The Narrow Corridor: States, Societies, and the Fate of Liberty

Also by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson

Why Nations Fail

Economic Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy

PENGUIN PRESS

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Copyright © 2019 by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson

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Picture research by Toby Greenberg Maps prepared by Carlos Molina and Jose Ignacio Velarde Morales

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Acemoglu, Daron, author. | Robinson, James A., 1960– author.

Title: The narrow corridor: states, societies, and the fate of liberty / Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson.

Description: New York : Penguin Press, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019009146 (print) | LCCN 2019981140 (ebook) | ISBN 9780735224384 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735224391 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984879189 (international/export)

Subjects: LCSH: Liberty. | State, The. | Power (Social sciences)—Political aspects. | Direct democracy. | Decentralization in government. | Executive power. | Violence—Political aspects.

Classification: LCC JC585 .A188 2019 (print) | LCC JC585 (ebook) | DDC 320.01/1—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009146

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019981140

While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover design: Christopher Brian King

Cover photograph: Joe and Clair Carnegie Libyan Soup Getty Images

Version_2

To Arda and Aras, even if this is much less than I owe you. —DA

Para Adrián y Tulio. Para mí el pasado, para ustedes el futuro. —JR

CONTENTS

Also by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1 HOW DOES HISTORY END?

Chapter 2 THE RED QUEEN

Chapter 3 WILL TO POWER

Chapter 4 ECONOMICS OUTSIDE THE CORRIDOR

Chapter 5 ALLEGORY OF GOOD GOVERNMENT

Chapter 6 THE EUROPEAN SCISSORS

Chapter 7 MANDATE OF HEAVEN

Chapter 8 BROKEN RED QUEEN

Chapter 9 DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

Chapter 10 WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH FERGUSON?

Chapter 11 THE PAPER LEVIATHAN

Chapter 12 WAHHAB’S CHILDREN

Chapter 13 RED QUEEN OUT OF CONTROL

Chapter 14 INTO THE CORRIDOR

Chapter 15 LIVING WITH THE LEVIATHAN

Photographs

Acknowledgments

Bibliographic Essay

Sources for Maps

References

Photograph Credits

Index

About the Authors

PREFACE

Liberty

This book is about liberty, and how and why human societies have achieved or failed to achieve it. It is also about the consequences of this, especially for prosperity. Our definition follows the English philosopher John Locke, who argued that people have liberty when they have

perfect freedom to order their actions and dispose of their possessions and persons, as they think fit … without asking leave, or depending upon the will of any other man.

Liberty in this sense is a basic aspiration of all human beings. Locke emphasized that

no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions.

Yet it is clear that liberty has been rare in history and is rare today. Every year millions of people in the Middle East, Africa, Asia, and Central America flee their homes and risk life and limb in the process, not because they are seeking higher incomes or greater material comfort, but because they are trying to protect themselves and their families from violence and fear.

Philosophers have proposed many definitions of liberty. But at the most fundamental level, as Locke recognized, liberty must start with people being free from violence, intimidation, and other demeaning acts. People must be able to make free choices about their lives and have the means to carry them out without the menace of unreasonable punishment or draconian social sanctions.

All the Evil in the World

In January 2011 in the Hareeqa market in the old city of Damascus, Syria, a spontaneous protest took place against the despotic regime of Bashar al-Assad. Soon afterward in the southern city of Daraa some children wrote “The people want the fall of the government” on a wall. They were arrested and tortured. A crowd gathered to demand their release, and two people were killed by the police. A mass demonstration erupted that soon spread throughout the country. A lot of the people, it turned out, did want the government to fall. A civil war soon broke out. The state, its military, and its security forces duly disappeared from much of the country. But instead of liberty, Syrians ended up with civil war and uncontrolled violence.

Adam, a media organizer in Latakia, reflected on what happened next:

We thought we’d get a present, and what we got was all the evil in the world.

Husayn, a playwright from Aleppo, summed it up:

We never expected that these dark groups would come into Syria—the ones that have taken over the game now.

Foremost among these “dark groups” was the so-called Islamic State, or what was then known as ISIS, which aimed to create a new “Islamic caliphate.” In 2014, ISIS took control of the major Syrian city of Raqqa. On the other side of the border in Iraq, they captured the cities of Fallujah, Ramadi, and the historic city of Mosul with its 1.5 million inhabitants. ISIS and many other armed groups filled the stateless void left by the collapse of the Syrian and Iraqi governments with unimaginable cruelty. Beatings, beheadings, and mutilations became commonplace. Abu Firas, a fighter with the Free Syrian Army, described the “new normal” in Syria:

It’s been so long since I heard that someone died from natural causes. In the beginning, one or two people would get killed. Then twenty. Then fifty. Then it became normal. If we lost fifty people, we thought, “Thank God, it’s only fifty!” I can’t sleep without the sound of bombs or bullets. It’s like something is missing.

Amin, a physical therapist from Aleppo, remembered:

One of the other guys called his girlfriend and said “Sweetheart, I’m out of minutes on my phone. I’ll call you back on Amin’s phone.” After a while she called asking about him, and I told her he’d been killed. She cried and my friends said, “Why did you tell her that?” I said, “Because that’s what happened. It’s normal. He died.” … I’d open my phone and look at my contacts and only one or two were still alive. They told us, “If someone dies, don’t delete his number. Just change his name to Martyr.” … So I’d open my contact list and it was all Martyr, Martyr, Martyr.

The collapse of the Syrian state created a humanitarian disaster of enormous proportions. Out of a population of about 18 million before the war, as many as 500,000 Syrians are estimated to have lost their lives. Over 6 million have been internally displaced and 5 million have fled the country and are currently living as refugees.

The Gilgamesh Problem

The calamity unleashed by the collapse of the Syrian state is not surprising. Philosophers and social scientists have long maintained that you need a state to resolve conflicts, enforce laws, and contain violence. As Locke puts it:

Where there is no law there is no freedom.

Yet Syrians had started protesting to gain some freedoms from Assad’s autocratic regime. As Adam ruefully recalled:

Ironically, we went out in demonstrations to eradicate corruption and criminal behavior and evil and hurting people. And we’ve ended up with results that hurt many more people.

Syrians like Adam were grappling with a problem so endemic to human society that it is a theme of one of the oldest surviving pieces of written text, the 4,200-year-old Sumerian tablets that record the Epic of Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh was the king of Uruk, perhaps the world’s first city, situated on a now dried-up channel of the Euphrates River in the south of modern-day Iraq. The epic tells us that Gilgamesh created a remarkable city, flourishing with commerce and public services for its inhabitants:

See how its ramparts gleam like copper in the sun. Climb the stone staircase … walk on the wall of Uruk, follow its course around the city, inspect its mighty foundations, examine its brickwork, how masterfully it is built, observe the land it encloses … the glorious palaces and temples, the shops and marketplaces, the houses, the public squares.

But there was a hitch:

Who is like Gilgamesh? … The city is his possession, he struts through it, arrogant, his head raised high, trampling its citizens like a wild bull. He is king, he does whatever he wants, takes the son from his father and crushes him, takes the girl from her mother and uses her … no one dares to oppose him.

Gilgamesh was out of control. A bit like Assad in Syria. In despair the people “cried out to heaven” to Anu, the god of the sky and the chief deity in the Sumerian pantheon of gods. They pleaded:

Heavenly father, Gilgamesh … has exceeded all bounds. The people suffer from his tyranny … Is this how you want your king to rule? Should a shepherd savage his own flock?

Anu paid attention and asked Aruru, mother of creation, to

create a double for Gilgamesh, his second self, a man who equals his strength and courage, a man who equals his stormy heart. Create a new hero, let them balance each other perfectly, so that Uruk has peace.

Anu thus came up with a solution to what we’ll call the “Gilgamesh problem”—controlling the authority and the power of a state so that you get the good things and not the bad. Anu’s was the doppelgänger solution, similar to what people today call “checks and balances.” Gilgamesh’s double Enkidu would contain him. James Madison, one of the founding fathers of the U.S. system of government, would have sympathized. He would argue 4,000 years later that constitutions must be designed so that “ambition must be made to counteract ambition.”

Gilgamesh’s first encounter with his double came when he was about to ravish a new bride. Enkidu blocked the doorway. They fought. Although Gilgamesh ultimately prevailed, his unrivaled, despotic power was gone. The seeds of liberty in Uruk?

Unfortunately not. Checks and balances parachuted from above don’t work in general, and they didn’t in Uruk. Soon Gilgamesh and Enkidu started to conspire. As the epic records it:

They embraced and kissed. They held hands like brothers. They walked side by side. They became true friends.

They subsequently colluded to kill the monster Humbaba, the guardian of the great cedar forest of Lebanon. When the gods sent the Bull of Heaven to punish them, they combined forces to kill it. The prospect for liberty vanished along with the checks and balances.

If not from a state hemmed in by doppelgängers and checks and balances, where does liberty come from? Not from Assad’s regime. Clearly not from the anarchy that followed the collapse of the Syrian state.

Our answer is simple: Liberty needs the state and the laws. But it is not given by the state or the elites controlling it. It is taken by regular people, by society. Society needs to control the state so that it protects and promotes people’s liberty rather than quashing it like Assad did in Syria before 2011. Liberty needs a mobilized society that participates in politics, protests when it’s necessary, and votes the government out of power when it can.

The Narrow Corridor to Liberty

Our argument in this book is that for liberty to emerge and flourish, both state and society must be strong. A strong state is needed to control violence, enforce laws, and provide public services that are critical for a life in which people are empowered to make and pursue their choices. A strong, mobilized society is needed to control and shackle the strong state. Doppelgänger solutions and checks and balances don’t solve the Gilgamesh problem because, without society’s vigilance, constitutions and guarantees are not worth much more than the parchment they are written on.

Squeezed between the fear and repression wrought by despotic states and the violence and lawlessness that emerge in their absence is a narrow corridor to liberty. It is in this corridor that the state and society balance each other out. This balance is not about a revolutionary moment. It’s a constant, day-in, day-out struggle between the two. This struggle brings benefits. In the corridor the state and society do not just compete, they also cooperate. This cooperation engenders greater capacity for the state to deliver the things that society wants and foments greater societal mobilization to monitor this capacity.

What makes this a corridor, not a door, is that achieving liberty is a process; you have to travel a long way in the corridor before violence is brought under control, laws are written and enforced, and the state starts providing services to its citizens. It is a process because the state and its elites must learn to live with the shackles society puts on them and different segments of society have to learn to work together despite their differences.

What makes this corridor narrow is that this is no easy feat. How can you contain a state that has a huge bureaucracy, a powerful military, and the freedom to decide what the law is? How can you ensure that as the state is called on to take on more responsibilities in a complex world, it will remain tame and under control? How can you keep society working together rather than turning against itself, riven with divisions? How do you prevent all of this from flipping into a zero-sum contest? Not easy at all, and that’s why the corridor is narrow, and societies enter and depart from it with far-reaching consequences.

You can’t engineer any of this. Not that very many leaders, left to their own devices, would really try to engineer liberty. When the state and its elites are too powerful and society is meek, why would leaders grant people rights and liberty? And if they did, could you trust them to stick to their word?

You can see the origins of liberty in the history of women’s liberation from the days of Gilgamesh right down to our own. How did society move from a situation where, as the epic has it, “every girl’s hymen … belonged to him,” to one where women have rights (well, in some places anyway)? Could it be that these rights were granted by men? The United Arab Emirates, for instance, has a Gender Balance Council formed in 2015 by Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, vice president and prime minister of the country and ruler of Dubai. It gives out gender equality awards every year for things like the “best government entity supporting gender balance,” “best federal authority supporting gender balance,” and “best gender balance initiative.” The awards for 2018, given out by Sheikh Maktoum himself, all have one thing in common—every one went to a man! The problem with the United Arab Emirates’ solution was that it was engineered by Sheikh Maktoum and imposed on society, without society’s participation.

Contrast this with the more successful history of women’s rights, for example, in Britain, where women’s rights were not given but taken. Women formed a social movement and became known as the suffragettes. The suffragettes emerged out of the British Women’s Social and Political Union, a women-only movement founded in 1903. They didn’t wait for men to give them prizes for “best gender balance initiative.” They mobilized. They engaged in direct action and civil disobedience. They bombed the summer house of the then chancellor of the exchequer and later prime minister, David Lloyd George. They chained themselves to railings outside the Houses of Parliament. They refused to pay their taxes and when they were sent to prison, they went on hunger strikes and had to be forcefed.

Emily Davison was a prominent member of the suffragette movement. On June 4, 1913, at the famous Epsom Derby horse race, Davison ran onto the track in front of Anmer, a horse belonging to King George V. Davison, according to some reports holding the purple, white, and green flag of the suffragettes, was hit by Anmer. The horse fell and crushed her, as the photograph included in the photography section shows. Four days later Davison died from her injuries. Five years later women could vote in parliamentary elections. Women didn’t get rights in Britain because of magnanimous grants by some (male) leaders. Gaining rights was a consequence of their organization and empowerment.

The story of women’s liberation isn’t unique or exceptional. Liberty almost always depends on society’s mobilization and ability to hold its own against the state and its elites.

Chapter 1

HOW DOES HISTORY END?

A Coming Anarchy?

In 1989, Francis Fukuyama predicted the “end of history,” with all countries converging to the political and economic institutions of the United States, what he called “an unabashed victory of economic and political liberalism.” Just five years later Robert Kaplan painted a radically different picture of the future in his article “The Coming Anarchy.” To illustrate the nature of this chaotic lawlessness and violence, he felt compelled to begin in West Africa:

West Africa is becoming the symbol of [anarchy] … Disease, overpopulation, unprovoked crime, scarcity of resources, refugee migrations, the increasing erosion of nation-states and international borders, and the empowerment of private armies, security firms, and international drug cartels are now most tellingly demonstrated through a West African prism. West Africa provides an appropriate introduction to the issues, often extremely unpleasant to discuss, that will soon confront our civilization. To remap the political earth the way it will be a few decades hence … I find I must begin with West Africa.

In a 2018 article, “Why Technology Favors Tyranny,” Yuval Noah Harari made yet another prediction about the future, arguing that advances in artificial intelligence are heralding the rise of “digital dictatorships,” where governments will be able to monitor, control, and even dictate the way we interact, communicate, and think.

So history might still end, but in a very different way than Fukuyama had imagined. But how? The triumph of Fukuyama’s vision of democracy, anarchy, or digital dictatorship? The Chinese state’s increasing control over the Internet, the media, and the lives of ordinary Chinese might suggest that we are heading toward digital dictatorship, while the recent history of the Middle East and Africa reminds us that a future of anarchy is not so far-fetched.

But we need a systematic way to think about all of this. As Kaplan suggested, let’s begin in Africa.

The Article 15 State

If you keep going east along the West African coast, the Gulf of Guinea eventually turns south and heads to Central Africa. Sailing past Equatorial Guinea, Gabon, and Pointe-Noire in Congo-Brazzaville, you arrive at the mouth of the river Congo, the entry point to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, a country that is often thought to be the epitome of anarchy. The Congolese have a joke: there have been six constitutions since the country gained its independence from Belgium in 1960, but they all have the same Article 15. The nineteenth-century French prime minister Charles-Maurice Talleyrand said that constitutions should be “short and obscure.” Article 15 fulfills his dictum. It is short and obscure; it says simply Débrouillez-vous (Fend for yourself).

It’s usual to think of a constitution as a document that lays out the responsibilities, duties, and rights of citizens and states. States are supposed to resolve conflicts among their citizens, protect them, and provide key public services such as education, healthcare, and infrastructure that individuals are not able to adequately provide on their own. A constitution isn’t supposed to say Débrouillez-vous.

The reference to “Article 15” is a joke. There isn’t such a clause in the Congolese Constitution. But it’s apt. The Congolese have been fending for themselves at least since independence in 1960 (and things were even worse before). Their state has repeatedly failed to do any of the things it is supposed to do and is absent from vast swaths of the country. Courts, roads, health clinics, and schools are moribund in most of the country. Murder, theft, extortion, and intimidation are commonplace. During the Great War of Africa that raged in the Congo between 1998 and 2003, the lives of most Congolese, already wretched, turned into a veritable hell. Possibly five million people perished; they were murdered, died of disease, or starved to death.

