaneity plays in exercising one’s 90  freedom which is synonymous with being human. “Spontaneity as such, with its incalculability, is the greatest of all obstacles to total domination over man” (Arendt, 1973, p. 456). While not a political theorist, Mica Nava’s (2007) psychoanalytic interpretation of cosmopolitanism also speaks to “spontaneous” (p. 63), “non-rational,” (p. 64) and “frequently unconscious” (p. 63) acts of goodness directed toward strangers that relate to the workings of the heart more so than the mind.23 Spontaneity, moreover, is antithetical to “self-evident logicality” (Arendt, 1973, p. 472); a logicality such as “two and two equals four” which is the only thing that holds meaning for human beings trapped within the false and “coercive force of logicality” and causality that is totalitarianism, yet whose truth is so meaningless it is “no truth at all” (p. 477). Spontaneity of the human heart, moreover, can act with “‘instinctive extensivity’ which is, in effect, a disposition toward inclusivity, a spontaneous ‘sense of self as part of a common humanity…rather than tied to specific interests of family, community, or country’” (Cohen as cited in Nava, 2007, p. 63). Looked at in this way, spontaneity reveals different kinds of truths than that of logical reasoning.24 Focusing her work upon norms and deliberation more so than spontaneous acts of good will, Benhabib (2006) constructs much of her argument surrounding rights and freedom by way of established international juridical documents such as The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, The Geneva Convention of 1951, and the United Nations High Commissioner of Refugees. Different than Honig or Todd, Benhabib draws from the lineage of Critical Theory via Habermas’s non-coercive consensus building which is more closely linked to Kant’s writings on sensus communis, or “enlargement of the mind” than Marx’s on social class and class structure. This is not to say that either Honig or Todd indicate that the meaning of hospitality falls outside the domain of minding, or thinking about, ways to be hospitable. Indeed, the subtitle of Todd’s (2009) book Facing Humanity, Rethinking Cosmopolitanism suggests that cosmopolitanism is in danger of being a “thoughtless” (p. 139) enterprise. An enterprise which is so heartfelt “couched in some nice language of ‘care,’ ‘love,’ or empathy” (p. 20), it – cosmopolitanism – is intellectually intolerable. And Thinking, volume 1 of Arendt’s The Life of the Mind, is particularly indebted to Kant, whereas volume 2, Willing, which forms a bridge to loving, is the other mental activity that “clashes” with thinking – indeed, the two “seem unable to coexist” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 35) – owes much to Saint Augustine and Duns Scotus. Never mind that 91  pages earlier Todd (2009) commends a passage from Arendt’s essay “The Crisis in Education” which draws a link between love, sensus communis, and responsibility, and is worth citing in full:  Education is the point at which we decide whether we love the world enough to assume responsibility for it and by the same token save it from that ruin which, except for renewal, except for the coming of the new and young, would be inevitable. And education, too, is where we decide whether we love our children enough not to expel them from our world and leave them to their own devices, nor to strike from their hand their chance of undertaking something new, something unforeseen by us, but to prepare them in advance for the task of renewing a common world. (Arendt as cited in Todd, 2009, p. 16)  Todd (2009) makes no mention of the importance that love plays in the above passage; rather, it is used as fuel for her overall critique that “a harmonious image” such as cosmopolitanism is about “idealized conceptions of intrinsic goodness or even the universality of humanity” (p. 16), a notion which is antithetical, she argues, to an Arendtian “common world…where pluralism is prized above all else” (p. 16). It is hardly new knowledge that Arendt values plurality; it is not clear, however, what the above passage has to do with human uniqueness any more than it has to do with totalitarianism. It does seem to be focused upon love, particularly loving our children enough to educate them for the world. Nonetheless, it is important to understand what Arendt means by love – “a complicated and even ‘swampy’” (Chiba, 1995, p. 505) concept and a “notoriously difficult, even dangerous” (p. 505) one in talking about politics as it is more often than not considered a theological and ethical rather than political virtue as Shin Chiba points out. That said, Chiba also notes that Arendt has “shown a sustained interest in the relationship between love and the political” (p. 505). Arendt does, nevertheless, differentiate between love and the heart; the latter, she contends, is “altogether questionable” (Arendt as cited in Chiba, 1995, p. 517) in the realm of political affairs, yet she fails to elaborate on this distinction. Perhaps Arendt is more at home in speaking to the role that love plays in education. For Arendt, school-based education acts as an in-between space, between the private and the public realms. 92  In the public realm of political cosmopolitanism there is little to no mention of the subject of love despite the fact that this realm of discourse in/directly addresses the indifference, at best, and hatred, at worst, toward “alteritas,” which, “in medieval philosophy, [is] one of the four basic, universal characteristics of Being” (Arendt, 1998, p. 176). According to Roth (2007a), postmodern ethics, not unlike that articulated by Todd or Honig, has a difficult time “articulat[ing] the difference between thinking and being responsible” (p. 117). If this is the case, Roth adds, “then we can question the relevancy and radicalism of postmodern ethics and its meaningfulness for ethical and moral problems” we are faced with at the onset of the 21st century which Beck (2009) speaks to so urgently in a World at Risk. As Arendt (1978: 2) reminds “thinking and willing are antagonists” (p. 35) in that the former deals with the present or past whereas the latter stretches “out into the future” in order to take action. Arendt is clear that action and speech reveal human plurality. Given that much of Todd’s argument rests on the assumption that cosmopolitanism lacks thoughtfulness and privileges the universal over the plural, her argument would be greatly strengthened not only by turning to the subject of thinking, which does nothing, but also by taking up willing and loving as articulated in Arendt’s writings. Indeed, willing and loving have more to do with action and with being responsible than thinking in and of itself ever could. Of all the political cosmopolitan thinkers addressed here, it is Kurasawa (2007) who does not bifurcate ethical judgment from an ethic of compassion; rather, he sees global justice as a labor which can extend to the labor of classroom education. For Kurasawa, global justice is practiced in a number of ways which do not discount “transnational empathy” (p. 43) or “simultaneous appeals to the hearts and the minds of others” (p. 44) despite the fact that the two have often been regarded as incommensurable forces working within the human spirit. “A nascent cosmopolitan moral imagination” (p. 44) is cultivated through the interplay between “expressivist and rational traditions of thought.” As mentioned previously, a culture of presentism (Pinar, 2012) and materialism cultivates indifference toward the suffering of others, particularly those across the globe; at the same time, the Western world also experiences “compassion fatigue” (Kurasawa, 2007, p. 42), particularly in classrooms and other venues that reiterate the horrors of the Holocaust. This fatigue cripples our abilities to feel others’ suffering and vanquishes our humanity. We are reminded that “philosophy in the cosmopolitan sense of 93  the word” asks: “What is a human being” (Kant, 2006, p. xi-xii)? What makes us human is not only our ability to judge rightly as spectators which is done by cultivating ethical judgment but also to connect with others when they are put into vulnerable, frightening, exploitive positions. Cultivating an ethic of compassion provides a space to develop such a connection with others. The following section aims to address the ways in which this both/and ethic may or may not be at work in response to Fukushima, a recent and ongoing catastrophic event of local and global proportion.  4.3  Fukushima Daiichi: A Never-Ending Story of Pain or Outrage? There’s been a quantum leap technologically in our age, but unless there’s another quantum leap in human relations, unless we learn to live in a new way towards one another, there will be a catastrophe. Albert Einstein  There have been reports that since the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant meltdown began, many Japanese citizens no longer trust what the government says or does because of the way it and TEPCO have responded to the nuclear disaster (see Dusenberre, 2011; Varma, 2012); i.e., with little empathy, displacement of responsibility,25 and denial toward the dangers of the ongoing radiation emissions, even burning radioactive debris back up into the atmosphere (Mochizuki, 2011) as if it were nothing other than firewood; in effect, “recreating Fukushima all over again” (Gundersen, 2011b). Here is the logic: make the rubble – estimated at 22.53 million tons (Varma, 2012) – disappear into thin air even if it (re)contaminates areas such as schools that were either safe to begin with or were previously decontaminated. Get it out of sight so we do not have to think about it. This is a dangerous case of “presentism” (see Pinar, 2012): thinking short term because thinking long term does not compute economically, politically, or psychically. One might surmise that such presentism is tied not only to the government’s denial toward the present Fukushima radiation emissions but also to a previous version of denial, and one which ignored warning signs that a nuclear meltdown at Fukushima could, in fact, happen. Indeed, an independent investigating commission has declared Fukushima “a profoundly man-made disaster – that could and should have been foreseen and prevented” (Kurokawa as cited in Tabuchi, 2012a). It has been reported, moreover, that even after the reactor explosions, the people of 94  Namie, Fukushima, have not been “forgotten” by the government as many have claimed, but have, in fact, been “ignored” (Craft, 2011). To be ignored or neglected as in the case of villagers from Namie, is the antithesis of being loved. Pretending away the ongoing existence of Fukushima, however, not only prolongs it but re/distributes it as in the case involving the United States government not so “secretly” continuing to buy food from Japan without properly testing it for radioactive materials (Dupre, 2011a). Given that Japan has one of the world’s largest fishing fleets, accounting for 15% of the global catch (Central Intelligence Agency, 2012) and that 60%-80% of Japanese fish catches since Fukushima Daiichi fallout began have consistently been contaminated with radioactive cesium (Roslin, 2012a) – some of which has been exported to Canada (Roslin, 2012b) – it might not be a good idea to eat fish if you do not know for certain where it was caught. But then again, place as a static, bounded concept does not make much difference given the fact that migrating Bluefin tuna caught off the coast of San Diego have shown elevated amounts of cesium, a radioactive isotope directly linked to the Fukushima meltdown, raising concerns for human health (Sankin, 2013). In effect, citizens of Japan, the United States, and perhaps other countries could be buying cancer or other un/known illnesses at grocery line checkout counters. One suspects that it is a lack of concern for the health of a nation’s citizens and a great deal of concern for a nation’s economy which contributes to selling possibly radioactive contaminated food. (It goes without saying that such an ill-conceived economic plan lacks economic foresight.) When Nina Abbott, a farmer out of Newfoundland and Labrador, requested that her land be tested to ensure she is selling safe products, neither private companies, the government, nor universities were interested “getting involved” (Stein, 2011). Indeed, the Canadian Food Inspection Agency (as cited in Roslin, 2012a) says “the amounts of cesium detected are small” despite the fact that Health Canada has recorded radioactive iodine levels 300 times higher in a suburb of Victoria and 1,000 times higher in areas of Nunavut (Roslin, 2011) due to Fukushima. No doubt, there is a conflict of interest at work given that Canada is the largest producer of uranium in the world (Natural Resources Canada, 2009) and that Canadian uranium mining company’s such as Cameco (2012) are spreading their wings, recently acquiring Yeelirrie, “one of Australia’s largest undeveloped uranium deposits.”  95  What is novel about these crimes against humanity is that if/when life threatening illnesses in the form of cancers and genetic mutations in a humanity yet to be born begin manifesting at greater rates in areas affected by Fukushima – with hot particles found in places as far away as Seattle (Gundersen, 2011a), St. Louis (Dupre, 2011b), and Boston (Gundersen, 2012c) – who or what is to blame? In cases such as these, notions of responsibility begin to lose their meaning. In response to the controversy surrounding Eichmann, Arendt (2003) wrote that society has a “fear of passing judgment, of naming names, of fixing blame—especially, alas, upon people in power and high position” (p. 21). Even if society did not have this fear, in the case of fallout from Fukushima, who is to judge, name, blame? Beck (2009) contends that when it comes to the “cosmopolitan moment of the ecological crisis…allocating responsibility – causality and blame – [is] breaking down” (p. 91). Because of this breakdown, “dangers grow as a result of being made anonymous.” At the one year anniversary of 3/11, Prime Minister Yoshihiko Noda (as cited in Griffith, 2012) announced: “Rather than blaming any individual person I believe everyone has to share the pain of responsibility and learn this lesson.” The problem with this belief, as Arendt (2003) succinctly put it, “where all are guilty, no one is” (p. 21). Since Noda’s announcement, however, steps toward allocating responsibility are being taken as in the case of a Japanese parliamentary report concluding that the government in collusion with industry attempted “to avoid responsibility by putting all the blame on the unexpected (the tsunami)” (Tabuchi, 2012a). Yet, the aim of the parliamentary report was to tell factual truths (in the face of great lies) about why Fukushima happened. As Arendt (2006a) clarifies, however, “the mere telling of facts, leads to no action whatsoever” (p. 246), which is not to say telling the truth should be forsaken. “Organized lying” (p. 246), Arendt continues, and “the liar is free to fashion his ‘facts’ to fit the profit and pleasure…of his audience.” In this way, it is the teller of falsehoods more so than the teller of truths who acts upon the world. Telling the truth does not actively change the world; in fact, more often than not it simply “offends profit and pleasure” (p. 247) as in the case of exposing ugly truths about pretty countries. Ignoring, hiding, and