Even during times of peace the Congolese state has failed to uphold the actual clauses of the constitution. Article 16 states:

All persons have the right to life, physical integrity and to the free development of their personality, while respecting the law, public order, the rights of others and public morality.

But much of the Kivu region, in the east of the country, is still controlled by rebel groups and warlords who plunder, harass, and murder civilians while looting the country’s mineral wealth.

What about the real Article 15 in the Congolese Constitution? It begins, “The public authorities are responsible for the elimination of sexual violence …” Yet in 2010 an official of the United Nations described the country as the “rape capital of the world.”

The Congolese are on their own. Débrouillez-vous.

A Journey Through Dominance

This adage is not apposite just for the Congolese. If you retrace the Gulf of Guinea, you arrive at the place that seemed to best sum up Kaplan’s bleak vision of the future, Lagos, the business capital of Nigeria. Kaplan described it as a city “whose crime, pollution, and overcrowding make it the cliché par excellence of Third World urban dysfunction.”

In 1994, as Kaplan wrote, Nigeria was under the control of the military with General Sani Abacha as president. Abacha did not think that his job was to impartially resolve conflicts or protect Nigerians. He focused on killing his opponents and expropriating the country’s natural wealth. Estimates of how much he stole start at around $3.5 billion and go higher.

The previous year the Nobel Prize–winning writer Wole Soyinka returned to Lagos, crossing the land border from Cotonou, the capital of neighboring Benin (which is shown on Map 1). He recalled, “The approach to the Nigeria-Cotonou border told the story at first glance. For miles we cruised past a long line of vehicles parked along the road right up to the border, unable or unwilling to cross.” People who ventured across “returned within an hour of their venture either with damaged vehicles or with depleted pockets, having been forced to pay a toll for getting even as far as the first roadblock.”

Map 1. West Africa: The Historic Asante Kingdom, Yorubaland and Tivland, and Wole Soyinka’s Route from Cotonou to Lagos

Undeterred, Soyinka crossed into Nigeria to find somebody to take him to the capital, only to be told, “Oga Wole, eko o da o” (Master Wole, Lagos is not good). A taxi driver came forward pointing to his bandaged head with his bandaged hand. He proceeded to narrate the reception he had received; a bloodthirsty gang had pursued him even as he drove his car in reverse at full speed.

Oga … Dose rioters break my windshield even as I dey already reversing back. Na God save me self … Eko ti daru [Lagos is in chaos].

Finally, Soyinka found a taxi to take him to Lagos, though the reluctant driver opined, “The road is ba-a-ad. Very bad.” As Soyinka put it, “And thus began the most nightmarish journey of my existence.” He continued:

The roadblocks were made up of empty petroleum barrels, discarded tires and wheel hubs, vending kiosks, blocks of wood and tree trunks, huge stones … The freelance hoodlums had taken over … At some roadblocks there was a going fee; you paid it and were allowed to pass—but that safe conduct lasted only until the next barrier. Sometimes the fee was a gallon or more of fuel siphoned from your car, and then you were permitted to proceed—until the next barrier … Some vehicles had clearly run a gauntlet of missiles, cudgels, and even fists; others could have arrived directly from the film set of Jurassic Park—one could have sworn there were abnormal teeth marks in the bodywork.

As he approached Lagos, the situation grew worse.

Normally the journey into the heart of Lagos would take two hours. Now it was already five hours later, and we had covered only some fifty kilometers. I became increasingly anxious. The tension in the air became palpable as we moved nearer to Lagos. The roadblocks became more frequent; so did the sight of damaged vehicles and, worst of all, corpses.

Corpses are not an unusual sight in Lagos. When a senior policeman went missing, the police searched the waters under a bridge for his body. They stopped looking after six hours and twenty-three corpses, none of them the one they were seeking.

While the Nigerian military looted the country, Lagosians had to do a lot of fending for themselves. The city was crime ridden and the international airport was so dysfunctional that foreign countries banned their airlines from flying there. Gangs called “area boys” preyed on businessmen, shaking them down for money and even murdering them. The area boys weren’t the only hazard people had to avoid. In addition to the odd corpse, the streets were covered in trash and rats. A BBC reporter commented in 1999 that “the city is … disappearing under a mountain of rubbish.” There was no publicly provided electricity or running water. To get light you had to buy your own generator. Or candles.

The nightmarish existence of Lagosians wasn’t just that they lived in rat-infested, trash-strewn streets and saw corpses on the sidewalk. They lived in continual fear. Living in downtown Lagos with the area boys wasn’t fun. Even if they decided to spare you today, they might come after you tomorrow—especially if you had the audacity to complain about what they were doing to your city or didn’t show them the subservience they demanded. This fear, insecurity, and uncertainty may be as debilitating as actual violence because, to use a term introduced by political philosopher Philip Pettit, it puts you under the “dominance” of another group of human beings.

In his book Republicanism: A Theory of Freedom and Government, Pettit argues that the fundamental tenet of a fulfilling, decent life is non-dominance—freedom from dominance, fear, and extreme insecurity. It is unacceptable, according to Pettit, when one has to

live at the mercy of another, having to live in a manner that leaves you vulnerable to some ill that the other is in a position arbitrarily to impose.

Such dominance is experienced when

the wife … finds herself in a position where her husband can beat her at will, and without any possibility of redress; by the employee who dare not raise a complaint against an employer, and who is vulnerable to any of a range of abuses … that the employer may choose to perpetrate; by the debtor who has to depend on the grace of the moneylender, or the bank official, for avoiding utter destitution and ruin.

Pettit recognizes that the threat of violence or abuses can be as bad as actual violence and abuses. To be sure, you can avoid the violence by following some other person’s wishes or orders. But the price is doing something you don’t want to do and being subject to that threat day in and day out. (As economists would put it, the violence might be “off the equilibrium path,” but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t affect your behavior or have consequences that are almost as bad as suffering actual violence.) As Pettit sees it, such people

live in the shadow of the other’s presence, even if no arm is raised against them. They live in uncertainty about the other’s reactions and in need of keeping a weather eye open for the other’s moods. They find themselves … unable to look the other in the eye, and where they may even be forced to fawn or toady or flatter in the attempt to ingratiate themselves.

But dominance doesn’t just originate from brute force or threats of violence. Any relation of unequal power, whether enforced by threats or by other social means, such as customs, will create a form of dominance, because it amounts to being

subject to arbitrary sway: being subject to the potentially capricious will or the potentially idiosyncratic judgement of another.

We refine Locke’s notion and define liberty as the absence of dominance, because one who is dominated cannot make free choices. Liberty, or in Pettit’s words, non-dominance, means

emancipation from any such subordination, liberation from any such dependency. It requires the capacity to stand eye to eye with your fellow citizens, in a shared awareness that none of you has a power of arbitrary interference over another.

Critically, liberty requires not just the abstract notion that you are free to choose your actions, but also the ability to exercise that freedom. This ability is absent when a person, group, or organization has the power to coerce you, threaten you, or use the weight of social relations to subjugate you. It cannot be present when conflicts are resolved by actual force or its threat. But equally, it doesn’t exist when conflicts are resolved by unequal power relations imposed by entrenched customs. To flourish, liberty needs the end of dominance, whatever its source.

In Lagos liberty was nowhere to be seen. Conflict was resolved in favor of the stronger, the better-armed party. There was violence, theft, and murder. Infrastructure was crumbling at every turn. Dominance was all around. This was not a coming anarchy. It was already there.

Warre and the Leviathan

Lagos in the 1990s may seem an aberration to most of us living in security and comfort. But it isn’t. For most of human existence, insecurity and dominance have been facts of life. For most of history, even after the emergence of agriculture and settled life about ten thousand years ago, humans lived in “stateless” societies. Some of these societies resemble a few surviving hunter-gatherer groups in the remote regions of the Amazon and Africa (sometimes also called “small-scale societies”). But others, such as the Pashtuns, an ethnic group of about 50 million people who occupy much of southern and eastern Afghanistan and northwestern Pakistan, are far larger and engaged in farming and herding. Archaeological and anthropological evidence shows that many of these societies were locked in an even more traumatic existence than the inhabitants of Lagos suffered daily in the 1990s.

The most telling historical evidence comes from deaths in warfare and murder, which archaeologists have estimated from disfigured or damaged skeletal remains; some anthropologists have observed this firsthand in surviving stateless societies. In 1978, the anthropologist Carol Ember systematically documented that there were very high rates of warfare in hunter-gatherer societies—a shock to her profession’s image of “peaceful savages.” She found frequent warfare, with a war at least every other year in two-thirds of the societies she studied. Only 10 percent of them had no warfare. Steven Pinker, building on research by Lawrence Keeley, compiled evidence from twenty-seven stateless societies studied by anthropologists over the past two hundred years, and estimated a rate of death caused by violence of over 500 per 100,000 people—over 100 times the current homicide rate in the United States, 5 per 100,000, or over 1,000 times that in Norway, about 0.5 per 100,000. Archaeological evidence from premodern societies is consistent with this level of violence.

We should pause to take in the significance of these numbers. With a death rate of over 500 per 100,000, or 0.5 percent, a typical inhabitant of this society has about a 25 percent likelihood of being killed within a period of fifty years—so a quarter of the people you know will be violently killed during their lifetimes. It is hard for us to imagine the unpredictability and fear that such brazen social violence would imply.

Though a lot of this death and carnage was due to warring between rival tribes or groups, it wasn’t just warfare and intergroup conflict that brought incessant violence. The Gebusi of New Guinea, for example, have even higher murder rates—almost 700 per 100,000 in the precontact period of the 1940s and 1950s—mostly taking place during peaceful, regular times (if times during which almost 1 in 100 of the population gets murdered each year can be called peaceful!). The reason appears to be related to the belief that every death is caused by witchcraft, which triggers a hunt for the parties responsible for even nonviolent deaths.

It’s not just murder that makes the lives of stateless societies precarious. Life expectancy at birth in stateless societies was very low, varying between twenty-one and thirty-seven years. Similarly short lifespans and violent deaths were not unusual for our progenitors before the past two hundred years. Thus many of our ancestors, just like the inhabitants of Lagos, lived in what the famous political philosopher Thomas Hobbes described in his book Leviathan as

continuall feare, and danger of violent death; And the life of man, solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short.

This was what Hobbes, writing during another nightmarish period, the English Civil War of the 1640s, described as a condition of “Warre,” or what Kaplan would have called “anarchy”—a situation of war of all against all, “of every man, against every man.”

Hobbes’s brilliant depiction of Warre made it clear why life under this condition would be worse than bleak. Hobbes started with some basic assumptions about human nature and argued that conflicts would be endemic in any human interaction. “If any two men desire the same thing, which nevertheless they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies; and … endeavor to destroy, or subdue one an other.” A world without a way to resolve these conflicts was not going to be a happy one because

from hence it comes to passe, that where an Invader hath no more to fear, than an other mans single power; if one plant, sow, build, or possesse a convenient Seat, others may probably be expected to come prepared with forces united, to dispossess and deprive him, not only of the fruit of his labour, but also of his life, or liberty.

Remarkably, Hobbes anticipated Pettit’s argument on dominance, noting that just the threat of violence can be pernicious, even if you can avoid actual violence by staying home after dark, by restricting your movements and your interactions. Warre, according to Hobbes, “consisteth not in actuall fighting; but in the known disposition thereto, during all the time there is no assurance to the contrary.” So the prospect of Warre also had huge consequences for people’s lives. For example, “when taking a journey, he arms himself, and seeks to go well accompanied; when going to sleep, he locks his dores; when even in his house he locks his chests.” All of this was familiar to Wole Soyinka, who never moved anywhere in Lagos without a Glock pistol strapped to his side for protection.

Hobbes also recognized that humans desire some basic amenities and economic opportunities. He wrote, “The Passions that encline men to Peace, are Feare of Death; Desire of such things as are necessary to commodious living; and a Hope by their Industry to obtain them.” But these things would not come naturally in the state of Warre. Indeed, economic incentives would be destroyed.

In such condition there is no place for industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain, and consequently no culture of the earth, no navigation nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea, no commodious building, no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force, no knowledge of the face of the earth.

Naturally, people would look for a way out of anarchy, a way to impose “restraint upon themselves” and get “themselves out from the miserable condition of Warre, which is necessarily consequent … to the natural Passions of men.” Hobbes had already anticipated how this could happen when he introduced the notion of Warre, since he observed that Warre emerges when “men live without a common Power to keep them all in awe.” Hobbes dubbed this common Power the “great LEVIATHAN called a COMMON-WEALTH or STATE,” three words he used interchangeably. The solution to Warre was thus to create the sort of centralized authority that the Congolese, the Nigerians, or the members of anarchic, stateless societies did not have. Hobbes used the image of the Leviathan, the great sea monster described in the Bible’s Book of Job, to stress that this state needed to be powerful. The frontispiece of his book, shown in the photography section, featured an etching of the Leviathan with a quotation from Job:

There is no power on earth to be compared to him. (Job 41:24)

Point taken.

Hobbes understood that the all-powerful Leviathan would be feared. But better to fear one powerful Leviathan than to fear everybody. The Leviathan would stop the war of all against all, ensure people do not “endeavor to destroy, or subdue one an other,” clean up the trash and the area boys, and get the electricity going.

Sounds great, but how exactly do you get a Leviathan? Hobbes proposed two routes. The first he called a “Commonwealth by Institution … when a Multitude of men do Agree, and Covenant, every one, with every one” to create such a state and delegate power and authority to it, or as he put it, “to submit their Wills, every one to his Will, and their Judgments, to his Judgment.” So a sort of grand social contract (“Covenant”) would accede to the creation of a Leviathan. The second he called a “Commonwealth by Acquisition,” which “is acquired by force,” since Hobbes recognized that in a state of Warre somebody might emerge who would “subdueth his enemies to his will.” The important thing was that “the Rights, and Consequences of Sovereignty, are the same in both.” However society got a Leviathan, Hobbes believed, the consequences would be the same—the end of Warre.

This conclusion might sound surprising, but Hobbes’s logic is revealed by his discussion of the three alternative ways to govern a state: through monarchy, aristocracy, or democracy. Though these appear to be very different decisionmaking institutions, Hobbes argued that “the difference between these three kindes of Commonwealth consisteth not in the difference of Power; but in the difference of Convenience.” On balance, a monarchy was more likely to be convenient and had practical advantages, but the main point is that a Leviathan, however governed, would do what a Leviathan does. It would stop Warre, abolish “continuall feare, and danger of violent death,” and guarantee that the life of men (and hopefully women too) was no longer “solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short.” In essence, Hobbes maintained that any state would have the objective of the “conservation of Peace and Justice,” and that this was “the end for which all Commonwealths are Instituted.” So might, or at any rate sufficiently overwhelming might, makes right, however it came about.

The influence of Hobbes’s masterpiece on modern social science can hardly be exaggerated. In theorizing about states and constitutions, we follow Hobbes and start with what problems they solve, how they constrain behavior, and how they reallocate power in society. We look for clues about how society works not in God-given laws, but in basic human motivations and how we can shape them. But even more profound is his influence on how we perceive states today. We respect them and their representatives, regardless of whether they are monarchies, aristocracies, or democracies. Even after a military coup or civil war, representatives of the new government, flying in their official jets, take their seats in the United Nations, and the international community looks to them to enforce laws, resolve conflicts, and protect their citizens. It confers on them official respect. Just as Hobbes envisaged, whatever their origins and path to power, rulers epitomize the Leviathan, and they have legitimacy.

Hobbes was right that avoiding Warre is a critical priority for humans. He was also correct in anticipating that once states formed and began monopolizing the means of violence and enforcing their laws, killings declined. The Leviathan controlled the Warre of “every man, against every man.” Under Western and Northern European states, murder rates today are only 1 per 100,000 or less; public services are effective, efficient, and plentiful; and people have come as close to liberty as at any time in human history.

But there was also much that Hobbes didn’t get right. For one, it turns out that stateless societies are quite capable of controlling violence and putting a lid on conflict, though as we’ll see this doesn’t bring much liberty. For another, he was too optimistic about the liberty that states would bring. Indeed, Hobbes was wrong on one defining issue (and so is the international community, we might add): might does not make right, and it certainly does not make for liberty. Life under the yoke of the state can be nasty, brutish, and short too.

Let us start with this latter point.