falsifying the warning signs of a self-generated, imminent nuclear disaster led to the Fukushima catastrophe happening. This is not to say that Fukushima can be explained away through simple cause-effect accusations either. As Beck (2009) makes clear, 96  when it comes to the “organized irresponsibility” (p. 27-29) of global risks, an “extensive labyrinth” (p. 193) of responsibility exists thereby making Noda’s statement of nonresponsibility and victimization palatable to a world audience. While a thinker like Arendt devoted her life’s work to writing about detecting warning signs for the unprecedented – indeed, Young-Bruehl (2006) has called The Origins of Totalitarianism, The Human Condition, and The Life of the Mind books that teach us to “judge future totalitarianisms” (p. 35), to be mindful toward “the danger of conformism and its threat to freedom” (Arendt, 1994, p. 425), and to identify “a particular kind of lying and lack of judgment” which “Eichmann’s thoughtlessness had raised for her” (Young-Bruehl, 2006, p. 161), respectively – we are still a long way off from paying the kind of heedful attention to warning signs in the way Arendt believes is vital to sustain the future of humankind and the planet. The novelty of Fukushima is worth noting. A new and improved version of the original atomic plague is spreading across the planet through earth, air, fire, and water – yet it cannot be seen, heard, tasted, smelled, or touched. It has become part of the atmosphere. As Japanese educator Tsunesaburo Makiguchi (2002) noted over one hundred years ago, because of its “gaseous substance…most people are oblivious to the atmosphere and the important role it plays in our lives” (p. 139). An environmental phenomenon that “[w]e usually are not aware” (p. 148), Makiguchi also describes the importance that wind plays in sustaining human life. “Wind not only moderates heat and cold, but also cleanses the air and makes it suitable for humans to breathe.” We can forgive Makigushi for not knowing in advance how the wind could one day do the very opposite of its intent; the wind that begins off the coast of Japan, no less, typically travels eastward across the Pacific Ocean making its way to the west coast of North America as happened immediately after the Fukushima Daiichi reactor explosions. When those radioactive dust clouds turn into rain, the radionuclides become absorbed in the soil and, subsequently, the food chain. In Writing for an Endangered World, Lawrence Buell (2001) argues that “there never was an is without a where” (p. 55) when discussing environmental toxification. Buell contends that “what gives definition, force, persuasion, embodiment to toxic concern are events happening at specific times in specific locations to specific beings.” In the case of Fukushima, however, such specificity or particularity begins to lose its force of persuasion given the way that the fallout functions, drifting with the wind, migrating by way of fish. This is not to say that the 97  people outside of the Fukushima prefecture or Japan have experienced fallout with the same visceral immediacy as those hit hardest by the facticity of the event; that said, Fukushima is not only a local phenomenon. While writers like Appiah (2006), Pinar (2009), and Hansen (2011) have argued for the importance of rootedness, subjectivity, and home, respectively, when speaking upon cosmopolitanism, following Ulrich Beck, we might also consider the ways in which cosmopolitan catastrophes like Fukushima recall the unlikely specter of rootless cosmopolitans.26 When understood as “the actual cosmopolitanization of reality” (Beck, 2004, p. 132), cosmopolitanism seems more rootless than it does rooted. What can be learned from studying the free floating phenomena of Fukushima – literally free floating given the massive pile of flotsam buoying eastward across the Pacific Ocean – as pedagogy? As discussed previously, literature of the past teaches us a great deal about our present circumstances. Indeed, T. S. Eliot’s (2002) prophesy in The Waste Land: “Fear death by water” takes on phenomenological immediacy in the case of Fukushima. 59 years after the first nuclear test was detonated in the desert landscape of Nevada, Elizabeth Ellsworth and Jamie Kruse (2010) went on an educational tour of the Nevada Test Site, a place of “sensational public pedagogy” (p. 268).27 They worry about the wind and dust: “Indications of the smallest of breezes trigger tinges of nausea” (p. 277). In the same section of The Waste Land where Eliot (2002) speaks of fearing death by water, he also says: “I will show you fear in a handful of dust” (p. 39). It is not only dystopian fictions which teach us that the present world can be found in studying the past. While there are many ways to interpret a poem of The Waste Land’s magnitude and which go well beyond the scope of my work here, it might be said that the great poem points to a particular and universal, a local and global future reality that is our present circumstance. In this way, I reinforce my earlier argument inspired by Virginia Woolf that humanity needs to take seriously the ways in which all the disciplines, from poetry and performance to science and sociology, help humanity “anticipate the worst possible turn” which “is not foreseeable” (Beck, 2009, p. 129). “Of all things of thought,” says Arendt (1998, p. 170), “poetry is closest to thought, and a poem is less a thing than any other work of art.” Ironically, scientists and utilitarian philosophers “have never tired of pointing out how entirely ‘useless’ thought is” because thought thinks for its own sake rather than for producing verifiable results through tests and more tests. Indeed, the 98  obsession with testing – a global risk in itself which will be thought through in this chapter – that currently characterizes public education and school reforms have been around for quite some time. At the Nevada Test Site, whose name was rechristened in 2010 to the Nevada National Security Site for what are no doubt political and semantic reasons – and a name I choose not to use here for ethical and memorial reasons – 1,021 nuclear tests were carried out between 1951 and 1992. These tests were detonated “in the name of safety and progress” (Ellsworth and Kruse, 2011, p. 276). Are lands where these tests were set off and the atmosphere that is shared with other lands safer now than before 1951? How has humankind progressed since Operation Ranger, the first of the 45 atomic test series? What does a radioactive atmosphere mean for sensus communis, which is the “one faculty [that] extends to all objects of the five senses” (Aquinas as cited in Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 50)? Common sense allows us to break free from subjectivism. As such, common sense provides human beings with a sense of “worldly reality” (Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 52) in ways that using one or two senses or the Cartesian cogito ergo sum do not. What would the world be like if using our senses no longer helped us make sense of the world? Fukushima requires that we ask this question. The ongoing global nuclear fallout is a paradigmatic case of the “cosmopolitanization of reality” (Beck, 2004, p. 131); yet is cosmopolitan “transformation” (Beck, 2009, p. 48) which opens up the possibility for new beginnings occurring in the ways Beck thinks it might? As Tabuchi (2012a) notes, the very fact that there was an independent commission examining what went wrong at Fukushima attests to “break[ing] with precedent in Japan.” Yet, while Germany plans to fully shut down their nuclear plants by 2022 (Baetz, 2011), the United Kingdom has tried to downplay Fukushima so that their plans to build nuclear power plants will not be derailed (Edwards, 2011). The United States government, moreover, has not done testing for hazardous radionuclides that have contaminated its soil since the Fukushima disaster began (Kaltofen, 2011). On the contrary, the White House has significantly raised permissible levels of radiation in the soil and drinking water subsequent to recent “radiological incidents” (Stade, 2013). Here is the paradox: As a cosmopolitan catastrophe, Fukushima Daiichi is simultaneously enforced and denied. It is enforced in that we cannot run away from radiation contamination which has already crossed over the entire northern hemisphere. What about the Japanese people whose homeland is a series of islands? Our world, for that matter, is an island. Where to run? Where to hide? What 99  to do? At the same time, official reports have denied the extent of this boundary-transgressing catastrophe in both overt and covert ways. One year after Fukushima began, National Public Radio reported that “trauma, not radiation is [the] key concern in Japan” (Harris, 2012). Trauma is obviously a serious issue, and one that is not being addressed sufficiently based on the few news articles being reported on this subject. In this way, an ethic of compassion is absent. At the same time, focusing upon trauma as being more worrisome than possible effects of radiation contamination deflects from the crime that created the trauma to begin with, a crime that will last days, decades, and millennia into the future depending on what type of radionuclide we are talking about. This paradox – of Fukushima being at once enforced and denied – sets humanity on a course of global destruction, begging us to remember the key theme in Hannah Arendt’s (1998) book The Human Condition: “think what we are doing” (p. 5). In light of the way that the Japanese government has been dealing with the nuclear crisis, some citizens have taken their health into their own hands by buying Geiger counters to measure radiation levels. Rather than empathizing with concerned citizens about their anxieties, the Japanese government has responded by calling for a stop to citizens taking radiation measurements because the instruments, they say, might not show accurate readings (Mochizuki, 2011). It has also been reported that the Japanese government blocked 25,000 Geiger counters from coming into the country (Noland, 2011). In another instance, the government has attempted to quell the fears of citizens living in Minamisoma, Fukushima, by trimming two inches of topsoil off an elementary school baseball field. The school principal promises that the field will see sports action in April 2012 (MacLeod, 2012); yet citizens are not convinced that trimming topsoil will solve the problem of radiation contamination. Another elementary school in Ishinomaki, Japan, lost 74 children and 10 teachers to the tsunami; a disaster that could have been prevented if the teachers would have taken the children up onto a nearby hill. Kazutaka Sato, a father of one of the children who died when the tsunami hit the school, is still waiting for a “heartfelt apology” from school officials (MacLeod, 2012). If the heart cannot heal, how can it move on? In yet another instance, at the Japanese Upper House Budget Committee meeting (2011), female politician Akira Matsu tells the story of several Fukushima school children, who had already tested positive for cesium, being “treated like traitors during the war” for not drinking what might have been cesium contaminated school milk. In other words, patriotism for 100  a child from Fukushima means that s/he must be ready and willing to die for its prefecture before disgracing it.28 As Matsu tells this story, she says to Chief Cabinet Secretary, Osamu Fujimura, “Chief Cabinet Secretary, listen to me without laughing! Please listen to me carefully, this is very important. Please do not laugh at me, this is no laughing matter.” Beck (2009) speaks of “the planetary sense of pain” (p. 69) the world felt after the 2004 Asian tsunami. The images pouring out into people’s living rooms across the world – of people drowning, of homes being wiped away, of corpses and coffins – “breaks the world’s collective heart.” Watching a massive wave wipe out entire towns and villages does shock and sadden the human heart, but the heart can heal when those same towns and villages are rebuilt and people have the freedom to return to where they and their ancestors have spent their lives. 3/11, which is an earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear disaster wrapped up in one, is a different story. Unlike the experience of watching the wave, humanity sees explosions all the time. Just turn on the television. Just go to the movies. Just play a video game. The world has become immune to seeing explosions. Herein lays the irony. The people from Fukushima will not be rebuilding their homes after their explosion. They cannot start over or hit the replay button. Rather, they are forced to live in other regions, some still clinging to the belief that they will be able to one day go home. In a perverse twist of circumstances, it might be safer for former Fukushima residents to return to the 20 kilometer no-go zone than live out their lives in a ‘safer’ zone because these people are being victimized and criminalized by others in their new prefectures. There are reports of school children from Fukushima who have since relocated to other schools being bullied by other students for being “contaminated” (Jacobs, 2011; Hartmann, 2011). Cars with Fukushima license plates are being vandalized (Jacobs, 2012a) and have been denied gas station service in other prefectures (Jacobs, 2011). Having personally attended The Fukushima Nuclear Disaster – One Year Later conference at Simon Fraser University, I witnessed Aya Marumori, the Executive Director of Health at the Japanese non-profit group called CRMS, stand at the front of the conference auditorium, only to begin her story with an apology for what Fukushima has done to the world. “I have known the danger of nuclear power plants, but I have not acted enough to stop it. I like to apologize that this has happened, and radiation has been defusing to the world” (see Radio Ecoshock, 2012). Her opening words broke the collective heart of everyone in that room. Refugees flee places in order to seek refuge. We are reminded that 101  Derrida (2001) and Honig (as cited in Benhabib, 2006) speak upon the creation of “cities of refuge,” or safe havens, for the stateless or displaced person. What happens when fleeing danger turns into more danger, but of a totally different, un/anticipated kind? Where to go? What to do? How to feel safe? Not only have tens of thousands of people lost their belongings, their right to belong has been left in/definitely in abeyance. The stories of the triple disaster ought to “break the world’s collective heart” (Beck, 2009, p. 69) like the 2004 Asian tsunami did, but Fukushima’s “symbolic code” (p. 67-71) makes people mad more than it does sad. When Helen Caldicott (1994) wrote her book Nuclear Madness, she was referring to the insanity of building and using nuclear power. The book’s title takes on new meaning in the case of Fukushima where the threat of radiation contamination is making everyday people turn on each other senselessly. This anger is being directed at the people of Fukushima who are being scapegoated for criminal acts of which they are the victims. We have seen this happen before not only in fact but in fiction. In the patriarchal, environmentally hazardous world of Margaret Atwood’s (1998) novel The Handmaid’s Tale, women turn on women rather than on those who oppress them. After the “exploding atomic power plants, along the San Andreas