Shock and Awe

It wasn’t simply that the Nigerian state didn’t want to prevent the anarchy in Lagos or that the state in the Democratic Republic of Congo decided it would be best not to enforce laws and let rebels kill people. They lacked the capacity to do these things. The capacity of a state is its ability to achieve its objectives. These objectives often include enforcing laws, resolving conflicts, regulating and taxing economic activity, and providing infrastructure or other public services. They may also include waging wars. The capacity of the state depends partly on how its institutions are organized, but even more critically, it depends on its bureaucracy. You need bureaucrats and state employees to be present so that they can implement the state’s plans, and you need these bureaucrats to have the means and motivation to carry out their mission. The first person to spell this vision out was the German sociologist Max Weber, who was inspired by the Prussian bureaucracy, which formed the backbone of the German state in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

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In 1938, the German bureaucracy had a problem. The governing National Socialist German Workers’ (Nazi) Party had decided to expel all Jews from Austria, which had recently been annexed by Germany. But a bureaucratic bottleneck quickly emerged. Things had to be done properly, so each Jew had to assemble a number of papers and documents to be able to leave. This took an inordinate amount of time. The man who occupied desk IV-B-4 in the SS (Schutzstaffel, a Nazi paramilitary organization), Adolf Eichmann, was put in charge. Eichmann came up with the idea for what the World Bank would nowadays call a “one-stop shop.” He developed an assembly line system that integrated all the offices concerned—the Ministry of Finance, the income tax people, the police, and the Jewish leaders. He also sent Jewish functionaries abroad to solicit funds from Jewish organizations so that the Jews could buy the visas needed for emigration. As Hannah Arendt put it in her book Eichmann in Jerusalem:

At one end you put in a Jew who still has some property, a factory, or a shop, or a bank account, and he goes through the building from counter to counter, from office to office, and comes out at the other end without any money, without any rights, with only a passport on which it says: “You must leave the country within a fortnight. Otherwise you will go to a concentration camp.”

As a result of the one-stop shop, 45,000 Jews left Austria in eight months. Eichmann was promoted to the rank of Obersturmbannführer (lieutenant colonel), and moved on to become the transport coordinator for the Final Solution, which involved solving many similar bureaucratic bottlenecks to facilitate mass murder.

Here was a powerful, capable state at work, a bureaucratic Leviathan. But it was using this capacity not for solving conflicts or stopping Warre, but for harassing and dispossessing and then murdering Jews. The German Third Reich, building on the tradition of Prussian bureaucracy and its professional military, certainly counts as a Leviathan by Hobbes’s definition. Just as Hobbes wanted, Germans, at least a good portion of them, did “submit their Wills, every one to his Will, and their Judgments, to his Judgment.” Indeed, the German philosopher Martin Heidegger told students, “The Führer alone is the present and future German reality and its law.” The German state also generated awe in the population, not just among Hitler’s supporters. Not many wanted to cross it or break its laws.

Awe turned into fear, with the SA (Sturmabteilung, brown-shirted paramilitaries), SS, and Gestapo roaming the streets. Germans spent their nights in cold sweats, waiting for the hard knocks on their doors and the jackboots in their living rooms that would take them to some basement for interrogation or draft them to go to the Eastern front to face almost certain death. The German Leviathan was feared much more than the anarchy in Nigeria or the Congo. And for good reason. It imprisoned, tortured, and killed huge numbers of Germans—social democrats, Communists, political opponents, homosexuals, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. It murdered 6 million Jews, many of whom were German citizens, and 200,000 Roma; according to some estimates, the number of Slavs it murdered in Poland and Russia exceeded 10 million.

What Germans and citizens of the territories Germany occupied suffered under Hitler’s reign wasn’t Hobbes’s Warre. It was the war of the state against its citizens. It was dominance and murder. Not the sort of thing Hobbes was hoping for from his Leviathan.

Reeducation Through Labor

Fear of the all-powerful state is not confined to abhorrent exceptions such as the Nazi state. It is much more common than that. In the 1950s, China was still the darling of many Europeans on the left, Maoist thought was de rigueur in French cafés, and Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book was a choice item in trendy booksellers. After all, here was the Chinese Communist Party that had thrown off the yoke of Japanese colonialism and Western imperialism and was busy building a capable state and socialist society out of the ashes.

On November 11, 1959, the secretary of the Communist Party in Guangshan County, Zhang Fuhong, was attacked. A man called Ma Longshan took the lead and started to kick him. Others set on him with fists and feet. He was beaten bloody and his hair ripped out in patches, his uniform was torn to threads, and he was left barely able to walk. By November 15, after repeated further attacks, he could only lie on the floor while he was kicked and punched and the rest of his hair torn out. By the time he was dragged home he had lost control of his bodily functions and could no longer eat or drink. The next day he was attacked again, and when he asked for water, it was refused. On November 19, he died.

This harrowing depiction is painted by Yang Jisheng in his book Tombstone. He recalls how earlier that year he was urgently called home from boarding school because his father was starving. Upon reaching home in Wanli, he noticed that

the elm tree in front of our house had been reduced to a barkless trunk, and even its roots had been dug up and stripped, leaving only a ragged hole in the earth. The pond was dry; neighbors said it had been drained to dredge for rank-tasting mollusks that had never been eaten in the past. There was no sound of dogs barking, no chickens running about … Wanli was like a ghost town. Upon entering our home, I found utter destitution; there was not a grain of rice, nothing edible whatsoever, and not even water in the vat … My father was half-reclined on his bed, his eyes sunken and lifeless, his face gaunt, the skin creased and flaccid … I boiled congee from the rice I’d brought … but he was no longer able to swallow. Three days later he departed this world.

Yang Jisheng’s father died in the great famine that struck China in the later 1950s, when possibly 45 million people starved to death. Yang shows how

starvation was a prolonged agony. The grain was gone, the wild herbs had all been eaten, even the bark had been stripped from the trees, and bird droppings, rats, and cotton batting were all used to fill stomachs. In the kaolin clay fields, starving people chewed on the clay as they dug it. The corpses of the dead, famine victims seeking refuge from other villages, even one’s own family members, became food for the desperate.

Cannibalism was widespread.

The Chinese lived through a nightmare in this period. But, just as in the Third Reich, it was not brought on the people by the absence of a Leviathan. It was planned and executed by the state. Zhang Fuhong was beaten to death by his comrades in the Communist Party, and Ma Longshan was the county party secretary. Zhang’s alleged crime was “right deviationism” and being a “degenerate element.” That meant he attempted to instigate some solutions to the mounting famine. Even mentioning the famine in China could cause you to be labeled “a negator of the Great Harvest” and to be subjected to “struggle,” a euphemism for being beaten to death.

In Huaidian People’s Commune, another part of the same county, 12,134 people, a third of the population, died between September 1959 and June 1960. Most starved to death, but not all; 3,528 people were beaten by cadres of the Communist Party, 636 of those died, 141 were left permanently disabled, and 14 committed suicide.

The reason so many people perished in Huaidian is simple. In the autumn of 1959, the grain harvest brought in 5.955 million kilos, which was not unusually low. But the Communist Party had decided to procure 6 million kilos from the farmers. So all the grain from Huaidian went to the cities and the party. The farmers ate bark and mollusks, and starved.

These experiences were part of the “Great Leap Forward,” the “modernization” program launched by Chairman Mao Zedong in 1958 with the aim of using the Chinese state’s capacity to dramatically transform the country from a rural, agrarian society into a modern urban and industrial one. This program required heavy taxes on peasants in order to subsidize industry and invest in machinery. The result was not just a human disaster, but also an economic tragedy of major proportions, all planned and implemented by the Leviathan. Yang’s disturbing book brilliantly illustrates how the Leviathan, which had “the power to deprive an individual of everything,” implemented the measures, such as requisitioning the entire grain production from Huaidian commune, and how they were enforced by “struggle” and violence. One technique was to centralize cooking and eating into a “communal kitchen” run by the state so that “anyone who proved disobedient could be deprived of food.” Consequently, “villagers lost control of their own survival.” Anyone who opposed the system was “crushed,” and the consequence was to turn everyone into either “despot or slave.” To stay alive, people had to allow others to “trample upon the things they most cherished and flatter things they had always most despised” and demonstrate their loyalty to the system by engaging in “virtuoso pandering and deceit”—dominance pure and simple.

Hobbes argued that life was “solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short” when “men live without a common Power to keep them all in awe.” Yet Yang’s description shows that even though all “stood in awe and terror before Mao,” this led to the creation rather than the abatement of a nasty, brutish, and short life for most.

Another tool of governance the Communist Party created was the “Reeducation Through Labor” system. The first document to use this phrase was the “Directives for a Complete Purge of Hidden Counterrevolutionaries,” published in 1955. By the next year the reeducation system had been born and camps set up throughout the country. These camps perfected various types of “struggle.” Luo Hongshan, for example, was sentenced to three years of reeducation through labor. He recalled:

We woke up at 4 or 5 every morning and went to work at 6:30 am … laboring straight until 7 or 8 in the evening. When it was too dark to see, we would stop. We really had no notion of time. Beatings were common, and some detainees were beaten to death. I know of 7 or 8 detainees on the number 1 middle work unit who were beaten to death. And this doesn’t count those who hung themselves or committed suicide because they couldn’t bear the abuse … They used iron clubs, wooden bats, pick handles, leather belts … They broke six of my ribs, and today I am covered with scars from head to foot … All kinds of torture—“taking a plane,” “riding a motorcycle” … “standing on tiptoe at midnight” (these were all names for types of punishment)—were common. They would make us eat shit and drink urine and call it eating fried dough sticks and drinking wine. They were really inhuman.

Luo was not arrested during the Great Leap Forward, but in March 2001, when China was already a respected member of the international community and an economic powerhouse. Indeed, the Reeducation Through Labor system was expanded after 1979 by Deng Xiaoping, the engineer of China’s legendary economic growth over the last four decades, who saw it as a useful complement to his “economic reform” program. In 2012 there were around 350 reeducation camps with 160,000 detainees. A person can be committed to such a camp for up to four years without any legal process. The reeducation camps are just one part of an extensive gulag of detention centers and various illegal “black jails” dotting the Chinese countryside and are complemented by an expanded “community corrections system,” which has grown rapidly in recent years. In May 2014 the system was “correcting” 709,000 people.

The struggle continues. In October 2013 Premier Xi Jinping decided to praise the “Fengqiao experience,” and urged Communist Party cadres to follow its example. The phrase refers to a district in Zhejiang Province that implemented Mao Zedong’s “Four Clean-ups” political campaign in 1963 without actually arresting anyone, but rather by inducing people to publicly monitor, report on, and help to “reeducate” their neighbors. It was a prelude to China’s Cultural Revolution, in which hundreds of thousands and perhaps millions of innocent Chinese would be murdered (the exact numbers are unknown and undisclosed).

The Chinese Leviathan, just like the Leviathan in the Third Reich, has the capacity to resolve conflicts and get things done. But it uses its capacity not to promote liberty but for naked repression and dominance. It ends Warre, but only to replace it with a different nightmare.

The Janus-Faced Leviathan

The first crack in Hobbes’s thesis is the idea that the Leviathan has a single face. But in reality, the state is Janus-faced. One face resembles what Hobbes imagined: it prevents Warre, it protects its subjects, it resolves conflicts fairly, it provides public services, amenities, and economic opportunities; it lays the foundations for economic prosperity. The other is despotic and fearsome: it silences its citizens, it is impervious to their wishes. It dominates them, it imprisons them, maims them, and murders them. It steals the fruits of their labor or helps others do so.

Some societies, like the Germans under the Third Reich or the Chinese under the Communist Party, see the fearsome face of the Leviathan. They suffer dominance, but this time at the hand of the state and those controlling the state’s power. We say that such societies live with a Despotic Leviathan. The defining characteristic of the Despotic Leviathan isn’t that it represses and murders its citizens, but that it provides no means for society and the regular people to have a say in how its power and capacity are used. It isn’t that China’s state is despotic because it sends its citizens to reeducation camps. It sends people to camps because it can, and it can because it is despotic, unrestrained by—and unaccountable to—society.

Hence we are back to the Gilgamesh problem from the Preface. The Despotic Leviathan creates a powerful state but then uses it to dominate society, sometimes with naked repression. What’s the alternative? Before answering this question, let’s return to the other problem with Hobbes’s account—his presumption that statelessness means violence.

The Cage of Norms

Though the human past is replete with instances of Warre, there are plenty of stateless societies (living under the “Absent Leviathan”) that managed to control violence. These range from the Mbuti Pygmies of the Congo rain forest to several large agricultural societies in West Africa, such as the Akan people of modern Ghana and Côte d’Ivoire. In Ghana the British administrator Brodie Cruickshank reported in the 1850s that

the paths and thoroughfares of the country became as safe for the transmission of merchandize, and as free from interruption of any description, as the best frequented roads of the most highly civilized countries in Europe.

As Hobbes would have expected, the absence of Warre led to flourishing commerce. Cruickshank observed, “There was not a nook or corner of the land to which the enterprize of some sanguine trader had not led him. Every village had its festoons of Manchester cottons and China silks, hung upon the walls of the houses, or round the trees in the marketplace, to attract the attention and excite the cupidity of the villagers.”

You couldn’t have such bustling enterprise in a society that was incapable of resolving conflicts and ensuring some type of justice. Indeed, as the French trader Joseph-Marie Bonnat observed later in the nineteenth century:

It is to the exercise of justice, in the small villages, that the first hours of the day are devoted.

How did the Akan people exercise justice? They used (social) norms—customs, traditions, rituals, and patterns of acceptable and expected behavior—that had evolved over generations.

Bonnat described how people gathered around for consultation. The elders are “accompanied by those in the village who are not working,” and they “go and sit under the most shady tree, the slaves following their master and carrying the chair on which he is to sit. The company, which always includes a large part of the inhabitants, goes to listen to the debate and takes the part of one of the litigants. On most occasions the matter is arranged amicably, the guilty person paying the costs; this consists usually of palm wine which is distributed to those present. If the matter is serious, the penalty consists of a sheep and also of a specified quantity of gold dust.”

The community listened and used its norms to decide who was guilty. The same norms then ensured that the guilty desisted, paid up, or undertook another form of restitution. Though Hobbes saw the all-powerful Leviathan as the fountainhead of justice, most societies aren’t that different from the Akan. Norms determine what is right and wrong in the eyes of others, what types of behaviors are shunned and discouraged, and when individuals and families will be ostracized and cut off from the support of others. Norms also play a vital role in bonding people and coordinating their actions so that they can exercise force against other communities and those committing serious crimes in their own community.

Although norms play an important role even under the auspices of a Despotic Leviathan (could the Third Reich have survived if all Germans thought that it lacked all legitimacy, stopped cooperating with it, and organized against it?), they are critical when the Leviathan is absent because they provide the only way for society to avoid Warre.

The problem for liberty, however, is multifaceted. The same norms that have evolved to coordinate action, resolve conflicts, and generate a shared understanding of justice also create a cage, imposing a different but no less disempowering sort of dominance on people. This too is true in every society, but in societies without centralized authority and relying exclusively on norms, the cage becomes tighter, more stifling.

We can understand how the cage of norms emerges and how it restricts liberty by staying in the Akan country and studying the account of another British official, Captain Robert Rattray. In 1924 Rattray became the first head of the Anthropological Department of Asante, one of the largest Akan groups, and part of the British colony of the Gold Coast, now Ghana. His job was to undertake a study of Asante society, politics, and religion. He transcribed an Asante proverb thus:

When a chicken separates itself from the rest, a hawk will get it.

For Rattray this proverb captured a critical aspect of the organization of Asante society—that it was molded by immense insecurity and potential violence. Though the Asante eventually developed one of the most powerful states in precolonial Africa, this state was founded on basic social structures dating from an era before centralized political authority emerged. Without effective state institutions, how could you avoid “a hawk”? Norms had evolved to reduce vulnerability to violence and exposure to those who could carry it out, providing some protection against hawks. But at the same time, they imposed their cage; you would have to surrender your freedom and stand with the other chickens.