fault, nobody’s fault, during the earthquakes, and the mutant strain of syphilis no mold could touch. Some [women]…had themselves tied shut” (p. 112) because they were afraid of giving birth to “unbabies” (p. 113). These women are referred to by other women as “Jezebels” for taking possession of their own bodies, “scorning God’s gifts!” (p. 112). When Atwood’s book was published in 1985, it was read as fiction. When we read it today, alongside what we know about Chernobyl’s radiation effects on human health (see Busby and Yablokov, 2006) and the scientifically confirmed cases of “serious mutation-related health effects in Fallujah” (Busby, Hamden, and Ariabi, 2010) after the second Persian Gulf War where novel chemical weapons were used by the United States military, perhaps containing depleted uranium (DU),29 fiction has become fact, and the imagined future written about in the past has become the present in hypermodern, not hyperreal, real time. The soaring rate of birth defects in children of Fallujah (Fisk, 2012a, 2012b), particular those of the heart are similar to those novel defects found in children from Belarus and Ukraine as recounted in the noted documentary film, Chernobyl Heart (DeLeo, 2003). The decision to use chemical weapons and to cut safety corners when using nuclear power for energy purposes is both thoughtless in the Arendtian sense, and 102  heartless, in the sense that spent nuclear fuel – fuel that is no longer useful for energy purposes but is highly useful when making chemical weapons – is literally giving birth to deformed hearts. “The miracle that saves the world,” says Arendt (1998, p. 247) is natality, “love’s own product.” Yet when love becomes contaminated in the form of chromosomal abnormalities by way of human manufactured radiation (Briffa, 1996), lovers can quite literally give birth to unspeakable kinds of child deform. It is difficult, perhaps impossible, to draw an empirical link between genetic deformities via radiation contamination and “school deform” (Pinar, 2012, p. 37) via back to basics policies and procedures which centers education on rote learning and memorization of information. That said, Maxine Greene (1995) reminds us of the importance that using one’s imagination plays in ethical considerations. Former student of Arendt whose analysis of the faculty of the imagination is well noted (see Arendt, 1978), Greene (1995) suggests that “the recovery of imagination lessens the social paralysis we see around us and restores the sense that something can be done in the name of what is decent and humane” (p. 35). In this way, imagination acts as a metaphoric bridge between heart deform and school deform. Pinar (2012) speaks of school deform as those American educational reforms that have been in action since the Soviets launched Sputnik in 1957, prompting the United States to turn public education into “an instrument of military and industrial recruitment” (Lasch as cited in Pinar, 2012, p. 103-104), a political agenda which is “anti-intellectual and undemocratic” (p. 103). We have more news on the front of federal school reforms in a letter sent to President Obama by The President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology (2012), of which I cite the opening paragraph:  Dear Mr. President, We are pleased to present you with this report, Engage to Excel: Producing One Million Additional College Graduates with Degrees in Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics, prepared for you by the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology (PCAST). This report provides a strategy for improving STEM education during the first two years of college that we believe is responsive to both the challenges and the opportunities that this crucial stage in the STEM education pathway presents.  103  Dramatist Friedrich Durrenmatt (as cited in Beck, 2009) states that “[i]f you start out with a story you must think it through to its conclusion” (p. 129). Following Durrenmatt, the story I propose to tell is that school deform can lead to other kinds of deform as gruesome as those found in the children of Chernobyl and Fallujah. The worst case scenario or “worst possible turn [that] is not foreseeable” of producing one million new college graduates educated under STEM, which begins well before college, is to produce scientists whose main mission is not so different than Mary Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein or Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses who ends his dramatic monologue with those impressive words: “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Shelley understood all too well what is at stake in not yielding to the acquisition of new knowledge at any cost. Working inside the most radioactive areas of Chernobyl’s sarcophagus, nuclear physicist Konstantin Chercherov (as cited in Briffa, 1996) explains the feeling he experienced when he and his team of scientists had finally discovered where the nuclear fuel (corium) was radiating from and what it looked like: Maybe it is bad of me, but I must admit as a researcher, I was filled with joy – when I realized exactly what I found, it was sheer delight. It’s comparable to the excitement of a scientist studying volcanic lava. It’s incredibly interesting. Inspirational.  We do know one thing for certain: Chercherov knows how to feel. How his heart has been formed over the course of his life’s education, nonetheless, remains uncertain. What fills the scientist’s heart with joy – the discovery of new information – can be said to stand at odds with the heart of the poet – whose joys are found in making meaningful, aesthetic objects with words. Arendt (1998) notes, a poem’s “‘memorability’ will inevitably determine its durability, that is, its chance to be permanently fixed in the recollection of humanity” (p. 170). Written near the end of the 8th century B.C., Homer’s epic poetry has lasted a long time. So have the Egyptian pyramids, built approximately 2,600 B.C. While we have yet to see images of what Fukushima Daiichi’s ruins and relics look like on the inside, Chernobyl’s can be seen in the many photographs taken by nuclear physicists of the stalactite and stalagmite lava formations of corium, a material that is created from the most serious level of nuclear accidents. These highly radioactive art works, such as the prized “Elephant’s foot,” nicknamed by scientists for its shape, will radiate into the future 104  for 100,000 years. Indeed, the scientist’s work has a good chance of outlasting that of even the greatest of poems, the greatest of sculptures. It is only the scientist, however, who cares to wander through the chambers of Chernobyl’s sarcophagus as if it were that of King Tut’s. The country of Finland has come up with a novel way of dealing with their radioactive waste from the Onkalo Nuclear Power Plant. They are burying it in Russian-doll like canisters 1,000 feet below the earth’s surface. Because the material emits deadly levels of radiation for 100,000 years, the scientists involved with working on the deep geological repository are in disagreement over the ways to let future generations know to stay away from this underground site, referred to as “the chamber you must always remember to forget” (Lense-Møller, 2010) in the documentary film on its subject, Into Eternity. Some want to cover up their tracks completely as if no repository exists, hoping that it will never be discovered by future generations; others want to create an ornate system of complex warning signs at the mouth of the repository and down into the different tunnels. Studies show, however, that a skull and crossbones, for example, means different things to different people. And the universal symbol for radiation has also been interpreted as that of an angel, an image that exists in many world religions. Moreover, human curiosity, at least since the 16th century when archeological digging began, wants to know what secrets lay below the earth’s surface. Perhaps because of human curiosity, proposals have been made “to establish a nuclear priesthood, which would hand down the sacred knowledge from generation to generation” (Solnit as cited in Ellsworth and Kruse, 2010, p. 277). The point being, there is no consensus on what to do with a manmade problem beyond the human capacity to know what to do with it. Despite the silence on Fukushima, stories of its survivors and the crimes surrounding the nuclear disaster are being leaked, mostly in the form of indymedia (Dupre, 2011, Aug. 21) such as blogs which transcribe and translate reports from Japanese into English (e.g., EX-SKF: Covering Fukushima I [Daiichi] Nuclear Accident since March 11, 2011). These blogs call out to the world: Please read me, think about me, feel me, listen to me. This is happening to you, too. In her book If you Love this Planet: A Plan to Save the Earth, Caldicott (2009) states that “the only cure” to healing the planet “is love” (p. 235). At the same time, Caldicott is a long time antinuclear activist who calls on governments for legislation reforms. In this way, she enacts a both/and ethic of responsibility – i.e., thoughtfulness and heartfelt-ness – too. Yet, the lies and 105  complicity between the nuclear industry, Japanese government, and researchers from universities – which is referred to in Japan as the “nuclear power village” to connote “the nontransparent, collusive interests” (Onishi and Belson, 2011) of those in power whose “philosophy is economy comes first” (Naka as cited in Hano, 2012) – are not interested in curing the world through love or legislation. In other words, loving the planet and loving profit appear to be working at counter purposes. I appreciate Beck’s (2009) point that “allocating responsibility – causality and blame” (p. 91) for ecological crises is difficult. At the same time, building nuclear power plants on top of or near fault lines is an outrage to common sense, an outrage that the ancient Greek tragedians warned humanity against in their critiques of hubris. More outrageous is that TEPCO has forged documents, falsified data, and faked repairs on its nuclear plants for decades (Spiegel, 2011; Suguako as cited in Hano, 2012). As Reed (1996) notes, Japan has a “serious corruption problem” at the highest levels (p. 398) and a long history of corruption broadly speaking dating back to the Heian period (Pascha, 1999, p. 6). Apart from the problem of national corruption, it was the United States that brought nuclear energy to Japan, first by bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki under President Truman and then as Eisenhowerian “atoms for peace” in the form of electricity. Such “peaceful” uses of atomic power, however, “were pursued within a violent reality—that of a nation capable of bombing its own land and people in the name of safety and progress” (Ellsworth and Kruse, 2010, p. 276), the Nevada Test Site being the most potent of places. American corporation General Electric (GE), no less, built the faultily designed “Mark I” reactor in Fukushima Daiichi which has likely contributed to the ongoing catastrophe (Zeller, 2011). The same defective Mark I design, by the way, has 23 sister reactors scattered throughout the United States (Dedman, 2011). GE’s longtime trademark slogan, “we bring good things to life,” and its recent rebranding to “imagination at work” are mottos as ironic as any words ever spoken by King Oedipus. Indeed, assigning causality and blame for ecological risks turned crises is complicated. Yet, of all nations, it is Australia who has acknowledged “special responsibility” for the Fukushima disaster. On the one year anniversary, Senator Ludlam (2012) of Western Australia spoke these words to the public:  106  Where did the iodine come from? We know where it came from: uranium from Kakadu and Central South Australia, shipped under humid Darwin skies, refined and loaded into Japanese nuclear reactors; uranium broken in fission reactors into isotopes previously unknown on the planet-cesium 137, iodine 131, strontium 90 and plutonium 29…The Australian government took seven months to disclose that Australian uranium was in each of the reactors at Fukushima-Australian fission products poisoning the ocean, the food chain and the gene pool of Japan's Pacific coast. That is the worst nightmare of all for the Aboriginal elders and campaigners and their supporters, who have dedicated their lives to preventing precisely this kind of horror. In juxtaposition to Senator Ludlam’s speech, Prime Minister Noda (as cited in Garnaut, 2012) had these words to say at the 2012 nuclear security summit. Japan was “lulled into a ‘myth of safety’,” adding, a “man-caused act of sabotage will test our imaginations far more than any natural disaster.” Certainly Tohoko was a natural disaster, but let us not be lulled into believing that Tohoko and Fukushima are one in the same thing even though Noda and the Japanese government have packaged it as such. In the words of former Japanese Prime Minister Naoto Kan (as cited in Hano, 2012), the Fukushima nuclear disaster “is a mistake of those responsible. They simply did not do what was required. The cause of the catastrophe was not the earthquake and tsunami.” While Kan recognizes that mistakes were made (as the political expression goes), his words do not make clear who is responsible. Since Kan spoke these words, an independent investigating committee has placed collective blame on industry-government in its report. Still, no individuals have been held accountable; and one year after the disaster, TEPCO said it is more invested than ever in nuclear power because it does not have the financial resources to switch to alternative energy forms (Yamaguchi, 2012). It seems rather unlikely that politicians or scientists will form book clubs to read and contemplate together how drama or other genres of literature could, along with legislation and scientific thinking, help save us and our planet from ourselves. Broadly speaking, scientists are trained to think literally, to use the scientific method to study and experiment upon the physical world, and to continually refine these practices. Moreover, the more orthodox social scientists, like James Gregor (as cited in Luban, 1984), contend that using metaphors in one’s work is akin 107  to second-rate research. Using narrative inquiry in political science, Gregor says, cannot “predict events” (p. 247) but only helps us to understand past events. While narrative thinking certainly does allow for reflection on the past, narrative has also helped humanity to foresee things to come whether in the form of political theorizing, dystopian fictions, Greek tragedy, modern poetry, or Russian realism as will be taken up in the writing of Dostoevsky in the next chapter. What can be said about such narratives is that the writers behind them – e.g., Arendt, Beck, Atwood, Sophocles, Eliot, and Dostoevsky, to name but a few of the great writers I cite in my work – each use their minds (through the process of thinking) and hearts (through the less process-oriented experience of feeling) in writing works designed to provoke their readers to act thoughtfully and lovingly upon the world – not to master it or ourselves. The various narratives that might be called “field manuals” – to recall Young-Bruehl’s (2006) description of Origins – nevertheless, do not predict the future in the same ways that science attempts to control it. Reading such field manuals carefully requires not only studying the language of the texts closely but imagining the ways in which the stories recounted resonate with the concerns that sociological risk theory raises. Risk theory, we are reminded, aims to predict the unpredictable. In the language of risk theory, a correlation exists between the “worst conceivable accident” and “organized irresponsibility” (Beck, 2009, p. 28). Under the “three pillars of the risk calculus” (p. 28): 1. “irreparable global harms…cannot be limited”; 2. “precautionary aftercare…is impossible” because outcomes cannot be gauged in advance; 3. it is “an event with a beginning but no end.” In the same way that lying leads to more lies to cover up the initial lie in ways that cannot be predicted, organized irresponsibility becomes a trap in which more organized irresponsibility ensues. In the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals, Kant (2002) contends that lying and telling the truth is under no condition a matter of taste or preference. In the case of the nuclear syndrome which is but a series of cover-ups and lies, the categorical imperative holds universal appeal. Though stories about Fukushima are being leaked, many are being muzzled not only by the central government who has abandoned the villagers of Namie (T., 2012) but by nonFukushima Japanese citizens who see the people of Fukushima as the culprits. What happens when the stories of Fukushima are not told because no one is interested in listening to them? How can the world start anew? Arendt contends that beginning the world anew occurs through 108  acts of “friendship, forgiveness, and social bonding,” otherwise known as “neighborly love” or caritas (see Arendt, Scott, and Stark, 1996, p. 181). Sayomi (as cited in BBC, 2012), a mother of one of the children who died in the Tohoko earthquake and tsunami, tells us who listen to her story: “For people in authority as long as it’s not their own child who’s dead, as long as they are not the ones living in radioactive areas, they don’t care.” There are tragic events which have brought the world together as in the case of the 2004 tsunami. Moreover, stories, which are shared with people in a community, are crucial for the survival of that community. As Appiah (2006) reminds, “we wouldn’t recognize a community as human if it had no stories” (p. 29). Concerned that the young people of Ukraine are forgetting about the story of Chernobyl due to daily life demands, historian Natalja Baranowskaja (as cited in de Halleux, 2011) states, “a man lives and remains a man as long as he remembers.” That said, in the distant future, there will be an earth-shattering story that must not be remembered; it is told to us today in the refrain found in the documentary film on Finland’s nuclear waste repository: The chamber you must always remember to forget (Lense-Møller, 2010). If this story is not forgotten, if it gets out and is shared with all of humanity, it will be the last story humankind is to tell. In this way, what it means to be a human being will be, if it is not already, totally and forever transformed.30  4.4  Storytelling, Revisited  The release of atom power has changed everything except our way of thinking...the solution to this problem lies in the heart of mankind. Albert Einstein  In her analysis of storytelling in the writings of Benjamin and Arendt, Herzog (2000) contends that “stories have the capacity to save the world” (p. 1); this capacity, however, can only be realized, when we “make honest attempts to listen deeply to others’ stories” (O’Connell, 2009, p. 115). Arendt calls this taking interest in others; O’Connell (2009) calls this having compassion for others. While Arendt (2006c) makes compelling arguments that showing interest rather than feeling compassion for others is needed in political life, her arguments are based on the particular unfolding of the French Revolution. Robespierre used compassion and pity for the poor as a “mere pretext for lust for power” (p. 79). O’Connell (2009) writes about the importance of 109  “compassion: loving our neighbor in an age of globalization” as the book’s title of her work indicates. She also seeks to explore the notion of “political compassion” in the case of Hurricane Katrina. Emotional responses to the suffering of others can “harness creative energy…in order to inspire innovative responses to the social disaster” (p. 168) of Katrina. The point, however, is not to have artistic expressions usurp the vital role that public dialogue and debate plays in issues of global justice. As Kurasawa’s (2007) both/and ethic maintains, rationalism – which comes by way of Kantian “enlarged mentality,” Gadamerian “fusion of horizons,” or Habermasian “discourse-ethical reciprocity” (p. 45) – also provides a necessary reparative to social injustices. While there were events to commemorate the one-year anniversary of Fukushima in the form of film viewings, conferences, anti-nuclear protests, and vigils, it might still be too soon to tell if a both/and ethic will seriously address what went wrong at Fukushima. Beck (2009) calls the “cosmopolitan moment” one of transformation. I would add that such transformation is unlikely to occur without acting with ethical judgment and an ethic of compassion. This is not to claim that a synergy between judgment and compassion will solve humanity’s self-inflicted problems, but they should not be given up on, either. Imagine a novel kind of global truth and reconciliation commission where all world players speak the truth, ask for forgiveness, make promises, and start anew. Would such a commission preclude the possibility of a world government (though certainly not the kind of “World State” imagined by Huxley)? At the very least, a nuclear safety commission which is not tied to the nuclear industry in Japan (see Hayashi, 2011) and other places must be created. But then again, nuclear safety itself is an oxymoron. In his chapter “A Message in a Bottle: On Bearing Witness,” Kurasawa (2007) emphasizes the power of story, particularly dystopianism, to trigger “cosmopolitan farsightedness” (p. 112) which calls “upon audiences’ moral imagination so as to plunge them into their descendants’ lifeworlds” (p. 113). The northwestern North American coastline is currently receiving bottled messages in the form of flotsam arriving to its shores from the Tohoko earthquake and tsunami. The arriving (industrial) debris – a motorcycle reclaimed by its owner (CBC News, 2012), Japanese drinking bottles, toothbrushes, furniture, a child’s sock, appliances, a 66-foot, 175 ton dock (Barnard, 2012), a soccer ball (Mullen, 2012) – is at once an immanent ecological disaster and a story waiting to be told. In oceanographer Curtis Ebbesmeyer’s (as cited in Hopper, 2011) words: “When people find something on the beach, 110  they are literally putting their hands on something that a family wants to know about.” I am in agreement with Kurasawa that it takes more to cultivate cosmopolitan solidarity than constructing the types of in/formal structures political cosmopolitan thinkers have suggested thus far, such as cities of refuge (Derrida, 2001), laws (Benhabib, 2006), and underground railroads (Honig as cited in Benhabib, 2006). The worst case scenario of nuclear devastation means that there is no escape; we are all in this together irrespective of race, religion, class, or gender.31 For example, a city of refuge holds little meaning since Fukushima has begun (yet has no end) in which it is only a matter of time for more nuclear accidents and/or acts of sabotage to occur. Moreover, an underground railroad only makes sense if we literally stay underground, and what sense is that? The most cutting edge forms of nuclear waste management also bury the waste underground. In other words, underground railroads have already been built and the treasures hidden inside them are lethal. As radiation travels through the wind and comes down by way of rain, should those people who live in rain-heavy areas move to the desert? Some might say that underneath this question lies hysteria, yet others have already moved away. We are seeing a spectrum of different reactions to Fukushima from experts and laypeople alike. Some people are anxious, some believe there is nothing to fear, some show utter indifference while others are oblivious. What would Kant say about the breakdown of common sensibility that Fukushima evokes? (How) would his work on sensus communis be revised in light of how the world has changed since the splitting of the atom?  4.5  Forgiving the Unforgiveable, or the Right to Punish?  An effective awareness of the probability of total perdition is the only way by which the presently probable might become finally improbable, if not impossible. Karl Jaspers (1961, p. 3)  In this section, I will consider the ways in which the Nazi death camps and the Fukushima nuclear disaster provoke conversation on forgiveness as described in cosmopolitan incarnations and what might be seen as its antithesis, punishment. Why examine these two events from different time periods and places together? For “learned” cosmopolitan thinker Karl Jaspers 111  (Young-Bruehl, n.d.), the problem of atomic warfare “is equaled by only one other problem: the threat of totalitarian rule…By one, we lose life; by the other, a life that is worth living” (Jaspers, 1961, p. 4). Chernobyl and Fukushima teach us that so-called peaceful uses of atomic energy can likewise result in a loss of life more in/discreetly than dropping a bomb. On the one hand, nuclear accidents do not target a population for extermination like a bomb does, thereby contributing to indiscreet losses of life. On the other hand, the way contamination from nuclear accidents works on living subjects is much more discreet than the way a bomb works. For example, one year after the Fukushima disaster began the Nakoso beach at Fukushima reopened to the public. Children can be seen splashing in the summertime ocean waters (see McCurry, 2012). The local authorities claim that “the concentration of radioactivity in the water is negligible” (McCurry, 2012). Juxtapose this report with one which says that fish being caught off the coast of Japan one year after the accident have just as much cesium contamination as fish caught when Fukushima first happened. What this implies is that “cesium is still being released into the food chain” (Buesseler as cited in Tabuchi, 2012b). No wonder why many (but clearly not all) Japanese citizens now find it difficult to trust their government (see Dusenberre, 2011). The purpose in looking at scholarship on the Holocaust and Fukushima together, moreover, is to underscore the inherent problems of forgiveness and punishment when examined from within particular cases which are linked through the notion of crime and criminals. If a political ethic that precludes lying and that includes loving can be realized, then it would seem necessary to examine real events that reverberate on a global scale to help humanity articulate such an ethic. Expanding upon the work of Arendt and Jankelevitch, Kurasawa (2007) speaks about the necessary step of forgiveness in order for global justice to be realized. Yet forgiveness is always a risky business because of its potential for political calculation or juridical prescription; subsequently, the act of instrumentalized forgiveness is nothing but a cruel joke. Forgiveness, in its true Derridian gift-giving sense, is “a sudden, dramatic and unpredictable occurrence” (p. 63), a “theologico-philosophical” rather than “juridico-political” “infinite gesture” (p. 62) which allows for the “conversion of foes to friends, or the befriending and love of former enemies” (p. 90). When Prime Minister Noda said to the world that everyone is responsible for Fukushima and must learn from the disaster, it seemed that he, as the voice of Japan, was asking for forgiveness from citizens of Japan and citizens of the world. Can Kazutaka 112  Sato, the father of one of the 74 children from the elementary school in Ishinomaki who perished in the Tohoko tsunami, who has not received a personal apology from school officials, forgive those same school officials or that tragic mistakes were made but have still not been acknowledged? Waxing philosophically, Derrida (2001) contends that true forgiveness forgives the unforgivable and forgives when forgiveness has not even been requested. Critiquing Jankelevitch’s refusal to forgive the Nazis for their crimes as they never showed remorse for them, Derrida is “tempted to contest” (p. 34) the exchange-value, conditional quality that forgiveness traditionally holds. As he sees it, if an act is forgivable, it does not require expiation. Forgiving the unforgivable certainly presses the limits of common sense reasoning. If we were to imagine adhering to a commandment: thou shalt forgive the unforgiveable, this requires that we also imagine what that unforgiveable act could be, which Derrida’s writings do not do. Derrida’s compatriot and contemporary, Michel Foucault (1995) discusses the most unforgiveable act, an act so egregious that no punishment could ever fit the crime. In tracing French penal reforms, Foucault observes that by the 18th century, public displays of tortureexecution “became intolerable” (p. 73) to humankind’s newfound Enlightenment “sensibility” (p. 91). This new strategy of penalty, articulated as a “discourse of the heart,” designs punishments to match the crime in such a way that the crime-punishment correlation is useful or economic in the social body’s eye. In order to understand how this “penal arithmetic” (p. 91) functions, Foucault turns to what he calls the “ultimate crime” (p. 92). While this crime remains a “fable” in Foucault’s mind’s eye and, therefore, cannot contain an example, it is my position that using examples to illustrate and/or challenge ideas is a necessary component for engaging in the work of a cosmopolitan education. A cosmopolitan education, like Arendt’s storytelling, works between the general and particular, the metaphysical and the physical, the metaphorical and the literal. Without a particular event to turn to, the philosopher, or “professional thinker” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1978, 1: p. 53), is forever trapped in the unworldliness of his own mind. And if cosmopolitanism is about worldliness as Pinar (2009) contends in the title of his book on the subject, its antithesis, totalitarianism, destroys worldliness, creating a world of automatic, unspontaneous monads in its quest for absolute domination. Arendt (2006a) knows that “teaching by example is, indeed, the only form of ‘persuasion’ that philosophical truth is capable of without perversion or distortion” (p. 243). Moreover, it is through examples that “an ethical 113  principle” can be verified and validated. And ethical responsibility rests at the metaphoric heart of my work. For Foucault (1995) the “extreme case” in the “techno-politics of punishment” is:  the ultimate crime: a deed of such enormity that it violates all the most respected laws. It is produced in circumstances so extraordinary, in such profound secrecy, with such lack of restraint, as if at the very limit of possibility, that it could not be other than unique, in any case the last of its kind: no one could ever imitate it; no one could take it as an example, or even feel scandalized that it should have been committed. It is doomed to disappear without a trace. This fable of the ‘ultimate crime’ is, to the new