Even in stateless societies some people were more influential than others, had more wealth, better connections, more authority. In Africa these people were often the chiefs, or sometimes the most senior people in a kinship group, the elders. If you wanted to avoid the hawks, you needed their protection and you needed numbers to defend yourself, so you attached yourself to a kin group or lineage. In return, you accepted their dominance over you, and this is what became the status quo, enshrined in Akan norms. As Rattray put it, you accepted “voluntary servitude.”

A condition of voluntary servitude was, in a very literal sense, the heritage of every Ashanti; it formed indeed the essential basis of his social system. In West Africa it was the masterless man and woman who ran the immanent danger of having what we should term “their freedom” turned into involuntary bondage of a much more drastic nature.

By involuntary bondage of a “much more drastic nature,” Rattray meant slavery. So if you tried to free yourself from the chains of voluntary servitude, most likely you would be captured by hawks, in this instance slavers, and sold into slavery.

Indeed, a lot of the Warre in Africa was rooted in different groups trying to capture and sell others into slavery. Many vivid accounts describe the experience of Africans who were caught up in this trade. One, the story of Goi, was translated into English by a missionary, Dugald Campbell. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, Goi lived in the south of what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in the lands of a Chief Chikwiva from the Luba people. His father died when he was young and he grew up with his mother, sister, and brother. One day

a war party appeared, and came yelling along the path shouting their war cries. They attacked the village and killed several women. They caught young women, chased and captured us boys, and tied us all together. We were driven to the capital and sold to the slave traders, who nailed wooden shackles on our feet.

From there Goi was taken to the coast, “Dragged thus from my house and from my mother, whom I never saw again, we were driven along the ‘red road’ to the sea.” The road was “red” because of all the blood spilled along it. By this time Goi was so weak and emaciated from starvation and constant violence that he was almost worthless.

Reduced to a skeleton, a mere shadow, and unable to travel, I was carried round the villages and offered for sale. No one was willing to give a goat or a hen for me … Finally one of the missionaries named “Monare” paid a coloured handkerchief for me, worth about fivepence, and I was free. So at any rate they told me, but I did not believe it, for I could not understand what freedom meant, and I thought I was now a slave of the white men. I did not want to be free, for I would only be caught and sold again.

The threat from slavers and the cage of norms conspired to create a spectrum of unfreedom. At one end of the spectrum was the extreme of slavery experienced by Goi. At the other end were obligations and duties you had to accept in order to avoid the hawks. This meant that belonging to a kinship group or society protected you, but didn’t make you free from dominance. If you were a woman, you could be traded for bridewealth and exchanged in a marriage, not to mention the more general subjugation and abuse that was the lot of women in a patriarchal society dominated by chiefs, elders, and men generally.

Within this spectrum of unfreedom were many different types of relationships. One of those, fraught with dominance, can be seen from the story of Bwanikwa, also written down by Campbell. Bwanikwa too was a Luba and her father had a dozen wives. The head wife was a daughter of an important local chief, Katumba. Bwanikwa recalled how

the head wife had just died. According to Luban custom he [her father] was mulcted for death dues. He was ordered to pay three slaves, as compensation for his wife’s death … my father could raise only two.

One of his four daughters had to be handed over to make a third, and I was chosen … When he handed me over to my master, he said to him as we parted: “Be kind to my little daughter; do not sell her to anyone else, and I will come and redeem her.” As my father was unable to redeem me, I was left in slavery.

Bwanikwa’s status was that of a pawn or a pledge, another relationship of subjugation common in Africa. Pawning someone meant giving them to another person for a specific purpose. Often this was payment for some sort of loan, debt, or obligation. But in Bwanikwa’s case it was because her father couldn’t find an extra slave. If he’d found the slave, he could have redeemed Bwanikwa. A pawn was different from a slave; there was no automatic sale, and the expectation was that the situation was temporary. But as Bwankiwa realized, it could merge into slavery. F. B. Spilsbury, a visitor to Sierra Leone in 1805 and 1806, explained:

If a king or any other person goes to a factory, or a slave ship, and procures articles which he is not at that time able to pay for, he sends his wife, sister, or child as a pawn, putting a tally round their necks; the child then runs among the slaves until exchanged.

A related condition was that of a ward. People would send their children as wards to a more powerful family to be brought up in their household. It was a way of keeping them safe, even if they knew this would often involve permanent separation and even if it meant plunging them into a relationship of subservience to their caretakers.

These stories show that people were routinely treated as objects to be pawned and pledged. They often ended up in relationships of dominance. You had to obey the chief, the elders, your caretakers, and, if you were a woman, your husband. You had to follow the customs of your society closely. If you recall Pettit’s definition of being dominated—as living “in the shadow of the other’s presence … in need of keeping a weather eye open for the other’s moods … forced to fawn or toady or flatter in the attempt to ingratiate themselves”—you’ll see this fits it very well.

How did these subservient social statuses emerge? How were they justified? The answer is, again, norms; these relationships evolved as customs accepted by society and supported by beliefs of what was proper and right. People could be pawned and wards had to relinquish their freedom; wives had to obey their husbands; people had to tightly follow their prescribed social roles. Why? Because everybody else expected them to. But at a deeper level, these norms were not completely arbitrary. Though norms are not chosen by anybody and evolve over time from practices and collective beliefs, they are more likely to become widely accepted if they also play a useful role in society, or at least for some people in society. Akan society consented to norms restricting freedoms and the unequal power relations they implied because they reduced people’s vulnerability to Warre. If you were a ward or pawn of an important person, the hawks were less likely to mess with you, and maybe less likely to capture you and enslave you. Another Asante proverb Rattray wrote down summarized their situation even more succinctly: “If you have not a master, a beast will catch you.”

To be free was to be a chicken among the hawks, a prey for the beast. Better to settle for voluntary servitude and give away your liberty.

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The cage of norms isn’t just about preventing Warre. Once traditions and customs become so deeply ingrained, they start regulating many aspects of people’s lives. It’s then inevitable that they will start favoring those with a little more say in society at the expense of others. Even when norms have evolved over centuries, they get interpreted and enforced by these more powerful individuals. Why shouldn’t they tilt the board in their favor and cement their power in the community or the household a little more?

With the exception of a few matriarchal groups, the norms of many stateless societies in Africa have created a hierarchy with men on top and women at the bottom. This is even more visible in the surviving customs in the Middle East and some parts of Asia, for example, among the Pashtuns, whom we mentioned earlier. Pashtun lives are tightly regulated by their ancestral customs, called the Pashtunwali. The Pashtunwali system of law and governance puts a lot of emphasis on generosity and hospitality. But it also creates a stifling cage of norms. One aspect of this is the sanctioning of revenge for a whole host of acts. One of the most common compilations of the Pashtunwali starts by noting that

a Pashtun believes and acts in accordance with the principles of … an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and blood for blood. He wipes out insult with insult regardless of cost or consequence and vindicates his honor by wiping out disgrace with suitable action.

Warre is always around the corner, even if there is a lot of generosity and hospitality aimed at preventing it. This has predictable consequences for everybody’s liberty. But the weight falls more heavily on women. Pashtun norms not only make women subservient to their fathers, brothers, and husbands; they also restrict their every action. Adult women do not work and mostly stay inside. If they go outside, they go covered from head to toe with a burka and must be in the company of a male relative. Punishments for extramarital relations are draconian. The subjugation of women is another facet of the illiberty created by the cage of norms.

Beyond Hobbes

All in all, we are seeing a rather different picture from the one Hobbes painted. The problem in societies where the Leviathan is absent isn’t just uncontrolled violence of “every man, against every man.” Equally critical is the cage of norms, which creates a rigid set of expectations and a panoply of unequal social relations producing a different but no lighter form of dominance.

Perhaps centralized, powerful states can help us achieve liberty? But we have seen that such states are likely to act despotically, repress their citizens, and stamp out liberty rather than promote it.

Are we then doomed to choose between one type of dominance over another? Trapped in either Warre or the cage of norms or under the yoke of a despotic state? Though there is nothing automatic about the emergence of liberty, and it hasn’t been easy to achieve in human history, there is room for liberty in human affairs and this critically depends on the emergence of states and state institutions. Yet these must be very different from what Hobbes imagined—not the all-powerful, unrestrained sea monster, but a shackled state. We need a state that has the capacity to enforce laws, control violence, resolve conflicts, and provide public services but is still tamed and controlled by an assertive, well-organized society.

Shackling the Texans

The U.S. state of Wyoming was created by the Pacific Railroad Act of 1862, which called for the construction of a railroad to connect the eastern and western United States. The Union Pacific was built west from the Missouri River to link up with the Central Pacific heading east from Sacramento, California. In 1867 it reached what was to become the state of Wyoming, at that time merely a county of the Dakota Territory. By July 1867, settlers were already arriving and General Grenville M. Dodge, chief engineer of the Union Pacific, began the survey for a city at Cheyenne, which would become the capital of the state. It was to be four miles square with well-organized blocks, alleys, and streets. The Union Pacific, the beneficiary of a huge land grant from the government as an incentive to get the railroad constructed, started selling off the lots three days after Dodge surveyed them. The first went for $150. By August 7, though Cheyenne was mostly a city of tents, a mass meeting in a local store chose a committee to write a city charter. On September 19 the first newspaper of the town, a triweekly tabloid called the Cheyenne Leader, was launched. By December the newspaper was advising its readers to carry guns at night for self-protection because of “frequent occurrences of garroting.” On October 13 of the next year, the editor asserted:

Pistols are almost as numerous as men. It is no longer thought to be an affair of any importance to take the life of a fellow being.

At this point Cheyenne resorted to vigilante justice to solve the problems endemic to the American frontier. In January 1868 three men were arrested for theft but released on bail. The next morning they were found tied together with a sign that read “$900 stole … $500 Recovered … Next case goes up a tree. Beware of Vigilance Committee.” The next day vigilantes caught and hanged three “ruffians.”

In the rural cattle areas, things were much worse. As Edward W. Smith of Evanston told the United States Public Land Commission in 1879, “Away from settlements the shotgun is the only law.” As the cattle spread, conflicts between ranchers and homesteaders grew, and the reaction of the cattlemen led to the Johnson County Range War. On Tuesday, April 5, 1892, a special six-car train sped north from Cheyenne, carrying twenty-five Texas gunmen along with another twenty-four locals who had joined them. The men had a “Dead List of seventy men” they intended to kill.

We don’t have information about the homicide rate in Cheyenne in the 1890s, though data for the mining town of Benton, California, suggests that there it may have reached an incredible high of 24,000 per 100,000! More likely it was closer to 83 per 100,000, the rate during the California gold rush, or 100 per 100,000, the rate in Dodge City, Kansas, in the days of Wyatt Earp.

This sounds as bad as Lagos when Soyinka was trying to make it there with his Glock pistol at the ready. But things turned out quite differently in Wyoming (actually, they turned out rather differently from what Kaplan expected in Lagos too, as we’ll explain in Chapter 14). The anarchy, fear, and violence were contained. Indeed, the Texans were soon holed up at the TA Ranch surrounded by lawmen from the town of Buffalo who were warned of their arrival. After three days of siege, the cavalry came, ordered in by President William Henry Harrison, and shackled all of the Texans and their collaborators. Today Wyoming largely enjoys freedom from fear, violence, and dominance. It has one of the lowest homicide rates in the United States, about 1.9 per 100,000.

Wyoming has a pretty good record when it comes to helping people break free from the cage of norms too. Take the subjugation of women. Even during the worst of times, women in Wyoming did not face the same restrictions as those in Pashtun areas of Afghanistan and Pakistan or many parts of Africa. But as everywhere else in the world, women in the first half of the nineteenth century had very limited power and no say in public affairs, and had to put up with myriad constraints on their behavior, both because of their unequal status in marriage and because of the norms and customs of their societies. That started to change as women got the right to vote. The first place in the world to grant female suffrage was Wyoming in 1869, earning it the nickname the Equality State. This wasn’t because Wyoming’s customs and norms favored women compared to other parts of the world. Rather, the state’s legislature granted them voting rights, partly to make it more attractive for women to move to this new state, partly to ensure that there would be enough voters to meet the population requirement for statehood, and partly because once African Americans began gaining full citizenship and voting rights, it seemed less acceptable to leave women out of this process. We’ll see in the next chapter that there are many reasons why the cage of norms often starts breaking down once a state capable of shackling the hoodlums and enforcing laws is in place.

The Shackled Leviathan

The Leviathan that got the Warre under control and started to break the cage of norms in Wyoming is a different kind of beast from the ones we have discussed so far. It wasn’t absent except in the very early days. It had the capacity to shackle the Texans. Since then it has massively expanded this capacity and can now resolve myriad conflicts fairly, enforce a complex set of laws, and provide public services that its citizens demand and enjoy. It has a large, effective bureaucracy (even if it is at times bloated and inefficient) and a huge amount of information about what its citizens are up to. It has the strongest military in the world. But it doesn’t use this military power and its information to repress and exploit its citizens (for the most part). It responds to its citizens’ wishes and needs, and it can also intervene to loosen the cage of norms for everybody, particularly for its most disadvantaged citizens. It is a state that creates liberty.

It is accountable to society not just because it is bound by the U.S. Constitution and by the Bill of Rights, which emphatically exalts the rights of the citizens, but more important because it is shackled by people who will complain, demonstrate, and even rise up if it oversteps its bounds. Its presidents and legislators are elected, and they are often kicked out of office when the society they are ruling over doesn’t like what they are doing. Its bureaucrats are subject to review and oversight. It is powerful, but coexists with and listens to a society that is vigilant and willing to get involved in politics and contest power. It is what we’ll call a Shackled Leviathan. In the same way that the Leviathan can shackle the Texan gunmen, so that they cannot do harm to ordinary citizens, it can itself be shackled by common people, by norms, and by institutions—in short by society.

It is not that the Shackled Leviathan isn’t Janus-faced. It is, and repression and dominance are as much in its DNA as they are in the DNA of the Despotic Leviathan. But the shackles prevent it from rearing its fearsome face. How those shackles emerge, and why only some societies have managed to develop them, is the major theme of our book.

Diversity, Not the End of History

Liberty has been rare in human history. Many societies have not developed any centralized authority capable of enforcing laws, resolving conflicts peacefully, and protecting the weak against the strong. Instead they have often imposed a cage of norms on people, with similarly dire consequences for liberty. Wherever the Leviathan has shown up, the lot of liberty has hardly improved. Even though it has enforced laws and kept the peace in some domains, the Leviathan has often been despotic, thus unresponsive to society, and has done little to further the liberty of its citizens. Only shackled states have used their power to protect liberty. The Shackled Leviathan has been distinctive in another sense too—in creating broad-based economic opportunities and incentives and promoting a sustained rise in economic prosperity. But this Shackled Leviathan has arrived on the scene only late in history, and its rise has been contested and contentious.

We are now seeing the beginnings of an answer to the question we started with. It isn’t that we are heading toward the end of history with the inexorable rise of liberty. It isn’t that anarchy will spread around the world uncontrollably. It isn’t even that all countries around the world will succumb to dictatorships, whether digital or just of the good old-fashioned sort. These are all possibilities, and this diversity, rather than convergence to one of these outcomes, is the norm. Nevertheless, there is also a glimmer of hope, because humans are capable of constructing a Shackled Leviathan, which can resolve conflicts, refrain from despotism, and promote liberty by loosening the cage of norms. Indeed, a lot of human progress depends on societies’ ability to build such a state. But building and defending—and controlling—a Shackled Leviathan takes effort, and is always a work in progress, often fraught with danger and instability.

Brief Outline of the Rest of the Book

In this chapter, we introduced the tripartite distinction between the Absent, Despotic, and Shackled Leviathans. In the next chapter, we present the heart of our theory, which concerns the evolution of state-society relations over time. We explain why the emergence of powerful states is often resisted (because people are afraid of despotism) and how societies use their norms, not just to mitigate the possibility of Warre, as we saw in Asante, but also to counter and control state power. We focus on how the Shackled Leviathan emerges in a narrow corridor where society’s involvement in politics creates a balance of power with the state, and illustrate this possibility with the early history of the Greek city-state Athens and the founding of the U.S. Republic. We also draw out some of the implications of our theory, emphasizing how different historical configurations lead to the Absent, Despotic, and Shackled Leviathans. We further show that in our theory it is the Shackled Leviathan, not the despotic sort, that develops the most and the deepest state capacity.