penality, what original sin was to the old: the pure form in which the reason for punishment appears. (p. 92)  We know that the death camps were the greatest crime-secrets of the Nazi regime, uncovered by the Allied forces. General Eisenhower told all civilian media and military camera crew units to document everything about the camps in film, photos, and stories as the horrors which literally lay down before them were beyond anyone’s wildest imagination and could undoubtedly be denied in the not too distant future. Indeed, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (2005) calls the Holocaust a “myth.” Holocaust survivor and concentration camp writer Jean Amery (1980) describes Nazi crimes as being At the Mind’s Limits: Contemplations by a Survivor on Auschwitz and its Realities in his collection of essays on the subject. In other words, there exists a correlation between Foucault’s ultimate crime “fable” which he describes as being at “the very limit of possibility” and which subsequently “does not call for a punishment” because it is without a legacy and the realities of the Holocaust, where the crimes that were committed were so horrific that people at the time they were occurring “would simply not be ready to believe it” (Nazi Conspiracy as cited in Arendt, 1973, p. 437) even if stories were to somehow get out. Rousset (as cited in Arendt 1973, p. 433) reminds that the “normal,” outside world is simply unprepared to believe the im/possible. Unlike Foucault’s (1995) crime-fable theory that has no dynasty, Auschwitz has spawned a rather long legacy. As Arendt (2006b) knows, “once a specific crime has appeared for the first time, its reappearance is more likely than its initial emergence could ever have been” (p. 273).32 114  Though each genocide is unique unto itself, what one notices, nonetheless, is that persecutors and victims, oppressors and oppressed can be delineated in the traditional genocide paradigm despite the fact that some systems aim to create a “gray zone” (Levi, 1989, p. 36) of criminality. Moreover, the weapons used by genocidal regimes have been on the whole rather primitive, from tree trunks in the case of the Khmer Rouge to machetes in Rwanda. Even with the Nazis who were able to remove themselves from the physicality of their crimes via the gas chamber, the world can still say that it was the Nazis who did the inconceivable even if they had help from the Axis alliance and so-called neutral countries. In other words, because people, individuals or collectives, are attached to crimes, human beings still have some sense and sensibility of how the world works even if that world is totally insane.33 What happens if a crime has no perceived actor(s) attached to it? Can it be called a crime? Pushing the “fable” of Foucault’s ultimate crime further, could this crime, in fact, be happening right now by way of the fresh air we breathe, the crystal clear water we drink, the fine food we eat?34 The ultimate crime which Foucault says “is doomed to disappear without a trace” has already been forgotten when it has but only just begun and has no an end. And this criminal “regime” will last longer than the twelve year Reich – a Reich which, ironically, was “especially fond of reckoning in terms of millennia” (Arendt, 1973, p. 411). How is such a crime possible? Who could imagine a culprit to be so clever? A number of factors might contribute to the ways in which it is forgotten as soon as it begins. For one, a culture of presentism (Pinar, 2012) cultivates thinking of oneself and one’s immediate concerns without being particularly conscious of the present world. Yet, “[w]ithout the past, there is no present” (p. 59). Nonetheless, it would be absurd to judge the idea of presentism for the failings of human beings in the same way as it is in assigning blame to the idea of cosmopolitanism for including some children and excluding others from schooling’s civilizing project (see Popkewitz, 2008). As Arendt (2003) teaches, “behind the unwillingness to judge [particular human beings] lurks the suspicion that no one is a free agent, and hence the doubt that anyone is responsible or could be expected to answer for what he has done” (p. 19). Moreover, the cancer that I or my child might get in three, ten, or eighteen years cannot be credited to the irradiated fish we ate at dinner on a particular night that I cannot even remember. Secondly, the ultimate crime flies under the radar of our senses as it occurs literally right under our noses. At the time of their occurrence, the secret crimes of the 115  Nazis could be seen, heard, smelled, and felt by millions of people; since then, the fact of these crimes have been recorded for subsequent generations to see and to never forget. Those people, however, who speak up against something that is (not) occurring and of which (no) one is responsible, are deemed insensible, hysterical, out of their minds. In his Holocaust narrative-testimony Night, Elie Wiesel (1982) recalls a woman he knew from his village by the name of Madame Schachter who on the train ride with him to Auschwitz “had gone out of her mind,” crying out on the third night in the wagon: “Fire! I can see a fire! I can see a fire!” (p. 22). Her screaming continued on and off even though there was no fire in sight. Her ten year old son tried to calm her nerves telling her, “It’s all right, Mummy! There’s nothing there.” But she continued, “Jews, listen to me! I can see a fire! There are huge flames! It is a furnace!” (p. 23). Everyone in the wagon was getting irritated with her, so irritated that some beat her into silence while others encouraged the beating. After everyone in the wagon had forgotten about Madame Schachter who sat in the corner of the wagon “dumb, indifferent, absent” (p. 25), Elie and the others suddenly saw flames through the midnight darkness and smelled an “abominable odor floating in the air.” And then, at the willkommen or hospitality center, the doors opened and the shouting and striking began. Still, the human spirit is resilient in the face of mass horror-crime. Villagers of Namie and Okuma from the Fukushima prefecture are becoming “uncharacteristic[ally,]…shockingly outspoken” (T., 2012) against the Japanese government, demanding more clarity on the reality of radiation contamination. In a culture where “individual virtue springs from conformity to the social mainstream and obedience to one’s higher authorities” (Jex, 2005, p. 2), Japanese women are leading anti-nuclear protests, demanding that children be protected, and that the government shut down nuclear power in Japan. Kojima (1977) notes that there has been a “transformation in Japanese consciousness” (p. 216) in postwar Japan, which has begun to emphasize “personal rather than public affairs” (p. 215) and an “orientation toward the nuclear family” (p. 216). Might this newfound familism over nationalism contribute to the “uncharacteristic” civilian outspokenness since Fukushima began? Might these acts of protest, of civil disobedience – which demand that the government take responsibility for its crimes and show justice to its people – also be examples of the “cosmopolitan moment of world risk society” (Beck, 2009, p. 48) that “unintentionally…opens up the (mis)fortune of a possible new beginning” (p. 49)? In 116  her book To You from Fukushima, Ruito Muto (as cited in, 2012) recounts that after her speech at the Goodbye Nukes Rally:  many people told me that my speech had made them cry. It made me think that we are all living each day bottling up our emotions and making sure our tears don’t escape. I think it’s been like this ever since 3.11. The dishonesty of this government, the dangerous convenience which makes a victim of somebody else, human beings that are totally out of touch with nature…As living beings, we are all deeply hurt, we feel guilty and we want to go back to somewhere that we can call home. Maybe this nuclear disaster is a chance for humankind to return to Earth and create a new world.  But this new world cannot be created if political actors do not have the will to make such changes, a point to be developed the next section of this chapter. On the subject of human rights and global justice, Benhabib (2006) argues for the need to create “cosmopolitan norms of justice” (p. 17). She asks, “[h]ow can legal norms and standards, which originate outside the will of the democratic legislatures, become binding on them” (p. 17)? Honig (as cited in Benhabib, 2006), we are reminded, is critical of normative cosmopolitanism, calling instead for “agonistic cosmopolitics” (p. 117) which she believes will initiate all kinds of good things such as “relief,” “trade,” and “learning” (p. 119). In the face of nuclear risks, crises, and potential global devastation, I question if informal modes of hospitality to refugees is enough. In the face of a radioactive poisoned atmosphere, can norms be legitimately side-stepped? While ideologically frightening for all postmodernists and pluralists alike who, like Arendt, understand that what makes us human is our individual distinctness, the rather rebuffed cosmopolitan conversation about moving toward a world government or “cosmocracy” (Skolimowksi, 2003) – for fears that such a government could lead to the kind of “totalitarianism” (see Hansen, 2008, p. 292) illustrated in Huxley’s World State – needs to be taken seriously given the factual truth of world devastating ecological degradation, Fukushima playing but one recent, noteworthy example. As Beck (2009) understands, “[t]he reality of a non-excludable plurality…is driving the dynamic of world risk society, regardless of whether this reality is ignored and demonized or embraced and transformed into active global policy” (p. 57). To summon Sylvia Plath (1998), for us fragile 117  human beings to be “deaf” (p. 6) and “blind to the carrion army” (p. 5) awaiting us, to be blissfully and/or ignorantly unaware of “the death’s head” (p. 6) marching toward us while “fingering a leaflet of music” is the greatest danger facing humankind. “For blind activity,” Jaspers (1961) writes, “wrapped in purposes and immensely intensified, leads nowhere” (p. viii). The alternative to focusing our efforts upon new technological innovations to fix the previous innovations that have gone wrong again and again or to do nothing but criticize such so-called advancements by way of postmodern theorizing is teaching and acting toward cosmopolitan “transformation,” says Beck (2009, p. 48). Making his own appeal to Arendt, Beck contends that such transformation requires a new kind of willing and acting in which “strangers ac[t] in concert” (p. 49). Arendt (1978: 2) describes the relationship between willing and acting in her final work, The Life of the Mind. If the role of the philosopher is to interpret the world and the role of the scientist is to know the world, then the role of “men of action” (p. 198) is to change the world. As such, political actors “ought to be committed to freedom because of the very nature of their activity.” Action, moreover, begins something new. The theme of natality which is threaded throughout Arendt’s life’s work takes its inspiration from Saint Augustine’s emphasis on beginnings, e.g., “that a beginning be made man was created (Augustine as cited in Arendt, 1973, p. 479) which inspires “faith in and hope for the world” (Arendt, 1998, p. 247). The significant role that Augustine has played in Arendt’s work, however, has not been addressed in the political strand of cosmopolitanism in the same ways that Kant’s influence on Arendt has, an interesting omission given the fact that Augustine’s political work “City of God gives the most influential formulation of what it means to be a citizen of the world in late antiquity and the Middle Ages” (Edwards, 2002, p. 35) and is often considered the cosmopolitan text of its time (Trepanier and Habib, 2011). According to Arendt (1978: 2), City of God also “takes up the question of the ‘purpose of the Will’ as the ‘purpose of Man’” (p. 87). In the following section, I will consider the ways in which Arendt has appropriated Augustine and Duns Scotus’ writing on willing and loving into her own political theorizing. The point in doing so is to pay heed not only to an area of Arendt’s work which has not been brought to attention in political cosmopolitan conversations but also to highlight the ways in which willing and loving are tied to transformation, or new beginnings. 118  4.6  Willing into Loving  I want to know what I should like to live for and to work for; I want to know what is, so as to do what I can – but also so as to be ready for what may come. Karl Jaspers (1961, p. ix)  In The Reluctant Modernism of Hannah Arendt, Benhabib (2003) argues that Arendt via Arendtian scholar Dana Villa is “placed more firmly in the company of Nietzsche and Heidegger than [that] of Aristotle and Kant” (p. xvii). In making this point, Benhabib aims to centralize the writings of Kant in Arendt’s own thinking. While Kant is no doubt important to Arendt’s writing, particularly when looked at from a cosmopolitan point of view, the influence of medieval thought on Arendt’s work has not received the same amount of scholarly attention as that of the ancients or the moderns have writ large. On that note, Arendt’s dissertation has, for the most part, received only “cursory remarks” despite the fact that “[r]eferences to Saint Augustine are not infrequent” (Boyle, 1987, p. 81) in much of her oeuvre. In addition, because those references are not pronounced in the texts most often cited in scholarship on cosmopolitanism, it is little wonder that there has not been any serious attention given to the faculty of the will – even though “the will is a fact of modern life and cannot be ignored” (Martel, 2008, p. 287) – in the modern-postmodern debates within the political strand of cosmopolitanism. Basing her reading of the will – “the nexus of human agency” (p. 289) – primarily on Augustine and Duns Scotus, the will is transformed into the “everlasting movement” of “love’s abiding power” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 145). How is the will transformed into love? Augustine gives us no satisfactory “account of this strange equation” (p. 96). What Augustine does explain is that the will, like love, is a unifying force, binding together the Intellect and Memory; it thus acts as the mysterious source of action, of “spontaneously beginning a successive series of things or states” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 6) – and which, paradoxically, can only happen under the conditions of freedom. “The Will tells the memory what to retain and what to forget; it tells the intellect what to choose for its understanding” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 99). Love, according to Augustine (as cited in Arendt, 1978), “is obviously the most successful coupling agent,” binding together “him that loves and 119  that which is loved” (p. 102). For Augustine, love is an infinite gesture-gift in that it is neverending – and we are not speaking of eros, which, because of its perishability, does end and is a kind of love capitalized on in modern, consumer capitalist society, though not the only kind. In The Art of Loving, Erich Fromm (2006) focuses on the disintegration of love in the contemporary Western world that is structured upon the principle of capitalism. This principle, he argues, is “incompatible with the principle of love” (p. 121). Nonetheless, we are still capable of love under the present-day social system however minimal this phenomenon might be. Like Duns Scotus, Fromm understands love as an activity. For Fromm, loving is a “practice” and is a “capacity we can develop in ourselves” which thus provides us with a “space in which to act” (Kramer as cited in Fromm, 2006, p. xiv). And this art form, says Arendt (1978: 2) is not “poieses, the productive arts” but rather is a “performing art, where the end lies in the activity itself” (p. 123). For Aristotle, praxis is synonymous with the “performing arts and cannot be understood in terms of the means-end category” (p. 123-4). Where both willing and loving are activities, when transformed into love, the will’s “restlessness is stilled but not extinguished” (p. 145). Loving, on the other hand, is a “self-fulfilling, everlasting movement.” Loving is a paradoxical activity in that its activity finds peace and serenity in its movement, an original argument in Western philosophy and one that Arendt believes leads to the “conditions for a philosophy of freedom” (p. 146) – even though Kant, who was committed to freedom as illustrated in his moral philosophy (see Allison, 1990) and in the cosmopolitan right to universal hospitality, had “no knowledge of [Duns Scotus]” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 146) whatsoever. What political cosmopolitan thinkers indebted to Arendt fail to take into consideration in speaking to this new tradition is that Arendt’s political theory is inextricably linked to those “supposedly antipolitical forces” which form “the basis for politics itself” (Martel, 2008, p. 287): willing and loving. In speaking upon Arendt’s style of political thinking, Vollrath (1977) maintains that politics arises out of the nebulous, dark space of “the human heart” (p. 166). Ironically, cosmopolitanism has been criticized as a loving, heartfelt philosophy by using Arendt to help frame such an argument (as in Todd, 2009) and without clarifying the differences between different types of love. While love is a sentiment, does this mean it is sentimental?35 Furthermore, since “individuality manifests itself in the Will” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 109) – for the act of willing presents itself in the world of particular appearances unlike thought which exists in 120  the mind and aims at “what is eternal and universal” (Jacobitti, 1988, p. 54) – those political cosmopolitan thinkers who are drawn to Arendt’s “peculiar pleasure of particularity” (Kohn as cited in Kohn and Young-Bruehl, 2001, p. 232) might consider placing emphasis on the will in their work. How is the subject of political will relevant to my work on the cosmopolitan catastrophe of Fukushima? Returning to the words of longtime anti-nuclear activist Ruito Muto (as cited in, 2012): “Maybe this nuclear disaster is a chance for humankind to return to Earth and create a new world.” A new world, however, cannot be fashioned if there is no political will to do so, a point that Juri Urbarski (as cited in de Halleux, 2011) from the National Ecological Center of Ukraine points out when speaking on Ukraine’s interest in building more nuclear plants – as if Chernobyl wasn’t enough – in order to sell electricity to western Europe who wants to shut their plants down. “There needs to be a political will, a desire on the part of leaders to resolve difficult problems. This political will must not play to the gallery, but must resolve concrete, complex, hard, everyday problems” (Baranowskaja as cited in de Halleux, 2011). But because leaders come and go, Baranowskaja adds, there is no stable structure and no will or desire to make such changes. How then can cosmopolitan “transformation” (see Beck, 2009, p. 48) occur? In Japan, moreover, there have been five different prime ministers in the last six years, which is not to say that political leaders should be in power without limits. Yet how does political will become manifest in a country with such frequent changes in leadership? This is, in part, a case of understanding the difference between individual will and political will. While the former form of willing demonstrates one’s freedom to act or not to act, the latter when done in a democracy, requires a collective effort (no easy feat) aimed toward a common cause “to initiate change in the world” (Jacobitti, 1988, p. 56). Ironically, the changes in Japanese political leadership have created a climate in which political will to make responsible change is that much more problematic. This is, no doubt, partly due to the fact that political memory of what was is not known experientially because there are new individuals playing the same leading political roles for brief stints of time. Presentism dissolves one’s “historical sensibility” (Pinar, 2012, p. 58). Recalling Pasolini’s (as cited in Pinar, 2012) words, Pinar knows that “the values which formed us” in the past “are capable of putting the present into crisis” (p. 226). It is fair to say that 121  Japan is currently experiencing such a cataclysmic past-present-future crisis. If Chernobyl brought down the Soviet Union (Gorbachev, 2006), one wonders, moreover, if Japan even has a future. Academically speaking, the discipline concerned with memory, with remembering past events, is history. Arendt (1978: 1) traces the concept of history to Herodotus’s historen, which means “to inquire in order to tell how it was” (p. 216) – work which Arendt (2006a) calls in other places “the teller of factual truth” or the “storyteller” (p. 257) – and Homer’s histor whose historian plays the role of “judge” (Arendt, 1978: 1, p. 216). “If judgment is our faculty for dealing with the past, the historian is the inquiring man who by relating it sits in judgment over it” (p. 216). To restate the thesis of my dissertation, a cosmopolitan education couples ethical judgment with an ethic of compassion. One can also say that the heart, where compassion is found, even more so than the historian, who might get one’s facts wrong, never lies. It might be said that a both/and rather than either/or political ethic aims to preclude lying and include the “most powerful of antipolitical forces”: the “world-creating faculty of love” (Arendt, 1998, p. 242) in its expression. It is the hope that such new ways of thinking about a cosmopolitan political ethic will not only contribute to further exercises in cosmopolitan contemplation but will also undergird modes of action as each and every political cosmopolitan writer addressed here hopes for, too. Whether through juridical means or informal world-building tactics, these scholars are motivated by “a common cause”: to help “generate new sites of action in concert on behalf of worlds not yet built” (Honig as cited in Benhabib, 2006, p. 120). And if such action has already arrived, it is “perhaps not yet recognised” (Derrida, 2001, p. 23). Yet, I feel the need to add, this common cause is unlikely to be acted upon if there aren’t people – who are the human beings that through mutual, neighborly love “found society anew” (Augustine as cited in Arendt, Scott, and Stark, 1996, p. 153) – willing to do so. We can write about a “‘pack’ of hospitality” (Derrida, 2000, p. 25) as conditional or unconditional, as universal or particular – as I find myself doing here – but hospitality is more likely to actually occur if people learn to show compassion for and take interest in each other, both of which require the freedom in which to act. If Fukushima teaches us about an absence of and need for judgment and compassion, do other sites exist in which in/formal acts of judgment or compassion are manifest in the world? 122  The link between hospitality, compassion, and love is illustrated in the news story of “hundreds upon hundreds” (Sayare, 2011) of Tunisians showing caritas to Libyans fleeing Qaddafi during the Libyan Uprising. Residents of Tunisia were asked about their sense of “compassion,” “good cheer,” and “willingness to provide shelter to strangers” – and particularly after just having had their own revolution and with little food to spare. One man, Abdallah Awaye, and his family opened their house to a fleeing family of eleven. Awaye said: “If there is something to eat, we will eat it together. If there is nothing to eat, we will have nothing together.” The mayor of Tataouine, Tunisia, offered the following explanation: “We’ve taken the thing as a human obligation, a religious obligation, an obligation of fraternity.” One resident “cite[d] an apt local proverb: ‘Travelers cry upon arriving in this desolate place, but leave with tears in their eyes.’” It is the unpremeditated, spontaneous acts of hospitality that bring tears of joy to the eyes of it receivers. While such acts of welcome are indeed rare, indeed they can be atypical even from persons within the same homeland as Jacobs (2011; 2012a) recounts in stories of Fukushima residents fleeing radiation danger being met with other human forms of danger in different prefectures, the people of Tataouine set an example for the world on what it means to show neighborly love to those who cross into different lands. While there have been multiple works written within the last quarter century which look at the role of love in Arendt’s writings – e.g., Boyle, 1987; Scott, 1988; Chiba, 1995; Beiner, 1996; Martel, 2008 – these works are more concerned with illuminating aspects of Arendt that haven’t been illuminated thus far. My point here is less focused on Arendt for the sake of Arendt but for the sake of other reasons – not exactly an Arendtian move. Indeed, a 22 year old Arendt (1996) opens her dissertation with the following words: “Augustine writes that ‘to love is indeed nothing else than to crave something for its own sake’” (p. 9). Her interest in and aversion to instrumentality – specifically in respect to the “Augustianian distinction of uti and frui, using something for the sake of something else and enjoying it for its own sake” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 144) and the “Kantian formula that no man must ever become a means to an end, that every human being is an end in himself” (Arendt, 1998, p. 155) – becomes even more meaningful in a post-Holocaust, radioactive contaminated world and to a thinker who, in Origins, tried to make sense out of the senselessness that was Nazi Germany. That said, “Arendt began her academic career” with the intent to “study theology” (Scott, 1988, p. 396). As mentioned previously, 123  Augustine crops up repeatedly in her later works but does make two brief, albeit memorable appearances in the 2nd edition of Origins (1973) if only because of the latter’s location as the closing remarks to a dense politico-philosophical analysis of modern anti-Semitism, imperialism, and totalitarianism:  But there remains also the truth that every end in history necessarily contains a new beginning; this beginning is the promise, the only “message” which the end can ever produce. Beginning, before it becomes a historical event, is the supreme capacity of man; politically, it is identical with man’s freedom. Initium ut esset homo creates est—“that a beginning be made man was created” said Augustine. This beginning is guaranteed by each new birth; it is indeed every man. (p. 479) With these words, Arendt (1998) begins a new chapter in her life’s work, and one that stayed with her until the very end, on Augustine’s philosophy of natality which comes in different forms, such as “the child, love’s own product” (p. 242) and in the “faculty of spontaneou[s] beginning[s]” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 110) via Kant. Natality is “the miracle that saves the world [in] the realm of human affairs” (Arendt, 1998, p. 247) as it, specifically the child, provides hope for renewing the common world. One might add that natality, it can be argued, is a response to the emphasis that Heidegger places on mortality as the thing that helps us understand what it means to be human (see Critchley, 2009). What is a human being? For Arendt (1998), natality rather than mortality comes closer to understanding the meaning of human life as it is in natality where the “faculty of action is ontologically rooted” (p. 247). Under antipolitical totalitarianism, action is impossible. And in the concentration camp, the true center of totalitarian power, human beings are turned into “ghastly marionettes with human faces…and which do nothing but react” (Arendt, 1973, p. 455). The understatement of the 20th century, reaction, as Arendt describes it here, is not action. One must have freedom to act – and “if you act…it can never be without willing” (Augustine as cited in Arendt, 1978: 2, p. 88) – and action can only take place under the condition of freedom. In her speech upon winning the Lessing Prize of the Free City of Hamburg, Arendt (1968) maintains that “we learn to be human” by speaking together about the common world. In this way, “[w]e humanize what is going on in the world” (p. 25) which would 124  otherwise remain an inhuman affair. In this speech, Arendt turns to the example of Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s Nathan the Wise, a play about friendship and the need for communication, thereby drawing a link between storytelling and what it means to be human. Her speech also reinforces how vital it is for victims of crimes which have been manufactured as accidents to have a space for their stories to be heard. Indeed, telling one’s story and having an audience to deeply listen and respond to that story helps form a bridge between loneliness and belonging, the subject of the last section in this chapter. The title of Primo Levi’s (1996) Holocaust testimony-narrative: Se questo è un uomo – If this is a Man and the epigraph-poem to this narrative resonates not only with Arendt’s point that the spoken word (or written word which is read and talked about, I would add) helps build a common world, but it also speaks to Kant’s anthropological question “what is a human being?” in ways that theorizing doesn’t quite capture: …Consider if this is a man / Who works in the mud / Who does not know peace / Who fights for a scrap of bread / Who dies because of a yes or a no. / Consider if this is a woman, / Without hair and without name / With no more strength to remember, / Her eyes empty and her womb cold / Like a frog in winter…  Nonetheless, in Origins and perhaps because of her own appreciation and use of metaphors and what I would call situated paradoxes when one didn’t even know a paradox existed, Arendt comes penetratingly close.36 It is fair to argue that Origins – and directly to the political cosmopolitan point here, “The Decline of the Nation-State and the End of the Rights of Man” in Origins – is also about love, or the lack thereof, as it examines the “pervasive hatred of everybody and everything” (Arendt, 1973, p. 268) in Europe in the years leading up to the Second World War. In the “deceptively quiet” years of the 1920s, “[h]atred, certainly not lacking in the pre-war period, began to play a central role in public affairs everywhere” (p. 268). People turned on their “closest neighbors” and at the heart of this hatred stood the Jews, who without nationality or homeland, forced to beg and steal were treated as “the scum of the earth” (p. 269). Here, a thematic link can be drawn between the ways in which totalitarianism, which “seizes” control, and Fukushima, which cannot 125  be controlled, have similar effects upon the human psyche: lost in