In Chapter 3 we explain why Absent Leviathans may be unstable and yield to political hierarchy in the face of the “will to power”—the desires of some actors to reshape society and accumulate greater political and economic power. We’ll see how these transitions away from stateless societies are a mixed bag for liberty. On the one hand, they bring order and may relax the cage of norms (especially when it is in their way). On the other hand, they introduce unrestrained despotism. Chapter 4 examines the consequences of the Absent and Despotic Leviathans for the economic and social lives of citizens. It explains why economic prosperity is more likely to emerge under the Despotic Leviathan than under either the anarchic conditions of Hobbesian Warre or in the cramped space created by the cage of norms. But we’ll also see that prosperity created by the Despotic Leviathan is both limited and rife with inequities.

Chapter 5 contrasts the workings of the economy under the Absent and Despotic Leviathans to life in the corridor. We’ll see that the Shackled Leviathan creates very different types of economic incentives and opportunities and permits a much greater degree of experimentation and social mobility. We focus on the Italian communes and the ancient Zapotec civilization in the Americas to communicate these ideas and also to highlight that there is nothing uniquely European about Shackled Leviathans. This last point notwithstanding, it is of course the case that most examples of the Shackled Leviathan we have come from Europe. Why is this so?

Chapter 6 explains why several European countries have managed to build broadly participatory societies with capable but still shackled states. Our answer focuses on the factors that led much of Europe toward the corridor during the early Middle Ages as Germanic tribes, especially the Franks, came to invade the lands dominated by the Western Roman Empire after its collapse. We argue that the marriage of the bottom-up, participatory institutions and norms of Germanic tribes and the centralizing bureaucratic and legal traditions of the Roman Empire forged a unique balance of power between state and society, enabling the rise of the Shackled Leviathan. Underscoring the importance of this marriage, very different types of states emerged in parts of Europe where either the Roman tradition or the bottom-up politics of Germanic tribes were absent (such as Iceland or Byzantium). We then trace the path of liberty and the Shackled Leviathan, which had considerable ups and downs and veered out of the corridor on several occasions.

Chapter 7 contrasts the European experience with Chinese history. Despite historic similarities, the early development of a powerful state in China completely removed societal mobilization and political participation. Without these countervailing forces, the Chinese development path closely follows that of the Despotic Leviathan. We trace the economic consequences of this type of state-society relationship both in Chinese history and today, and discuss whether the Shackled Leviathan can emerge in China anytime soon.

Chapter 8 moves to India. Unlike China, India does have a long history of popular participation and accountability. But liberty has been no more successful in taking root in India. We argue this is because of the powerful cage of norms in India, as epitomized by its caste system. Caste relations have not only inhibited liberty but also made it impossible for society to effectively contest power and monitor the state. The caste system has produced a society fragmented against itself and a state that lacks capacity, which is nonetheless unaccountable as the fragmented society remains immobilized and powerless.

Chapter 9 returns to the European experience, but this time to study why some parts of Europe and not others found their way into and stayed in the corridor. In the process of answering this question, we develop another one of the central ideas of the book: the conditional nature of how structural factors influence state-society relationships. We emphasize that the impact of various structural factors, such as economic conditions, demographic shocks, and war, on the development of the state and the economy depend on the prevailing balance between state and society. There are thus no unambiguous conclusions to be drawn about structural factors. We illustrate these ideas by discussing why, starting with similar conditions and facing similar international problems, Switzerland developed a Shackled Leviathan, while Prussia fell under the dominance of the Despotic Leviathan. We contrast these cases with Montenegro, where the state did not play much of a role in either conflict resolution or in organizing economic activity. We apply the same ideas to explain why Costa Rica and Guatemala diverged sharply in the face of nineteenth-century economic globalization, and why the Soviet Union’s collapse led to a diverse set of political paths.

Chapter 10 returns to the development of the American Leviathan. We emphasize that, although the U.S. managed to build a Shackled Leviathan, this was based on a Faustian bargain—the Federalists accepted a Constitution that kept the federal state weak both to appease a society that was concerned about the threat of despotism and to reassure Southern slaveholders who were worried about losing their slaves and assets. This compromise worked, and the U.S. is still in the corridor. But it also led to an unbalanced development of the American Leviathan which, even as it has become a veritable international sea monster, still has only limited capacity in several important domains. This is most visible in the inability or unwillingness of the American Leviathan to protect its citizens from violence. This unbalanced development also led to the American Leviathan’s patchy record in structuring economic policy to ensure equitable gains from economic growth. We’ll see how uneven state development has caused a distorted evolution of the power and capabilities of society, and paradoxically how it created room for the state’s power to evolve in unmonitored and unaccountable ways in some domains (such as national security).

Chapter 11 shows that states in many developing countries may act as despots but lack the capacity of the Despotic Leviathan. We explain how these “Paper” Leviathans have come about and why they make so little attempt to build capacity. Our answer is that this is mostly because they are afraid of mobilizing society and thereby destabilizing their control over it. One origin of these Paper Leviathans lies in the indirect rule of colonial powers, which set up modern-looking administrative structures but at the same time empowered local elites to rule with few constraints and little participation from society.

Chapter 12 turns to the Middle East. Though state builders will often loosen the cage of norms as it limits their ability to mold society, there are circumstances under which despotic states may find it beneficial to strengthen or even to refashion the cage. We explain how this tendency has characterized Middle Eastern politics, the historical and social circumstances that have made it an attractive strategy for would-be despots, and the implications of this development path for liberty, violence, and instability.

Chapter 13 discusses how the Shackled Leviathan may get out of control when the race between state and society turns “zero-sum,” with each side trying to undercut and destroy the other for survival. We emphasize how this outcome is more likely when institutions are not up to the task of impartially resolving conflicts and lose the trust of some segments of the public. We look at the collapse of the Weimar Republic in Germany, Chilean democracy in the 1970s, and the Italian communes to illustrate these dynamics and identify the structural factors making this type of zero-sum competition more likely. Finally we link these forces to the rise of modern-day populist movements.

Chapter 14 discusses how societies move into the corridor and whether anything can be done to facilitate such a move. We emphasize several important structural factors, focusing on what makes the corridor wider and thus easier to move into. We explain the role of broad coalitions in such transitions and discuss a number of cases of successful transitions as well as some failed ones.

In Chapter 15 we turn to the challenges facing nations in the corridor. Our main argument is that as the world changes, the state must expand and take on new responsibilities, but this in turn requires society to become more capable and vigilant, lest it find itself spinning out of the corridor. New coalitions are critical for the state to gain greater capacity while keeping its shackles—a possibility illustrated by Sweden’s response to the economic and social exigencies created by the Great Depression and how this led to the emergence of social democracy. It is no different today when we are facing many new challenges, ranging from inequality, joblessness, and slow economic growth to complex security threats. We need the state to develop additional capabilities and shoulder fresh responsibilities, but only if we can find new ways of keeping it shackled, mobilizing society and protecting our liberties.

Chapter 2

THE RED QUEEN

The Six Labors of Theseus

By around 1200 BCE, the Bronze Age civilizations that had dominated the Greek world for the previous millennium had started collapsing and were making way for the so-called Greek Dark Ages. Bronze Age Greek societies were run by chiefs or kings living in centralized palaces and bureaucratic administrations that used a writing system called Linear B, collected taxes, and regulated economic activity. All this disappeared during the Dark Ages. The chaos of this new era is the subject of the legends of Theseus, the mythical ruler of Athens. One of the best accounts of his exploits was written by the Greek scholar Plutarch, who spent much of his life as one of the two priests of the Oracle of Delphi.

Theseus, the illegitimate son of the king of Athens, Aegeus, was raised in Troezen in the northeastern Peloponnese. To claim his rightful throne, Theseus had to travel back to Athens by land or sea. He chose land, but Plutarch notes:

It was difficult to make the journey to Athens by land, since no part of it was clear nor yet without peril from robbers or miscreants.

During the trip Theseus had to battle a series of bandits. The first he encountered, Periphetes, stalked the road to Athens, robbing and killing people with a bronze club. Plutarch recounts how Theseus wrestled with Periphetes and used Periphetes’s own club against him. Theseus then managed to avoid other sticky ends, including being tied between two pine trees and gnawed by an enormous wild pig, the Crommyonian Sow; thrown off a cliff into the sea; and wrestled to death. He finally bested Procrustes, the Stretcher, who notoriously cut off people’s limbs to make them fit onto his bed. Theseus’s quest to claim his kingship in Athens vividly illustrates the lawlessness of Greece at the time, without any state institutions to keep order. As Plutarch has it:

Thus Theseus … went on his way chastising the wicked, who were visited with the same violence from him, which they were visiting on others, and suffered justice after the manner of their own injustice.

Theseus’s strategy was therefore very much “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” Athens was living Mahatma Gandhi’s “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”

Athenian kings didn’t last long, however. By the end of the Dark Ages the city was ruled by a group of Archons, or chief magistrates, who represented its rich families. These elites competed endlessly for power, a process which sometimes led to coups such as the one by Cylon in 632 BCE. Elites recognized that they needed to develop more orderly ways of dealing with conflicts in the city. But it was to be a slow, treacherous road, with unexpected twists and turns.

The first attempt was a decade after Cylon, in 621 BCE, when a legislator named Draco was charged with producing the first written Athenian laws. The fact it took so long to write them down had a lot to do with the disappearance of the Linear B script of Bronze Age Greeks during the Dark Ages. Writing had to be reinvented with a completely different script borrowed from the Phoenicians. Draco’s constitution, as the Greek philosopher Aristotle called it in his Athenian Constitutions, consisted of a series of written laws, only one of which survives. We do know that the punishment for breaking these laws was typically death (hence the modern expression “draconian”). The one surviving fragment of Draco’s laws, which pertains to homicide, reveals that these laws corresponded to something rather different from what we mean today by “constitution,” largely because they were dealing with a society trapped in endemic lawlessness, blood feuds, and violence. The fragment states:

And if anyone kills anybody not from forethought, he shall be exiled.

There shall be reconciliation, if there are a father or brother or sons, to be granted by all, or the objector shall prevail. If these do not exist, then as far as cousinhood and cousin, if they are all willing to grant reconciliation, or the objector shall prevail… .

There shall be a proclamation against the killer in the agora by those as far as cousinhood and cousin; there shall join in the prosecution cousins and cousins’ sons and brothers-in-law and fathers-in-law and phratry members.

This fragment is concerned with involuntary homicide. Someone who commits such an act should go to exile and await justice. If the extended kin of the person murdered unanimously decide to grant reconciliation, it ends there, but if they don’t, the extended family “shall join in the prosecution” of the killer. The term “phratry” refers to extended kin groups. As we’ll see, however, the influence of the phratry would soon diminish.

All of this looks similar to what we see in other societies living with the Absent Leviathan. In fact, there are many similarities between Draco’s law and other codifications of informal laws without centralized authority, like the Albanian Kanun. The Kanun, attributed to Lekë Dukagjini in the fifteenth century, was a collection of norms that governed behavior in the Albanian mountains (and wasn’t written down until the early twentieth century). Without a centralized state, Albanian rules and norms were enforced, just like Draco’s homicide law, by extended families and clans. The Kanun heavily featured blood feuds in retaliation for transgressions. This is vividly illustrated by the first clause dealing with murder, which starts with blood feuds.

Ambush involves taking up a position in covert in the mountains or plains of Albania and lying in wait for an enemy in the blood feud or someone else who is intended to be killed. (To waylay, to lie in ambush, to set a trap for someone.)

It was an initial principle of the Kanun that “blood follows the finger,” meaning that

according to the old Kanun of the mountains of Albania, only the murderer incurs the blood-feud, i.e. the person who pulls the trigger and fires the gun or uses some other weapon against another person.

The later Kanun extends the blood feud to all males in the murderer’s family, even an infant in the cradle; cousins and close nephews incur the blood feud during the twenty-four hours following the murder. Culpability then spreads to extended kinfolk. With respect to accidental murders, the Kanun states, “In this type of killing, the murderer must leave and remain concealed until the affair is clarified.” Exactly as in Draco’s law, except that nobody even tried to write down, clarify, or regulate what these norms were in Albania until the twentieth century.

Solon’s Shackles

Less than thirty years after Draco wrote his laws, Athens started the process of building a Shackled Leviathan. The problem of controlling routine conflicts and the power struggles among elites was ongoing. To this was now added conflict between elites and citizens over the direction of society. Aristotle observed that around the time of Draco there was “an extended period of discord between the upper classes and the citizens.” In the words of Plutarch, there was a

long-standing political dispute, with people forming as many different political parties as there were different kinds of terrain in the country. There were the Men of the Hills, who were the most democratic party, the Men of the Plain, who were the most oligarchic, and thirdly the Men of the Coast, who favored an intermediate, mixed kind of system.

In essence, the disagreement was over the balance of power between elites and regular people, and whether the state would be controlled democratically or oligarchically (meaning by the handful of richest and most powerful families). Solon, a trader and widely respected military commander, played the defining role in charting Athens’s course.

In 594 BCE, Solon was made Archon for a year. As Plutarch put it, “The rich found him acceptable because of his wealth, and the poor because of his integrity.” The post of Archon had been monopolized by elites, but Solon likely assumed the role through popular pressure, as the struggle between the elites and the citizens tilted a little in favor of the latter. He turned out to be quite a reformer, transforming Athenian institutions in order to constrain the elites’ and the state’s power over the citizens, while at the same time increasing the capacity of the state to resolve conflicts. In a surviving fragment of his writings, Solon observed that his institutional design was intended to create a balance of power between the rich and the poor.

To the people I gave as much privilege as was sufficient for them, neither reducing nor exceeding what was their due. Those who had power and were enviable for their wealth I took good care not to injure. I stood casting my strong shield around both parties and allowed neither to triumph unjustly.

Solon’s reforms attempted to strengthen the people against the elites while at the same time assuring the elites that their interests would not be radically threatened.

When Solon became Archon the basic political institutions of Athens consisted of two assemblies, the Ekklesia, which was open to all male citizens, and the Areopagus, which was the main executive and judicial institution. The Areopagus was composed of former Archons and was under elite control. Many Athenians were getting poorer during this period and had been excluded even from the Ekklesia, because they were trapped in debt peonage and servitude and had lost their rights as citizens. Aristotle noted that “all loans were made on the security of the person of the debtor until the time of Solon.” This was the Athenian version of the cage of norms, with people turning into perpetually indebted, unfree pawns as a result of their worsening economic conditions. Solon understood that political balance in Athens would require regular citizens to participate in politics, but this wasn’t possible when they were in a position of servitude, and certainly not when they were losing their citizenship. In Aristotle’s words, “The mass of the people … had virtually no share in any aspect of government.” So to ensure greater participation Solon canceled all contracts of debt peonage and passed a law that banned borrowing by using one’s own person as security. He also made it illegal to enserf an Athenian. There was to be no more pawning. At a stroke Solon broke Athenians free from this part of their cage of norms.

But banning debt peonage wasn’t enough when people were economically subservient to the elite. Greater liberty was necessary to make Athenians more active citizens so that they could get even more liberty. To this end, Solon sought to improve their access to economic opportunities. He implemented a land reform by uprooting the boundary markers of fields. These markers recorded the obligation of the tenants farming the land to pay a sixth of their produce. By eliminating them Solon in effect freed the tenants from the landowners, giving them the land they owned, and turning Attica, the region surrounding Athens, into a land of small farmers. Solon also eliminated restrictions on movement within Attica. These measures greatly extended the citizenry that could participate in the Ekklesia. The existing balance of power was reconfigured in one fell swoop.

Solon also revamped the process of selecting the Archons and increased their number to nine, in part to improve political representation. But he had to keep the elites happy too, and for this he divided the population into four classes based on their incomes from land, and only men from the top two classes could become Archons (chosen by lot from a list of people nominated by the four traditional “tribes” of Athens). After serving as Archon, which he could do only once, and for a year, a man could still serve in the Areopagus. Thus the elites would continue to control the Archonship and the Areopagus, but now there were clear rules that opened up the Areopagus to a greater subset of (elite) society and helped to balance different interests. Solon also created a new council of 400, the Boule, which was to serve as the main executive council, and he redefined the role of the Areopagus to be largely judicial. As with the Archons, the four traditional tribes of Athens were equally represented in the Boule.