their own frenzy of fearing racial contamination in one instance and, in the other, radiation contamination, people have been known to turn on each other, senselessly. Chiba (1995) holds that “some would argue that the theme of love is alien to such an epic political theorist of agonism as Hannah Arendt” (p. 508). “Though the theme of ‘love’…and that of ‘fight’…appear at odds with each other at first glance, they nonetheless may be considered compatible and even complementary.” As mentioned previously, in Japan, the sentiment that appears most pronounced since Fukushima began has not been hate or love, but indifference to the fate of Fukushima refugees. In a book devoted to examining hatred, Arendt brings up the subject of love in her first of two references to Augustine. Synonymous with the life and labor of animal laborans (see Arendt, 1998) – the “mere existence” (Arendt, 1973, p. 301) of a person “who has lost his place in a community,” someone who has been forced to surrender (or never had) one’s political status:  can be dealt with only by the unpredictable hazards of friendship and sympathy, or by the great and incalculable grace of love, which says with Augustine, ‘Volo ut sis (I want you to be),’ without being able to give any particular reason for such supreme and unsurpassable affirmation. (p. 301) Somewhat opaque in this Rights of Man context, the meaning of Volo ut sis – a ‘useless’ gift in the exchange-value sense – becomes clearer by looking to its different incarnations found in Love and Saint Augustine – “For you love in him not what he is, but what you wish that he may be” (Augustine as cited in Arendt, 1996, p. 95) and in Willing – “The willing ego, when it says in its highest manifestation, ‘Amo: Volo ut sis,’ ‘I love you, I want you to be’—and not ‘I want to have you’ or ‘I want to rule you’” (p. 136). The type of love Arendt refers to here is caritas which “get[s] us outside the self-referential trap of our own will” (p. 297) or amor sui, love of self, which says: “I have become a question to myself” (Augustine as cited in Arendt, 1996, p. 37). Different from cupiditas, whose object is “perishable,” the object of caritas is “eternity” (Arendt, 1996, p. 18). For a thinker who is drawn to theorizing the public over the private realm and rather than the spiritual domain, it is not surprising that Arendt “attempt[s] to secularize 126  caritas via the notion of respect which she tells us is also a kind of love” (Martel, 2008, p. 298). Where respect, for Arendt, is worldly, and caritas is other-worldly, it cannot be ignored that the great political theorist of paradox draws from the antipolitical in forming her life’s public realm work. In this way, the interplay between political will and antipolitical love – which together and separately start something new or natal – are necessary for cosmopolitan transformation. In speaking upon such transformation, Beck (2009) calls for a “new, future-oriented planetary ethics of responsibility” in the face of global risks that “tear down national barriers and mix natives with foreigners” (p. 15). It might still be too soon to tell how the human heart will respond to new and improved global risks and start anew. One way to imagine what the future might look like is to look backward and to reflect upon the human experience of loneliness and belonging under extreme circumstances.  4.7  Loneliness and Belonging  In her concluding remarks to Origins, Arendt (1973) expands upon Augustine’s words on natality: “every end in history necessarily contains a new beginning” (p. 478). This beginning, a kind of miracle-promise, inspires “faith in and hope for the world” (Arendt, 1998, p. 247). Having led us through one of the darkest times in human history, Arendt, the great cynic, concludes “Ideology and Terror” on a note of optimism. But before ending on this note, Arendt (1978: 2) speaks without speaking, writes without writing on a subject she takes up explicitly in Love and Saint Augustine and The Life of the Mind, namely, the will, which we are reminded is “the spring of action” (p. 6). Because the will and its ability to be transformed into love are not addressed in Origins, how is it possible to make such a leap in thought? More importantly, why make this leap at all? I will respond to this question in the closing remarks to this chapter. Also near the end of Origins, Arendt (1973) turns from discussing ideology and terror as an antipolitical concept to the human experience of being seized by total terror. As Arendt puts it, terror, “the essence of totalitarian domination” (p. 464), not only eliminates the freedom to act “but the very source of freedom” (p. 466) itself, which is the fact of natality. In short, terror destroys life and does so right “on the spot.” In now speaking to being under terror and the “icecold reasoning” (p. 478) of ideological thinking, Arendt draws a distinction between those who are in isolation or solitude and the “lonely man (eremos)” (p. 476). There are times in which 127  isolation can prove to be productive and in which isolation has little if anything to do with loneliness, such as working in the productive arts (poiesis) which generally requires “a certain isolation from common concerns” (p. 475) or in the act of contemplation which is done alone in “a dialogue between me and myself” (p. 476). Solitude, however, turns into loneliness when one “can no longer find the redeeming grace of companionship” that is needed to make the solitary “two-in-one” thinker “‘whole’ again.” Different than tyranny which destroys the public realm but leaves the private domain intact, “the iron band of total terror, which destroys the plurality of men” (p. 466), our human distinctness, does so by obliterating both the public and private domains, pressing “masses of isolated men together” (p. 473) and setting them in “terror-ruled,” perpetual motion (p. 474). This continuous movement disallows one the ability to think, to will, or to act. One is reminded of the prisoners in the concentration camp who, perversely like their German military counterparts, were required to march to and from work “in military step, in close order, to the sound of a band” (Levi, 1989, p. 116). With the music playing “continuously and monotonously” (Levi, 1996, p. 50), the prisoners march “like automatons; their souls are dead and the music drives them…There is no longer any will…they do not think and they do not desire, they walk” (p. 51). This is what we might call: Triumph of the Unwill. As Levi (1987) knows firsthand, one entered the camp “hoping at least for the solidarity of one’s companions in misfortune, but the hoped for allies, except in special cases, were not there; there were instead a thousand sealed off monads, and between them a desperate covert and continuous struggle” (p. 38). This struggle which is done pressed up against other prisoners – in the cattle car, in the barracks, and finally in the gas chambers – is also done in complete and utter loneliness. There is no redeeming grace of companionship in the totalitarian universe. The jury is still out on how human connectedness will play out in a radioactive contaminated universe. What we do know is that the land masses surrounding Chernobyl and Fukushima are dead zones where no human life remains though “a palimpsest of unheard sound,” to invoke Atwood (1998, p. 3) again, remains as illustrated in news footage and many documentaries of these no man’s lands. While there are diverse histories of the meaning of the term “no man’s land,” it is widely understood as a desert space associated with fear and uncertainty. In his letters upon the tear and mustard gaseous battlefields of World War I, British 128  poet Wilfred Owen (2009) wrote: “It is pock-marked like a body of foulest disease and its odour is the breath of cancer…No man’s land under snow is like the face of the moon chaotic, craterridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness” (p. 57-58). It seems rather certain that no man’s lands contain no redeeming grace of companionship, either. While there are literally few human beings living in the abandoned towns of Fukushima prefecture, many people’s lives remain there on a psychic level. As mentioned, isolation is different than loneliness; where the former concerns life in the public realm, the latter “concerns human life as a whole” (Arendt, 1973, p. 475). In the nontotalitarian contemporary (Western) world, it is not uncommon for individuals to experience loneliness “most sharply in the company of others” (p. 476) such as in crowded cities or refugee camps. The modern phenomenon of “the unnatural conformism of mass society” (Arendt, 1998, p. 58) – of what Arendt also refers to as the social realm – has destroyed both the public and the private domain, and subsequently, says Arendt, “the mass phenomenon of loneliness…has assumed its most extreme and most antihuman form” (p. 59). As a cinematic case in point, the naïve, yet goodhearted character Joe Buck in John Schlesinger’s Midnight Cowboy epitomizes the lonely man in the mass, albeit free, lonely crowd. It is only when he flees the maddening Manhattan masses of his own freedom-volition while caring for his dying and sole/soul friend, Enrico “Ratso” Rizzo that the pervasive feeling of aloneness transforms into “a mutually predicated relationship” known as “friendship” (Arendt, 1978, 2: p. 98). Following Augustine, Arendt explains that a “pair of friends forms a unity, a One, insofar and as long as they are friends.” With the camera panning between spectators gawking at Enrico and others selfabsorbed in less than meaningful activities, this two-in-one bond is magnified when Enrico dies, Joe’s arms tenderly wrapped around him as the scene slowly fades to black. Fromm (2006) also speaks to the human experience of separation and unity; “the frightening experience of aloneness” (p. 12) reveals itself most clearly in the “union of herd conformity” (p. 13), which is nothing but a pseudo-union, a pseudo-belonging. The deeper concern over human sameness or mass conformism – which is different than the cosmopolitan notion of having “shared horizons of meaning” (Appiah, 2006, p. 81) that inevitably involve debates over “the same values” – has to do with sameness’s incompatibility with the practice of loving. Totalitarianism, a system of hate, destroys human plurality by “pressing men against each 129  other…destroy[ing] the space between” (Arendt, 1973, p. 466). Juxtaposed with Arendt’s (1998) belief that “love, by reason of its passion, destroys the in-between which relates us to and separates us from others” (p. 242), stands philosopher Michel Serres’ position which says that love is the space between. Love is “defined as an intermediary…neither a god nor a mortal, neither rich nor poor” (Serres as cited in Edgerton, 1996, p. 62-63). Unlike Arendt, I am hesitant to say that love destroys anything, especially freedom. The Handmaid’s Tale and Brave New World act as novel cases to examine the relationship between love and freedom. Forced to have sex with her Commander (read: command-her), Fred, for the purposes of procreation, Offred (read: property-of-Fred) tells her readers: “nobody dies from lack of sex. It’s lack of love we die from. There’s nobody here I can love” (Atwood, 1998, p. 103). What “he wants is intimacy, but I can’t give him that” (p. 211). Intimacy, or cupiditas, can only arise in a space of freedom, a space to breathe which Offred’s world does not have. Similarly, the Alphas, Betas, Deltas, and other carbon copy caste characters in Huxley’s novel illustrate the ways in which “automatons cannot love” (Fromm, 2006, p. 81).37 Guest of the in/hospitable World State, John the Savage desperately seeks love from Alpha female Lenina, who has no understanding of what love is or why one would want it. As there is no freedom in the World State, it is impossible for love to blossom. In an act of defiance against the heartlessness of civilization, John the Savage throws handfuls of the popular drug soma – “poison to the soul as well as the body” (Huxley, 1932, p. 211) – out a hospital room window, shouting out to all and none: “But do you like being slaves” (p. 212)? “Free, free…You’re free” (p. 213)! As the Savage throws the many “pill boxes of soma tablets” away, his would-be friend, Bernard Marx whispers to Helmholtz Watson, “he’s mad” (p. 213), no doubt in much the same way Madame Schachter in Night and Nietzsche’s madman were mad. “I have come too early,” says Nietzsche’s madman. “My time has not come yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering – it has not yet reached the ears of man” (Nietzsche and Kaufmann, 1977, p. 96). In the throwing and fighting frenzy, “in ran the police…goggle-eyed and swine-snouted in their gas-masks…Three men with spraying machines…pumped thick clouds of soma vapour into the air” (Huxley, 1932, p. 214) until everyone was sedated and oh-so-happy. In their soma vapor stupor, a pre-recorded anti-riot speech rolls, straight “from the depths of a non-existent heart” (p. 215). In their last moment in time together, the Savage, Bernard, and Helmoltz remain silent and 130  sad. “[F]or in their sadness was the symptom of their love for one another—three young men were happy” (p. 242) in, or because of, their great despair. Desiring to leave the World State, Bernard and Helmholtz ask the Savage in unison where he will go: “Anywhere, I don’t care. So long as I can be alone” (p. 243). It was Roman statesman Cato (as cited in Arendt 1973) who first described the difference between loneliness and solitude in his famous paradox: “never was he less lonely than when he was in solitude” (p. 476). It is in the solitude and freedom of a room of one’s own that one can learn to love oneself – which is different than Arendt’s critique of selfinvolved amor sui or narcissism – and then be able to share that love with others. True acts of love, moreover, are done “voluntary[ily]” (Fromm, 2006, p. 26) – i.e., willingly – just as true acts of hospitality are done “graciously” (Derrida, 2000, p. 83) as in the case of the Tunisian families opening their doors to Libyan neighbors seeking refuge from the Qaddafi regime. Though we have a duty to care for the heart, says Dostoevsky (see Cherkasova, 2008), we cannot enforce the heart to care or teach it strategies to show empathy toward others. The heart does not strategize, yet the heart’s abilities to do good deeds, like that of the mind’s abilities, can be cultivated. Nevertheless, the verbiage frequently used in the political strand of cosmopolitanism is one of moral obligations to others as grounded in imperatives which derive from “justify[ing] my action with reasons” (Benhabib, 2006, p. 18) and in “the unconditional right to have rights” (Honig as cited in Benhabib, 2006, p. 117; Derrida 2001). The latter implies a form of “world-building that is not incompatible with the project of constructing juridical institutions and safeguards” but which is, nonetheless, skeptical of Foucauldian “sedimentations of power” (Honig as cited in Benhabib, 2006, p. 117) that are often found in such safeguards. The notion of a duty to love others and a (juridical) right to receive love is oxymoronic, yet it is love – which comes in the form of the child, friendship, storytelling, listening, forgiving, and making promises – that saves the world. While political theory works largely within the domain of justice, law, liberty, and rights, we are reminded that one of