Having established a balance between elites and citizens, Solon started the process of state building. The critical step was judicial reform. Solon first abolished all but one of Draco’s laws. The laws he promulgated were very different. One fragment records that

Draco’s law about homicide the anagrapheis [“writers up”] of the laws shall write up on a stone stele, taking it over from the basileus and the secretary of the council, and shall place in front of the Stoa. The poletai shall make the contract in accordance with the law; the hellenotamiai shall provide the money.

Even in the one law that Solon kept, he replaced the role of the basileus with the poletai and the hellenotamiai. The word basileus, typical of the Homeric epics the Iliad and the Odyssey, translates as something like “big man,” which was a type of Dark Age chief. Odysseus, whose exploits during his ten-year voyage after the Trojan War are recounted in the Odyssey, was a basileus. The poletai and the hellenotamiai, on the other hand, were magistrates or state officials. So Solon introduced a radical change—bureaucratized state institutions to enforce the law.

The most distinctive feature of this process was that the more Solon managed to strengthen regular Athenians politically, the further he went in building state institutions. And the more these institutions took shape, the further he went in establishing popular control over them. Thus once the Ekklesia was re-empowered, it featured greater popular participation. In order to achieve this objective, his reforms didn’t just introduce greater representation in assemblies and political institutions, they also brought about changes in institutions and norms, such as the end of pawning, which changed the nature of society and made it more capable of acting collectively and controlling the elites and the state.

Aristotle agreed that empowering regular Athenians was the most important aspect of Solon’s reforms and singled out the end of pawning, improved means of resolving conflicts, and access to justice. He remarked:

These three seem to be the features of Solon’s constitution which most favored the people: first and greatest, forbidding loans on security of a person’s body; second, the possibility of a volunteer seeking justice for one who was wronged; third, and they say that this particularly strengthened the people, appeal to the court.

Here Aristotle is emphasizing the presence of some type of “equality before the law,” where laws applied to everybody and common citizens could turn to the courts to seek justice. Though political representation in the Boule and membership of the Areopagus excluded the poorest, anyone could bring a lawsuit and have it heard, and the same laws applied to elites and ordinary citizens alike.

One of the most interesting ways in which Solon institutionalized popular control over the elites was via his Hubris Law. A surviving fragment states:

If anybody commits hubris against a child (and surely one who hires commits hubris) or man or woman, whether free of slave, or if anybody commits anything unlawful against any of these, it has created graphai [public suits] hubreos.

This law thus created the crime of graphai hubreos in response to an act of hubris, behavior aimed at humiliation and intimidation. Remarkably, people could be charged with hubris against slaves, who were protected as well, and people were occasionally executed for repeated violations of the law. The Hubris Law enabled Athenians not only to control the elites, but also to enjoy liberty from the dominance of powerful individuals.

By banning debt peonage and ending the status of unfree pawns, Solon started simultaneously undermining the elites’ dominance over ordinary citizens and preparing conditions for democratic politics. But there was much more to the power of the elites in Athens at this time. They had become significantly richer, and any increase in the capacity of the state, unless matched by a similar empowerment of society, might increase their political dominance by giving them additional tools for repression and control. So it was vital to strengthen the hands of regular citizens against the elite. This is what the Hubris Law helped achieve by codifying and intensifying existing norms.

Solon’s Hubris Law reveals a more general aspect of life in the corridor—the delicate balance for creating liberty requires institutional reforms to work with and build on existing norms, while at the same time modifying and even obliterating aspects of those norms that are holding liberty back. No easy feat to be sure, but Solon’s reforms broke considerable ground on both objectives. In the period before Draco, the rules and laws that governed people’s lives were not written down and were enforced by families and kinship groups, most often using social ostracism and exclusion. Solon managed to build on these norms by codifying and strengthening them as in his Hubris Law, but in the process he also changed these norms, so that hubristic behavior became far less acceptable in Athenian society. We’ll see many examples of this complex dance between institutional change and norms, and how failing to strike the right balance between them may damage the prospects of liberty. Solon struck the right balance.

The Red Queen Effect

How Solon limited the elites’ control over the state and dominance over regular citizens on the one hand and increased the capacity of the state on the other is not a peculiar feature of an ancient civilization. It is the essence of the Shackled Leviathan. The Leviathan can build greater capacity and become much stronger when society is willing to cooperate with it, but this cooperation requires people to trust that they can control the sea monster. Solon built this trust.

But it’s not just trust and cooperation. Liberty and ultimately state capacity depend on the balance of power between state and society. If the state and the elites become too powerful, we end up with the Despotic Leviathan. If they fall behind, we get the Absent Leviathan. So we need both state and society running together and neither getting the upper hand. This is not unlike the Red Queen effect described by Lewis Carroll in Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. In the book, Alice meets and runs a race with the Red Queen. “Alice never could quite make out, in thinking it over afterwards, how it was that they began,” but she noticed that even though they both appeared to be running hard, “the trees and the other things round them never seemed to change their places at all: however fast they went they never seemed to pass anything.” Finally, when the Red Queen called a halt,

Alice looked around her in great surprise. “Why I do believe we’ve been under this tree the whole time! Everything’s just as it was!”

“Of course it is,” said the Queen, “what would you have it?”

“Well in our country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d generally get somewhere else—if you ran very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.”

“A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.”

The Red Queen effect refers to a situation where you have to keep on running just to maintain your position, like the state and society running fast to maintain the balance between them. In Carroll’s book all that running was wasteful. Not so in the struggle of society against the Leviathan. If society slacks off and does not run fast enough to keep up with the state’s growing power, the Shackled Leviathan can quickly turn into a despotic one. We need society’s competition to keep the Leviathan in check, and the more powerful and capable the Leviathan is, the more powerful and vigilant society must become. We need the Leviathan to keep on running too, both to expand its capacity in the face of new and formidable challenges and to maintain its autonomy, which is critical not only for resolving disputes and impartially enforcing laws but also for breaking down the cage of norms. This all sounds quite messy (all that running!), and that, we’ll see, is often the case. Even though it’s messy, we depend on the Red Queen for human progress and for liberty. But the Red Queen herself creates lots of swings in the balance of power between state and society, as one party and then the other pulls ahead.

The way Solon managed to activate the Red Queen effect illustrates these broader issues. His reforms not only set up the institutional basis for popular participation in politics, but also helped relax the cage of norms that both directly restricted liberty and prevented the sort of political participation that is necessary in the corridor. The Athenian cage wasn’t as stifling as in many other societies we’ll see, such as the Tiv later in this chapter. Nevertheless, it was still oppressive enough to block the path of the Red Queen. By breaking down part of that cage, Solon started to fundamentally change society and forge a different type of politics capable of supporting a budding Shackled Leviathan.

How to Ostracize If You Must

Solon was Archon for a mere (busy!) year after which he went into exile for ten years in order to avoid the temptation to fiddle with his laws. He opined that his laws should not be changed for a hundred years. It didn’t quite work out like that. Instead, a repeated contest between elites and society ensued.

Solon had tried to move Athens toward a more capable state and institutionalize popular control while keeping the elites happy, or happy enough. But how happy is happy enough? Conflict soon broke out and led to a series of tyrants, in effect dictators, holding power sometimes with force, sometimes with popular support. Yet Solon’s reforms were popular and had gained legitimacy so that all Athenians, even eager tyrants, had to at least pay homage to them, and in the process, they often deepened them.

Peisistratos, the first tyrant to follow Solon, is famous for the cunning ways in which he overthrew Athenian political institutions. On one occasion he deliberately wounded himself and duped the citizens into allowing him armed bodyguards for protection, which he then used to take control of Athens. On another occasion, having been deposed, he rode back into Athens in a chariot with a stately woman dressed as Athena and fooled people into thinking he had been chosen by the god herself to rule Athens. Once in power, however, Peisistratos didn’t totally repudiate Solon’s legacy, but instead continued to increase the state’s capacity. He undertook monumental constructions in Athens and launched a series of measures to integrate Athens with the countryside in Attica. These innovations included rural circuit judges, a system of roads centered on Athens, and processions linking Athens with rural sanctuaries, as well as the Great Panathenaea festival. The religious festivals were a direct descendant of some of Solon’s other measures because he had tried to restrict private elite festivals in favor of more communal public ones. Peisistratos also coined the first Athenian money.

This is the Red Queen in action. Solon started this dynamic path in earnest, and Peisistratos followed along it, even if the process involved wild gyrations. Tyrants, when they rose to power, gave the upper hand to the state and the elites. Yet they couldn’t dominate society and the demos (“the people”), and they also vied for its support. Though Peisistratos was succeeded by his sons Hippias and Hipparchus and then by Isagoras backed by the rival city-state of Sparta, the demos struck back. In 508 BCE a massive popular uprising swept Cleisthenes into power. The reforms Cleisthenes implemented were again aimed at strengthening both state and society, but he went further in the three objectives that Solon had tried to achieve over eight decades earlier—strengthening the hand of society against the elites, increasing the state’s capacity, and loosening the cage of norms.

Let’s start with state building. Cleisthenes developed an elaborate fiscal system, which levied a poll tax on metics (resident foreigners); direct taxes on the wealthy, who had to pay for festivals or outfitting warships; a variety of customs, tolls, and charges, particularly at the port of Piraeus; and taxes on the silver mines of Attica. During his Archonship, the state began to provide an array of public services, not just security and coinage, but also infrastructure in the form of walls, roads, bridges, prisons, and relief for orphans and the handicapped. Equally remarkable was the emergence of a type of state bureaucracy. Aristotle claims that in the days of Aristides, around 480–470 BCE, there were 700 men working for the state in Attica and 700 abroad, and in addition 500 guards in the docks and 50 on the Acropolis.

This state was also far more democratically controlled than the one that Solon had set up. To achieve this democratic control, Cleisthenes recognized that he had to further weaken the cage of norms and move away from the tribal basis of political power. So in a daring move, he abolished the four tribes that had populated Solon’s Boule of 400 and replaced them with a new Boule of 500 composed of people chosen by lot from 10 new tribes named after Athenian heros. Each tribe had 50 representatives in the Boule. Each of the tribes was divided into three smaller units, called trittyes (“thirds” of tribes), and each of these was further subdivided into regional political units, called demes. There were 139 demes scattered throughout Attica (as shown in Map 2). The creation of the regional units in itself was a significant step in the process of state building, almost completely polishing off what was left of the preexisting kin-based identities. Aristotle summarized the effects of this reform by noting that Cleisthenes “made fellow demesmen of those living in each deme so they would not reveal the new citizens by using a man’s father’s name, but would use his deme in addressing him.”

Map 2. The Athenian Demes

To further increase the political power of Athenian citizens against the elites, Cleisthenes also lifted the class restrictions on membership of institutions that had existed during Solon’s days. Membership of the Boule was now open to all male citizens over the age of thirty, and because each could serve for only a year and at most twice in his lifetime, most Athenian men served at some point in their lives. The Boule’s president was randomly chosen and served for twenty-four hours, allowing most Athenian citizens to be in charge at some point. Aristotle summed all of this up by stating:

The people had taken control of affairs.

The Boule had authority over expenditures and there was a series of boards of magistrates that implemented policy. Though these boards were chosen by lot and served annually, they were aided by professional slaves acting as state functionaries.

Cleisthenes followed in Solon’s footsteps in building on and institutionalizing existing norms that were helpful for strengthening the political power of Athenian citizens while also battling the cage of norms. Most notably, he formalized the institution of ostracism as a means of restraining the political dominance of powerful individuals. According to this new law, every year the assembly could take a vote on whether or not to ostracize someone. If at least 6,000 people voted and at least half of them were in favor of an ostracism, then each citizen got to write the name of a person whom they wanted ostracized on a shard of pottery (called an “ostrakon,” and hence the term ostracism). The person whose name was written on the most shards was ostracized—banished from Athens for ten years. Aristotle notes about the law that “it had been passed by a suspicion of those in power.” Like Solon’s Hubris Law, it was a tool using and transforming the norms of society for disciplining elites. Even Themistocles, the genius behind the Athenian victory at Salamis over the Persians and probably the most powerful man in Athens in his day, was ostracized sometime around 476 BCE, when people began to worry that he was getting too powerful and because he wanted to focus on Sparta, and not Persia, as the real enemy. (An ostrakon with Themistocles’s name is shown in the photography section.) Ostracism was used sparingly, and only fifteen people were ostracized over the 180-year period when the institution was in full force, but just the threat of ostracism was a powerful way for citizens to discipline elites.

The evolution of the Athenian Constitution did not stop with Cleisthenes, who wrote, according to Aristotle, what turned out to be only the sixth of the eleven Athenian constitutions (did we mention that the Red Queen effect could be messy?). In the process, Athens steadily moved toward both greater empowerment of citizens and a stronger state. True to the nature of the Red Queen, none of this happened without a protracted struggle, with elites pushing in one direction and society in the other.

During this period, Athens gradually (and with lots of back-and-forth) built one of the world’s first Shackled Leviathans, a powerful, capable state effectively controlled by its citizens. Athenians had the Red Queen effect to thank for this achievement. The state could not dominate society, but society could not dominate the state either; progress by each was met with resistance and innovation by the other, and society’s shackles enabled the state to expand its remit and capacity into new areas. In the process, society cooperated too, enabling a further deepening of the state’s capacity as it remained under popular control. Critical in all of this was the way the Red Queen eroded the cage of norms. To shackle a Leviathan, society needs to cooperate, organize collectively, and take up political participation. That’s hard to do if it’s divided among itself into pawns and their masters, phratries, tribes, or kinship groups. The reforms of Solon and Cleisthenes gradually eliminated these competing identities and made room for a broader axis of cooperation. This is a feature we’ll see time and time again in the creation of Shackled Leviathans.

The Missing Rights

The story of how the American Leviathan became shackled, which we started in the previous chapter, has many parallels to the Athenian case. The U.S. Constitution, brought into existence by the founding fathers, men such as George Washington, James Madison, and Alexander Hamilton, is widely considered a brilliant piece of institutional design, introducing checks and balances and gifting freedom to future generations of Americans. Though there is some truth in this, it’s only part of the story. The bigger part is about the empowerment of the people and how this constrained and modified American institutions and unleashed a powerful Red Queen effect.

Let’s take the issue of rights. We owe the protection of rights to the founding fathers and their Constitution, don’t we? Yes and no. The Constitution, which replaced the first laws of the new nation, the Articles of Confederation adopted in 1777–1778, does enshrine certain basic rights, but these were not in the much-lauded document written during the summer of 1787 in Philadelphia. The founding fathers absentmindedly overlooked a gamut of basic rights that we now think of as essential to American institutions and society. These ended up in the Constitution, but only later in the form of the Bill of Rights, a list of twelve amendments to the Constitution, ten of which were passed by the first Congress and were ratified by state legislatures. They included the sixth article of the Bill of Rights:

The right of the People to be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

The eighth article stated:

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.

All of these rights seem pretty basic. So how come the founding fathers overlooked them? The reason is quite simple, and helps us understand the origins of the U.S. Leviathan’s shackles—and why these shackles do not emerge automatically or easily.

Madison, Hamilton, and their collaborators, known as the Federalists, didn’t want to replace the Articles of Confederation because they wanted to strengthen people’s rights. Rather, the Constitution they drafted was designed to control the types of policies being adopted by state legislatures, which the Federalists saw as dangerously subversive. State legislatures, for example, could print their own money, tax trade, forgive debts, and refuse to fund the national debt. Worse, there was also quite a bit of disorder and popular mobilization, with people from all walks of life having caught the idea that they could govern themselves, organize, protest, and get elected to legislatures to push their interests. In this context, the Constitution was designed to tackle two distinct problems at the same time. The first was to build the federal state in order to coordinate laws, defense, and economic policy across the states. The second was to put the genie of the powerful democratic instinct that the War of Independence against the British had unleashed back into the bottle. The Constitution would achieve both of these objectives by centralizing political power, putting the central government in charge of fiscal policy, and reining in the hurly-burly of popular politics and the autonomous powers of the states.

The Federalists were what we call “state builders.” Though Hobbes did allow for two paths to a Leviathan, via Covenant or Acquisition, in practice state building is often spearheaded by some state builders—individuals or groups, like Solon, Cleisthenes, or the Federalists, with the determination and a plan to create centralized authority—who found a proto-state or increase the power of a nascent state. The Federalists had a vision to build a Leviathan that Hobbes would have appreciated (but the Articles of Confederation didn’t allow).

The Federalists were also well aware of what we called the Gilgamesh problem; they understood that there were risks in giving the federal state too much power. For one, it might be so powerful that it would start to prey on society, showing its fearsome face. In a famous passage of the Federalist Papers, a series of pamphlets he wrote with Hamilton and John Jay in order to urge people to ratify the Constitution, Madison noted:

In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place oblige it to control itself.

Though it is Madison’s statement on the need for the government to control itself that receives most attention today, his initial emphasis, the critical importance of a government “to control the governed,” highlights the second objective of the Federalists—the need to limit the involvement of the common people in politics. Many readers at the time recognized this and were alarmed by it, particularly since the document that was written in Philadelphia lacked any explicit statement of people’s rights. They had a point. As Madison put it in a private letter to Thomas Jefferson shortly after the Constitution was drafted in 1787:

Divide et impera, the reprobated axiom of tyranny, is under certain qualifications, the only policy, by which a republic can be administered on just principles.

Divide et impera—divide and rule—was the strategy to control democracy. Madison emphasized “the necessity … of enlarging the bounds of the general government [and] of circumscribing more effectively the State governments.” The “general government,” which means the federal government, was made less democratic through such devices as the indirect election of senators and the president. The need to circumscribe “more effectively the State governments” was rooted in the social turmoil of the 1780s, including revolts and uprisings by farmers and debtors, which Madison thought could jeopardize the whole project of American independence. In fact, an important reason that the Federalists favored the Constitution was that it would provide the federal government with the tax revenues to field a standing army. One consequence of this would be “to ensure domestic tranquility,” as the prologue of the Constitution put it. Indeed, the first action of George Washington’s federally funded army after the Constitution was ratified was to march west from the capital to suppress an anti-tax uprising, the Whiskey Rebellion.

Madison and the Federalists’ state-building project generated a great deal of dissent in American society. People feared what a more powerful state, and the politicians controlling it, could do without the protections offered by a Bill of Rights. Even in the United States, the fearsome face of the Leviathan lurked not far beneath the surface. Several state conventions refused to ratify the Constitution without explicit protection for individual rights. Madison himself was forced to admit the need for a Bill of Rights to persuade his own state of Virginia’s convention to endorse the Constitution. He subsequently ran for Congress in Virginia on a pro–Bill of Rights ticket and defended the need for it in Congress in August 1789 on the grounds that it was needed to “conciliate the minds of the people.” (But we’ll see a little later in this chapter and again in Chapter 10 that there were other, more sinister considerations too, and Madison and his collaborators ended up endorsing slavery to make the Constitution acceptable to Southern elites. This would ensure that the Bill of Rights neither protected slaves nor applied against abuses by state governments.)

The transition from the Articles of Confederation to the Constitution reveals the vital ingredients necessary for a Shackled Leviathan to emerge. First there must be a set of individuals or groups in society, our state builders, to push for a powerful state, which will work to put a stop to the Warre “of every man, against every man,” help resolve conflicts in society, protect people from dominance, and provide public services (and perhaps look after their own interest a little too). The role of this group of state builders—their vision, their ability to form the right coalitions to support their endeavor and their sheer power—is pivotal. The Federalists played this role in the founding of the U.S. federal state. They intended to build a veritable Leviathan, and understood that it was vital for the security, unity, and economic success of the new country that it should have a much mightier central state with the power to tax, the monopoly right to print money, and the ability to set a federal trade policy. Moreover, the Federalists were powerful enough to attempt such a state-building project; they already had considerable authority, as well-established politicians themselves. They also drew power from their alliance with George Washington and other respected leaders of the War of Independence. They were highly adept at influencing public opinion too, through the media and their brilliantly argued pamphlets, the Federalist Papers.

The second pillar of the Shackled Leviathan, societal mobilization, is even more critical because it is the essence of the Red Queen effect. By societal mobilization we mean the involvement of society at large (in particular non-elites) in politics, which can take both noninstitutionalized forms, such as revolts, protests, petitions, and general pressure on elites via associations or the media, and institutionalized forms through elections or assemblies. Noninstitutionalized and institutionalized powers are synergistic and support each other.

Despotism flows from the inability of society to influence the state’s policies and actions. Though a constitution may specify democratic elections or consultation, such a decree is insufficient to make the Leviathan responsive, accountable, and shackled unless society is mobilized and becomes actively engaged in politics. So the reach of a constitution depends on ordinary people’s ability to defend it and demand what was promised to them, if necessary via noninstitutional means. Constitutional provisions in turn matter both because they grant greater predictability and consistency to society’s power and because they enshrine the right of society to remain engaged in politics.

Society’s power is based on people’s ability to solve their “collective action” problem to get engaged in politics, block changes they oppose, and impose their wishes on major social and political decisions. The collective action problem refers to the fact that even when it may be in the interest of a group of people to organize to engage in political action, each member of the group may “free-ride” and go about his or her business without exerting the needed effort to protect the group’s interests, or may even remain unaware of what’s going on. Noninstitutionalized means of exercising power are unpredictable because they do not provide a reliable way of solving the collective action problem, while institutionalized power can be more systematic and predictable. Constitutions can thus enable society to exercise its power in a more consistent manner. It was critical that in the years leading to the drafting of the Constitution, U.S. society had both sources of power.

Its noninstitutionalized power was rooted in the popular struggle during the war against the British. Thomas Jefferson captured the essence of this mobilization when he wrote in 1787:

God forbid we should ever be 20 years without such a rebellion … What country can preserve its liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take arms.

Thanks to the Articles of Confederation, American society had institutional means of preventing the Federalists’ state-building project as well, for example, by refusing to ratify the Constitution in state legislatures. These institutional constraints did not end with ratification, since according to the Constitution, the legislature continued to be a potent restraint on the executive and on federal power.

The degree of popular mobilization and the extent to which society was well organized had already played a central role in the War of Independence, which had been fueled by ordinary people’s resentment of British policies. These were the same features of American society that attracted the attention of a young French intellectual touring the country half a century later, Alexis de Tocqueville. In his masterpiece, Democracy in America, Tocqueville commented that

in no country of the world has the principal of association been more successfully used, or more unsparingly applied to a greater multitude of different objects, than in America.

Indeed, it was a “nation of joiners,” and Tocqueville marveled at “the extreme skill with which the inhabitants … succeed in proposing a common object to the exertions of a great many men, and in getting them voluntarily to pursue it.” This tradition of robust popular mobilization empowered U.S. society to have a say in what type of Leviathan would be built. And even if Hamilton, Madison, and their allies wanted to build a more despotic state, society would not comply. So the Federalists were persuaded to introduce the Bill of Rights and other checks on their power to make their state-building project palatable to those who would have to “submit their Wills” to the Leviathan. They weren’t too keen about all of this; Hamilton decried this “excess of democracy,” and proposed that the president and Senate serve for life, which is understandable since the Federalists thought they would control the Leviathan.

Not only did this critical second pillar initially prevent the American state from embarking on a despotic path, but the balance of power it engendered ensured that the state remained shackled even as it became more powerful over time (and we’ll see later that in some respects they may have been too successful, constraining the capabilities of the state in the next two centuries, especially when it came to the role of the state to provide protection and equal opportunities for all of its citizens). The American state in 1789 was far less powerful than, and almost rudimentary in comparison to, our modern state. It had a tiny bureaucracy and provided only a few public services. It did not even dream of regulating monopolies or providing a social safety net, and it did not view all of its citizens, certainly not slaves or women, as equals, so loosening the cage of norms entrapping many Americans at the time was definitely not high on its priority list. Today, we expect so much more from the state in terms of conflict resolution, regulation, a social safety net, provision of public services, and protections of individual freedom against all sorts of threats. That these can be provided is a consequence of the Red Queen. If all U.S. society at the time could manage was to set in stone hard limits on what the state should do, we would not get many of the benefits (and to be sure also not suffer some of the intransigencies) of our current state. Instead, the American state did evolve over the last 230 years and changed its capabilities and role in society. In the process, it became more responsive to the wishes and needs of its citizens. The reason why it could achieve this growth was because the shackles on its ankles meant that society could, with some caution, trust that even with a further increase in its power, it would not become completely unaccountable and display its fearsome face. Its shackled nature also meant that society could contemplate cooperating with the state. Yet in the same way that U.S. society at the end of the eighteenth century did not fully trust Madison and Hamilton without guarantees, society generally does not fully trust those striving to increase the state’s capacity and reach. It will allow them to do so only as it increases its own capability to control the state.

The subsequent development of state-society relations in the nineteenth-century United States played out in the same messy, unpredictable way that is the hallmark of the Red Queen, as we saw in the Athenian case. As the centralized state became more powerful and more involved in people’s lives, society tried to reassert its control. As society became more mobilized, the elites and state institutions reacted and attempted to wrest back control. Though we see this dynamic in many aspects of U.S. politics, the biggest fault line was the tension between the Northern and Southern states over slavery, which forced many distasteful compromises in the Constitution. This tension erupted into one of the deadliest conflicts of the nineteenth century after seven Southern states (out of the thirty-four states at the time) declared their secession, forming the Confederate States of America, after the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln in 1861. The secession was not recognized by the government, and the Civil War erupted on April 12, 1861, between the Union and the Confederacy. In the four years it lasted, the war destroyed much of the transport system, infrastructure, and economy of the South, and cost as many as 750,000 lives. The end of the war led to a powerful swing in the balance of power against the elites, especially Southern elites, as the slaves were freed (with the Thirteenth Amendment), their civil rights were recognized (with the Fourteenth Amendment), and their voting rights were recognized (with the Fifteenth Amendment). But this wasn’t the end of the series of reactions. The Reconstruction Era, lasting until 1877, empowered the freed slaves and incorporated them into the economic and political system (and they participated with gusto, voting in great numbers and getting elected into legislatures). Yet the Redemption period that followed after Northern troops left the South disenfranchised them again, locked them into low-wage agriculture, and made them subject to a gamut of formal and informal repressive practices, including murders and lynchings at the hands of local law enforcement officers and the Ku Klux Klan. The pendulum did not swing back against the elites and in favor of the most disadvantaged segment of Southern society until after the civil rights movement got going in the mid-1950s. (And of course we are nowhere near the end of history as far as the evolution of American liberty is concerned.)

Though the standard narrative paints a picture in which the U.S. Constitution protects our rights, there was nothing pretty about the way those rights came to be protected for most Americans—and we owe these rights as much to society’s mobilization as to the document drafted in Philadelphia in 1787. That’s just in the nature of the Red Queen.

Chiefs? What Chiefs?

So the Red Queen effect isn’t pretty, and as we’ll see later in the book, all that running is rife with danger. But when it works, it creates conditions for the type of liberty that Athenians and Americans have enjoyed. But then, why do many societies remain with the Absent Leviathan? Why not attempt to create centralized authority and shackle it? Why not unleash the Red Queen effect?

Social scientists have typically linked the failure of centralized authority to emerge to the absence of some key conditions that made it worthwhile to have a state, such as high population density, established agriculture, or trade. It has also been argued that some societies didn’t have the requisite know-how to create states. According to this view, building state institutions is primarily an “engineering” problem of bringing in the right expertise and institutional blueprints. Though these aspects all play a role in some contexts, another factor is often more important—the desire to avoid the fearsome face of the Leviathan. If you fear the Leviathan, you will prevent the accumulation of power and resist the social and political hierarchy that is necessary to launch it.

We can see a clear instance of this fear blocking the rise of the Leviathan in Nigeria’s history. Away from Lagos and the coastal lagoons, you enter Yorubaland, the home of the Yoruba people. The A1 heads north first to Ibadan, and then if you swing east on the A122, you pass Ife, the traditional spiritual home of Yoruba chiefs, and then reach Lokoja via the A123 (which can be seen on Map 1 in the previous chapter). Lokoja, located at the confluence of the Niger and Benue Rivers, was made the first capital of colonial Nigeria by Sir Frederick Lugard in 1914. It is supposedly here that his wife-to-be, Flora Shaw, coined the name for the country-to-be. Heading farther east, the A233 dips below the Benue. By the time you reach Makurdi, back on the river, you are firmly in Tivland.

The Tiv are an ethnic group, organized around kin relations, who were stateless when Nigeria was colonized. They nevertheless formed a coherent group with a well-defined, large, and even expanding territory and a distinct language, culture, and history. We know quite a bit about the Tiv thanks to the anthropologist couple Paul and Laura Bohannan, who studied them from the mid-1940s onward. Their and others’ accounts make it very clear that the same problem as in Athens—preventing powerful individuals from becoming too dominant and bossing around everybody else—was a major concern for Tiv society. But the way the Tiv dealt with this problem was very different. It was by means of norms that made them suspicious of power and willing to take action against those building their power. These norms then prevented the emergence of any political hierarchy. Consequently, though the Tiv did have chiefs, these chiefs had little uncontested authority over others; their main role was mediation and arbitration in resolving conflict and supporting cooperation of the sort we saw with Asante elders in the previous chapter. There was no possibility for a ruler or a big man establishing enough authority to impose his will.

To understand how the Tiv contained political hierarchy, let us return to Lord Lugard. Lugard wanted to perfect what came to be known as “indirect rule,” a method of running colonies with the help of local notables and indigenous political authorities. But how could you run a country in this way when there weren’t any such authorities? When Lugard demanded to be taken to their chiefs, the Tiv responded, “Chiefs? What chiefs?” The system of indirect rule had already developed in Southern Nigeria during the 1890s as British authority spread. Here administrators created “warrant chiefs,” so called because the British gave warrants to powerful indigenous families whom they made chief. After 1914 Lugard wanted something even more ambitious. He argued, “If there are no chiefs … the first condition for progress in a very loosely knit community such as the I[g]bos or the … [Tiv] is to create units of some size under progressive chiefs.”

But just who were these “progressive chiefs”? Lugard and colonial officials got to decide. Lugard wanted progressive chiefs to enforce order, collect taxes, and organize labor to build roads and railways in Tivland. If the Tiv didn’t have real chiefs, he would create them. And so he did after 1914, imposing a new version of the warrant chief system on the Tiv.

Yet the Tiv hadn’t signed up for that, and they weren’t too pleased with Lugard’s plan. Trouble quickly brewed. Things exploded in 1929 in nearby Igboland, home of another stateless society, the “loosely knit community” of the Igbos. By the summer of 1939, most social and economic activity had come to a standstill in Tivland. The trouble came from a cult called Nyambua, which can be viewed as the Tiv’s revenge against Lugard, now a baron, enjoying his peaceful retirement in England, and his warrant chiefs. The head of the cult was a man called Kokwa, who sold charms to provide protection from mbatsav, or “witches.” Mbatsav is derived from the word tsav, which means “power” in the Tiv language, particularly power over others. Tsav is a substance that grows on the heart of a person and can be examined after death by cutting open the chest. If you have it, you can make others do what you want, and kill them using fetishes. Crucially, although some people naturally have tsav, it can be increased by cannibalism. As Paul Bohannan put it:

A diet of human flesh makes the tsav, and of course the power, grow large. Therefore the most powerful men, no matter how much they are respected or liked, are never fully trusted. They are men of tsav—and who knows?

The people with tsav belong to an organization—the Mbatsav. Mbatsav has two meanings: powerful people (it is the plural of tsav); and, as we saw, a group of witches. These witches could engage in nefarious activities, for example robbing graves or eating corpses. This is an interesting double meaning. Imagine if in English the word “politicians” simultaneously meant “people who contest for or control elected government offices” and “a group of witches organized for nefarious purposes.” (Not a bad idea, actually.)

People initiated into the Nyambua cult were given a leather wand and a fly whisk. The whisk allowed one to smell out tsav created by cannibalism. A photograph taken by Paul Bohannan of a Tiv diviner with a fly whisk is included in the photography section. In 1939 the whisks were pointed toward the warrant chiefs accused of being witches, an accusation that stripped them of any authority and power that they got from the British. Were the Tiv fighting back against the British? Yes and no. Looking deeper you can see that the movement was not simply anti-British; it was anti-authority. As a Tiv elder, Akiga, told the colonial official Rupert East at the time:

When the land has become spoilt owing to so much senseless murder [by tsav] the Tiv have taken strong measures to overcome the mbatsav. These big movements have taken place over a period extending from the days of the ancestors into modern times …

In fact, religious cults like Nyambua were part of a set of norms that had evolved to protect the Tiv status quo, which meant preventing anybody from becoming too powerful. In the 1930s, the warrant chiefs were the ones getting dangerously powerful, but in the past others had similarly become too big for their boots. Bohannan pointed out how

men who had acquired too much power … were whittled down by means of witchcraft accusations … Nyambua was one of a regular series of movements to which Tiv political action, with its distrust of power, gives rise so that the greater political institution—the one based on the lineage system and a principle of egalitarianism—can be preserved.