the greatest political thinkers of the 20th century has based much of her life’s work on that which has typically not received much attention in political theorizing writ large: willing and loving. Political cosmopolitanism is no different in this respect. If philosophy “in its cosmopolitan sense” asks “what is a human being?” (Kant, 2006), then Jean Vanier (1998) offers us insight into this question. One becomes human by liberating 131  “the human heart from the tentacles of chaos and loneliness, and from those fears that provoke us to exclude and reject others” (p. 5). Vanier’s insights reverberate with the heartlessness that has become manifest in Japan where “uncontaminated” people fear being radioactively contaminated by others. This fear has provoked acts of hostility rather than hospitality to victims of the nuclear disaster. Not so different from Arendt (1998, see p. 236-243), Derrida (2001, see p. 27-38), or Kurasawa (2007, see p. 56-93), Vanier (1998) believes that we become truly human when we forgive and learn to love our enemies – a radical act of liberation from “self-centred compulsions and inner hurts” (p. 5). For Arendt, (1996) self-centered impulses – a particular type of self-love, amor sui, which “gives rise to perplexed self-searching” (p. 37) – is, in the modern world, transformed into “innerworldy alienation” (1998, p. 251) in which an individual’s “exclusive concern [is] with the self, as distinguished from the soul” and is “the hallmark of the modern age” (p. 254). Such soullessness can also be found in a culture of presentism where “subjectivity dissolves into a series of sensory experiences, always accented by their immediacy” (Pinar, 2012, p. 225); in such a culture, past and future, self and other, private and public blur into one big unintelligible blob that Arendt (1998) calls disdainfully “the realm of the social” (p. 41). Huxley’s (1932) “feelies” (p. 165) are a potent illustration of unworldly presentism and selfcenteredness. John the Savage and Lenina go to a feely – entitled Three Weeks in a Helicopter. An All-Super-Singing, Synthetic-Talking, Coloured, Stereoscopic Feely. With Synchronized Scent-Organ Accompaniment – together, yet in total isolation. “Take hold of those metal knobs on the arms of your chair,” says Lenina to the Savage. “Otherwise you won’t get any of the feely effects” (p. 167). Absurd on one hand; totally realistic on the other. In the second decade of the 21st century, the new mantra could sound like this: Put on those 3-D glasses, otherwise you won’t get any of the 3-D effects. What does a society fixated on sensory s(t)imulation have to do with ethical responsibility? Citing scientific research on cyberculture, Pinar (2012) knows that “being glued to the screen” (p. 150) not only chips away at the ability to make judgments, but also endangers empathetic feelings, clouds the memory, and erodes the personality. Cultivating ethical judgment and an ethic of compassion is that much more urgent and that much more difficult to foster given the normalization of screen culture in places of learning such as  132  classrooms; places, it is the hope, which prepare the young “to assume responsibility for the world” (Arendt, 2006a, p. 187). Being transfixed by the screen, and often with those Bradburian “seashells” stuffed in one’s ears, is but a manifestation of the superficial concern with the self, not understanding of the self that enables taking interest in or compassion for others. Kant (1983) and Appiah (2006) remind that we have obligations to those others with whom we share the planet; yet those who lack “interest in the needs of others, and respect for their dignity and integrity” are “basically unable to love” (Fromm, 2006, p. 56) or to belong to a community. Belonging, however, does not entail an allegiance to a geographic place; rather, belonging “is a school of love where we learn to open up to others and to the world around us” (Vanier, 1998, p. 41). In this way, a distinction can be drawn between belonging and conformity. The problem for John the Savage is that he longs to open up to others, to belong but not to conform, yet he is trapped in a totalitarian world order where belonging lacks meaning or consequence. In the end, the Savage retreats into himself precisely in the way Epictetus describes that of eremos, the lonely man, who “finds himself surrounded by others with whom he cannot establish contact or to whose hostility he is exposed” (Arendt, 1973, p. 476). One might speculate that refugees from Fukushima have experienced a similar kind of retreat into the self that both Epictetus via Arendt and Christopher Lasch via Pinar describe in their works on past totalitarianisms and present authoritarianism in and outside of the sphere of education, respectively, given the factual truths of living lives that “no longer seem safe, let alone supportive or worthy of their emotional investment” (Pinar, 2012, p. 4). As Jacobs (2012b) discusses in his lecture on social mobilization in Japan after Fukushima, people have been “dislocate[ed] from traditional lands,” which has contributed to “social breakdowns” and the severing of bonds between peoples. On a similar note, Naka Shimizu, the aid to the mayor of Namie, says that “[w]e weren’t forgotten…we were ignored” (Craft, 2011). In a special report consisting of letters from students of the disaster area, the general concern these students reiterated was that they felt anxious about their future and a sense of “loneliness” in “not being able to go back home” (A Year since the Disaster: The View of Students, 2012). Such themes of loneliness and un/belonging can be seen in the political theorizing of totalitarianism, the particular catastrophe of Fukushima, and in literature which narrate these real concerns in 133  fictitious stories. In fact, we might say that these various disciplinary voices – theoretical and empirical, factual and fictitious – create a plurality of perspectives and subsequently a deeper understanding of the subject of loneliness and belonging in extreme situations. In stark contrast to the experience of eremos – which is experienced by the masses most profoundly under totalitarian conditions – is that of sensus communis – which can only be experienced under conditions of freedom. Kant (as cited in Arendt, 1978) calls belonging to a community “enlargement of the mind” (p. 157); such enlargement allows for “feelings and emotions” (Kant as cited in Arendt, 1982, p. 74) to be communicated to others, and the better they are communicated, the closer we become to perpetual peace. At least, this is Kant’s hope. Living peacefully, however, does not mean “the elimination of conflict” (Arendt, 1982, p. 74). While we have hardly arrived at such a time or place, it is my position that enlargement of the mind and the heart are needed to move us toward being cosmopolitan in a world where actually existing cosmopolitanism is already upon us, whether we “want to recognize it, or not” (Beck, 2009, p. 56). As a case in point, it might be psychically easier though materially riskier to ignore the invisible fallout from Fukushima which has already crossed over the entire northern hemisphere (Hixson, 2012a); it is another thing to continue building nuclear power plants as if Fukushima never happened. Can ethics be nuked? In a world where everything is permitted, anything is possible. While Beck (2009) speaks of “the globalization of compassion” in which individuals donate time and money for relief efforts to cosmopolitan catastrophes, Arendt (2006c) is suspect of the role that compassion has played in the socio-political realm. For Arendt, taking inter-est in others – rather than having compassion for others – is part of building a common world. Inter-est lies in the resources of reason, compassion in that of the heart. Despite the fact that Arendt (2006c) writes in more than one place on the redeeming power of love, she reminds us that the heart is where compassion derives from and, in the political realm, compassion has been perverted into “pity” for “les hommes faibles” (p. 78-79) as was the case during the French Revolution. In short, interest is safer than compassion; reason, superior to the heart. Have we not arrived at a time in which we can cultivate a cosmopolitan ethic in both the mind and the heart? Must reason’s reasoning – i.e., “the heart has its reasons that reason cannot understand” (Pascal  134  as cited Cherkasova, 2008, p. 76) – sever the head from the heart? Love – e.g., as articulated as amor mundi via Arendt and Fromm’s art of loving – binds the two together. Speaking from a feminist perspective, Edgerton (1996) points out that since love is not deemed “rational,” it has been marginalized by much of “Western rationalist masculine discourse” (p. 65). Such marginalization happens in more places than the West. We can recall the reaction female politician Akira Matsu (Japanese Upper House Budget Committee meeting, 2011) faced in a room of male politicians when pleading her case for children of Fukushima to not be treated as traitors for refusing to drink possibly cesium contaminated milk at school. Her concerns were treated as ridiculous, irrational, unreal. While Arendt teaches us the importance of maintaining distinctions in the modern, social realm where distinctions disappear altogether, Edgerton (1996) indicates that the dualism between agape/eros is artificial and meant to privilege the former. Agape is connected to the mind and that which is “masculine” while eros is banished to the body and that which is “feminine.” Coincidentally, it was Saint Augustine who viewed women “as virtually all body with no mind…and limited souls” (p. 65). There has been much criticism written by feminist scholars on Hannah Arendt’s disregard toward the women’s movement, and that work, while important (see Honig, 1995), goes beyond the scope of my own; nonetheless, Edgerton’s (1996) own study on “love in the margins” (p. 62-71) provokes me to consider if the distinction that Arendt makes between respect and compassion is likewise artificial. It is Arendt who well understood that “political phenomena emerge from an opaque and impenetrable darkness, which is the human heart” (Vollrath, 1977, p. 166) – a truth she cannot explain but one that “may yet be illuminated by the insight of poets.” Knowing that Arendt held deep respect for poetic insight as illustrated in both the content and literary quality of her own writing, we cannot say her work is aligned with either “masculine” or “feminine” forms of discourse. Her narrative style puts the imagination on equal footing with that of common sense reasoning. For Arendt, it is the interplay between the two that is necessary for building a human(e) world. In his writings on loneliness and belonging, Vanier (1998) believes that we become human when we learn to show compassion for and open up our hearts to weakness – to les hommes faibles – as has been the case in his own life’s work with people with disabilities. Following Vanier, it would seem, then, that the heart has been closed when reflecting on those 135  recent and more distant stories concerning human rights violations enacted upon people with disabilities in Fukushima since the triple disaster (Shiraishi, 2012); under the Nazis, the disabled were the first group of people sent to their deaths. In helping the weak and vulnerable, however, we do not claim invulnerability; rather, we recognize that vulnerability “characterizes the ontological status of [being] human” (Cavarero, 2009, p. 20). Connected to the idea of showing compassion is acting humanely. The “idea of humaneness,” says Hansen (2011, p. 22) is “a mode of work” (p. 23) and can be found in a cosmopolitan lineage dating back to ancient Chinese philosopher Confucius whose sympathies were not partisan but broad in scope (p. 22). Confucius believed that humaneness, moreover, is cultivated through “formal education” (p. 23). Nonetheless, much of western philosophy from Plato, to Descartes, and Nietzsche “has ignored ‘human vulnerability and affliction’ and ‘the connections between them and our dependence on others” (MacIntyre as cited in Cavarero, 2009, p. 21) in its discourse. Moreover, showing compassion and developing the capacity to love others stands at odds with a society that “encourages an ethics of economy, of winning, and of power” (Vanier, 1998, p. 51-2). Extending this line of thought, Vanier believes, as do I, that the path to freedom is not found in being “governed solely by economics” (p. 125). “Is it not possible,” he asks, “to work for love and peace” instead? Vanier is not the only thinker I draw from here that critiques the preponderant role of economics in our lives. For Derrida (2001), the problem with the “‘meanminded’ juridical tradition [in France]” is that it is “under the control of the demographicoeconomic interest” (p. 11-12). Pinar recognizes that thinking “economistically” (Judt as cited in Pinar, 2012, p. xi) erodes “public purpose” and empties meaning from young people’s lives (p. xii). Public purpose ought to include sharing and caring for instead of competing with – in a social Darwinian ‘will to power’ sense – our fellow human beings. As will be taken up in the following chapter, Raskolnikov’s will to power leads him on a path to self-and-other destruction. The one political cosmopolitan thinker, i.e., Kurasawa (2007) who embraces interest and compassion, mind and heart, in working toward global justice makes a similar point regarding the dangers of thinking economistically: such institutional apathy that Western governments and transnational structures show to global injustices is inextricably related to the self-centered desire to put one’s own “geopolitical and socio-economic interests ahead” (p. 41) of the greater global good. In a world at risk, putting oneself ahead of others lacks common sense: ahead of what? 136  While these writers – Vanier, Hansen, Derrida, Pinar, and Kurasawa – speak from a general perspective on the incompatibility between an ethic of economy and an ethic of compassion and/or of public good, the actual unfolding of such general criticisms of the former have played out in particular, devastating fashion under Japan’s nuclear power village. In this chapter, I have spoken to the vital role that a political ethic of compassion ought to play in living in and working toward a habitable, sustainable world. In speaking upon such an ethic, I have drawn from a spectrum of thinkers who have theorized love, care, and compassion in varying capacities, from Erich Fromm’s love as an activity rather than an ideal to strive toward, Vanier’s humanitarianism which contends that loving the weak and excluded others helps us to become human, to Kurasawa who places value upon expressionism and rationalism, the heart and the mind, in working toward global justice. In many respects, Hannah Arendt has been the key, albeit unlikely theorist to open the door to such a conversation. While her less illustrious writings on love have been attended to by Arendtian scholars for their own sake, there has been, to date, little contribution to the ways these writings might contribute to the timely scholarship on political cosmopolitanism, a line of thinking that is indebted to Arendt herself. Such scholarship has also been theoretical-general in orientation. Inspired by Arendt’s emphasis on the particular, I have looked at specific stories, both factual (e.g., the Nazi death camps and Fukushima) and f