What’s really significant here, and brings to mind Athenians’ preoccupation with hubris and ostracizing powerful individuals, is the phrase “distrust of power.” We have so far talked of the power or the capacity of the state. But the state itself is controlled by a set of agents, which includes rulers, politicians, bureaucrats, and other politically influential actors—what might be called the “political elite.” You cannot have the Leviathan without having a political hierarchy, without somebody—the political elite, a ruler, or a state builder—exercising power over others, giving orders, deciding who is right and who is wrong in disputes. Distrust of power breeds fear of this political hierarchy. The Tiv norms didn’t just regulate and control conflict; they also severely restricted social and political hierarchy. Since curbing political hierarchy means curbing the power of the state, some of these norms, including witchcraft accusations, simultaneously stopped state building in its tracks.

A Slippery Slope

The Tiv society was terrified of the fearsome face of the Leviathan and the dominance that it might bring once it got off the ground. It also had powerful norms preventing the emergence of political hierarchy, so the Tiv ended up living with the Absent Leviathan. But there is a puzzle. If society was so powerful and the state and its elites so weak, why were the Tiv terrified of the Leviathan? Why couldn’t they activate the Red Queen effect and benefit from the dynamics that would bring a Shackled Leviathan? Why couldn’t they develop the same sorts of solutions for controlling political hierarchy that Solon and Cleisthenes and other Greek institutional innovators or the American founding fathers devised?

The answer is related to the nature of the norms guarding against the emergence of political hierarchy. But it also highlights that it is difficult to build the conditions for a Shackled Leviathan and there are limitations to the different types of societal power. In contrast to general societal mobilization and the institutionalized forms of political power, Tiv norms relying on rituals, witchcraft practices, and general beliefs against hierarchy could not be easily “scaled up”; they were not the sort of institutions and norms that would be useful once one group within society became sufficiently powerful and exercised authority over the rest. So the Tiv had the capability to nip the emergence of political inequality in the bud, but not necessarily the capacity to control the process of state building once it was under way. This made any state-building attempt a bit of a slippery slope for the Tiv—once you go down that path, you might slip and end up somewhere you did not intend.

To understand this better, it is useful to contrast the social tools available to the Tiv for controlling political hierarchy to those at the disposal of Athenians and Americans while they were engaged in their state-building efforts.

Americans had at least two robust weapons in their arsenal for combating an overeager Leviathan. First, they had institutionalized power for controlling the Leviathan, since state legislatures were influential and could not easily be cast aside, and the federal state would be subject to electoral and judicial controls. Second, American society was mobilized in a way that Tiv society certainly wasn’t. America, in many ways, was a society of smallholders, nurturing not just economic but also political aspirations. It had norms making it unwilling to accept despotic authority and ready to erupt into a rebellion (as the British discovered). As a result, even if they were apprehensive about a centralized state acquiring much greater powers than might have appeared advisable a decade before, Americans still thought that they could prevent the state from turning into a Despotic Leviathan.

Athenians had similar weapons and used them to the same effect. Athens had come out of the Dark Ages with a society intent on reining in the dominance of the elites and their privileges. Its economic structure facilitated societal mobilization. After Solon’s reforms, Athens had become a smallholder society, like the thirteen American colonies, with all of the mobilization that this engendered. Critically, Greek society around this time also became more assertive thanks to changes in military technology. While during the Bronze Age the metal of choice for weapons was bronze, by the eighth century BCE, iron had supplanted it. Bronze weapons were expensive and hence the natural monopoly of the elite. Iron weapons, on the other hand, were much cheaper and “democratized warfare,” in the words of the archaeologist V. Gordon Childe. In particular, they led to the famous hoplites, the heavily armed Greek citizen-soldiers, who could fight not just other city-states and the Persians but also overeager elites. The balance of power thus tilted further in favor of Athenian society against the elite. All of this mobilization was institutionalized by Solon, Cleisthenes, and other leaders after them, making it much harder for elites to usurp power and quickly reassert their dominance. As a consequence, Athenians, worried though they were like the Tiv about elites becoming too strong and dominant, nonetheless believed that they could rein them in with their ostracism law, iron armor, and assemblies. They weren’t completely wrong.

This wasn’t so for the Tiv. The power of Tiv society emanated from their norms directed against any type of political hierarchy. Such norms are a powerful way of preserving the stateless status quo because they help solve the collective action problem and induce people to organize in order to cut down to size individuals attempting to become dominant and excessively powerful. They are not, however, that good for organizing collective action for other purposes, such as shackling a Leviathan once it gets going. This is partly because the Tiv, like many other stateless societies, were organized into a series of family lineages grouped together into larger clans. Though the Athenians did have phratries, these were more fluid and less based on powerful genealogical ties, and Cleisthenes severely undercut their role in politics. In contrast, the lowest level of aggregation of Tiv society was an extended family community known as a tar, and if anyone had authority in a tar, it was male elders. This was a society organized vertically through the kinship system where people’s roles in life were closely regulated and prescribed. There was little chance for people to freely form and join any sort of association that could help them mobilize and monitor political power. In addition, beliefs that any inequality had its roots in witchcraft would start crumbling as soon as hierarchy emerged and gained respect. Kin relations would not provide a platform on which society could deliberate and participate in collective decisions.

What’s worse, in a kin-based society political hierarchy is most likely to take the form of one clan’s dominance over the others, paving the way for a type of Leviathan that would ultimately crush all opposition. A slippery slope indeed. Better to keep the Leviathan absent.

Staying Illegible

Many historical and a few surviving stateless societies look like the Tiv. Not only do they live without a state or much political hierarchy, but they diligently guard against the emergence of hierarchy using whatever tools they have available. Often these are norms and beliefs, just like witchcraft, that have evolved over many generations. But does this have any relevance to modern nations? All 195 countries that exist today have states and laws, and courts and security forces enforcing those laws. Could the Absent Leviathan of stateless societies have any relevance to them? The answer turns out to be yes. Though states do exist, they can be extremely weak, leaving large swaths of their countries in the same situation as stateless societies, governed by their norms like the Tiv, or frequently plunging into violence like the Gebusi of Papua New Guinea. More strikingly, despite their modern façade, some states may refrain from setting up basic institutions, acting like the Absent Leviathan in all but name, and for the same reason as the Tiv—because they fear the slippery slope. The modern state of Lebanon is one example.

The U.S. Constitution specifies that the representation in the House of Representatives should be proportional to the population of each state. To determine these populations, within three years of the ratification of the Constitution a census had to be held and it had to be updated every ten years. The first census was launched in 1790 and has since been repeated assiduously every decade. There are many reasons why censuses are a good idea, apart from being the basis for a fair distribution of representation in the legislature. They help the government know where its people are, where they come from, how they are living, how educated they are, and perhaps what their income or wealth is. This is important for the state to provide services and raise revenues and taxes. In the words of the political scientist James Scott, censuses help make society “legible” to the state—they provide the information to understand, regulate, tax, and if necessary coerce society. These activities seem so essential to the existence and function of a state that every state should want to make society legible. The people should also want some degree of legibility, since otherwise they won’t receive any services or be properly represented. You can by now see the flaws in this argument. What if society doesn’t trust the state? What if it is worried about legibility being misused? What if it fears the slippery slope? This is exactly what the Lebanese are concerned about.

Lebanon was part of the Ottoman Empire until World War I and then briefly a French colony until it became independent in 1943. Since independence Lebanon has never held a census. There was one in 1932, which became the basis for a National Pact agreed in 1943, but nothing since then. The 1932 census found that Christians made up 51 percent of the population with a slight edge over the Shia, Sunni, and Druze Muslim communities in Lebanon (which are shown in Map 3). The pact recognized this configuration by dividing power between the various groups. For example, the president always had to be a Maronite Christian, while the prime minister would be a Sunni Muslim and the speaker of parliament a Shia Muslim. The division didn’t stop there. The deputy speaker and the deputy prime minister always had to be Greek Orthodox Christians, while the chief of the general staff of the armed forces would be a Druze Muslim. Representation in parliament was frozen in a ratio of six to five in favor of Christians to Muslims; within this ratio the different communities were represented according to their population share in the 1932 census.

Map 3. The Communities of Lebanon

Predictably, this pact resulted in an incredibly weak state. Power in the country resides not in the state, but in the individual communities, just as you would expect under the Absent Leviathan. The state does not provide public services such as healthcare or electricity, but the communities do. The state does not control violence or law enforcement either. Hezbollah, a Shia Muslim group, has its own private army, as do the many armed clans in the Bekaa Valley. Each community has its own television station and football team. In Beirut, for example, Al-Ahed is a Shia team, while Al-Ansar is Sunni. The Safa Sporting Club is Druze, while Racing Beirut is Orthodox Christian and Hikmeh is Maronite Christian.

The intense power sharing in the Lebanese state allows every community to monitor what the others are doing. This gives each group a veto over anything anybody else wants, and leads to terrible gridlock in the government. The gridlock has obvious consequences, such as an inability to make decisions. This matters for public services. In July 2015 the main landfill in the country at Naameh shut down. The government didn’t have an alternative and the trash began to mount in Beirut. Rather than spring into action, the government did nothing. The trash continued to pile up. A picture of the mounting trash in Beirut is included in the photography section.

In fact, doing nothing was the government’s normal state. Parliament has not voted on a budget for almost ten years, letting the cabinet write its own. After the prime minister Najib Mikati resigned in 2013, it took politicians a year to agree on a new government. No big rush, since between the parliamentary election of June 2009 and 2014, as the landfill filled up, the 128 members of parliament met twenty-one times, about four times a year. In 2013, lawmakers met only twice and passed two laws. One of the laws was to extend their mandate for another eighteen months so they could stay in power. This strategy was used year after year and new elections were held only in May 2018. In the meantime, Lebanon was facing one of its most existential threats, as one million refugees from the civil war in neighboring Syria, equivalent to almost 20 percent of Lebanon’s population, poured into the country. Thus a parliament, elected for four years and refraining from taking any action on vital problems facing the country, ended up “sitting” for nine years. Sitting is all relative, of course. After parliamentarians managed to pass a law to plan the 2018 elections, a competition was held by a media outlet for the best tweets to commemorate the event. One of the submissions was “WELL DONE GENTLEMEN, YOU’VE COMPLETED YOUR ONE HOUR OF WORK. You can now return to your permanent vacations.” No big rush to deal with the trash.

The situation got so bad that people began to organize and protest, and a movement calling itself YouStink emerged, using the trash problem as a trigger to call for more profound change in the system. But suspicion is the order of the day in Lebanon. An organization, any organization, is immediately suspected of being the tool of one of the other communities attempting to increase its power. As a despairing Facebook post from the movement on August 25, 2015, put it:

Since the beginning of the #YouStink movement, we have tried to bite our tongues concerning the accusations that fell upon us as a movement … Our movement, since its outset, has been accused of being a partisan of Al-Mustaqbal (Future Movement) and working against the rights of the Christians (on the Tayyar website). We were then accused of being partisans of the 8th of March bloc and working against the Al-Mustaqbal (according to both El-Machnouk Ministers and the Government). As for the movement’s members themselves, they have been accused of being bribed, partisans of Walid Jumblat, foreign embassies, the Amal Movement, Hezbollah … No one has remained safe from these accusations which main purpose was and is to distort and refute the idea of having an independent non-sectarian alternative.

This post illustrates something we often see under an Absent Leviathan: a society divided against itself, unable to act collectively, and in fact deeply suspicious of anybody and any group attempting to influence politics.

The behavior of the parliament reflects the fact that the communities do not want it to do anything. As Ghassan Moukheiber, a Christian lawmaker from central Lebanon, put it:

They don’t like the institutions such as the parliament meeting too often and competing with them in running the country.

The Lebanese state is not weak because its people have not worked out the right engineering design. In fact, the country has one of the most educated populations in the Middle East, with a fairly modern university system. Many Lebanese study abroad in some of the world’s best academic institutions. It isn’t that they don’t know how to build a capable state. Rather, the state is weak by design because the communities fear the slippery slope. Parliamentarians know they are not supposed to do much, so what is the incentive to show up? They can vote to delay elections because nobody really cares who is elected. Sometimes, as with the trash problem, this has terrible social consequences, but even then it’s hard to make something happen. Nobody wants to give power to parliament, they don’t trust it, and they don’t like social activism either. You never know whom you can trust.

Lebanon is not a stateless society. It’s a modern state of six million people with a seat in the United Nations and ambassadors all over the world. But just as with the Tiv, power is elsewhere. Lebanon has an Absent Leviathan.

Between 1975 and 1989 Lebanon was plunged into a vicious civil war between its different communities, after being destabilized by an influx of Palestinian refugees from Jordan. The Taif Agreement of 1989, which ended the conflict, brought one adjustment to the National Pact, moving to a 50–50 split between Christians and Muslims in parliament and increasing the representation of Shias. But it also weakened presidential power.

Did the 50–50 split represent the communities better than the six-to-five division adopted in the 1943 pact? Probably, but nobody really knows the populations of different communities, and nobody wants to know. Society wants to remain illegible to a state it fears might be captured by others, and to ensure against the possibility, it makes sure the Leviathan continues to slumber. The trash piles up.

The Narrow Corridor

This book is about liberty. Liberty depends on the different types of Leviathans and their evolution—whether a society will live without an effective state, put up with a despotic one, or manage to forge a balance of power that opens the way for the emergence of a Shackled Leviathan and the gradual flourishing of liberty.

In contrast to Hobbes’s vision of society submitting its will to the Leviathan, which much of social science and the modern world order take for granted, it is fundamental to our theory that Leviathans are not always welcomed with open arms and their path is a rocky one, to say the least. In many instances society will resist their ascendancy and will do so successfully, just like the Tiv did and the Lebanese still do. The result of this resistance is illiberty.

When this resistance crumbles, we may end up with a Despotic Leviathan, which looks a lot like the sea monster that Hobbes imagined. But this Leviathan, though it prevents Warre, does not necessarily make its subjects’ lives much richer than the “nasty, brutish, and short” existence that people eke out under the Absent Leviathan. Nor do its subjects really “submit their wills” to the Leviathan—any more than East Europeans chanting the “Internationale” in the streets before the collapse of the Berlin Wall really submitted their wills to Soviet Russia. The implications for citizens are different in some ways, but still there is no liberty.

A very different type of Leviathan, a shackled one, emerges when there is a balance between its power and society’s capacity to control it. This is the Leviathan that can resolve conflicts fairly, provide public services and economic opportunities, and prevent dominance, laying down the basic foundations of liberty. This is the Leviathan that people, believing that they can control it, trust and cooperate with and allow to increase its capacity. This is the Leviathan that also promotes liberty by breaking down the various cages of norms tightly regulating behavior in society. But in a fundamental sense this is not a Hobbesian Leviathan. Its defining feature is its shackles: it does not have Hobbes’s sea monster’s dominance over society; it does not have the capability to ignore or silence people when they try to influence political decision making. It stands not above but alongside society.

Figure 1. The Evolution of Despotic, Shackled, and Absent Leviathans

Figure 1 summarizes these ideas and the forces shaping the evolution of different types of states in our theory. To focus on its main outlines, we simplify matters and reduce everything to two variables. The first is how powerful a society is in terms of its norms, practices, and institutions, especially when it comes to acting collectively, coordinating its actions, and constraining political hierarchy. This variable, shown on the horizontal axis, thus combines society’s general mobilization, its institutional power, and its ability to control hierarchy via norms, as among the Tiv. The second is the power of the state. This variable is shown on the vertical axis and similarly combines several aspects including the power of political and economic elites and the capacity and power of state institutions. Of course, ignoring conflicts within society is a huge simplification, and so is ignoring conflicts within the elite and between the elite and state institutions. Nevertheless, these simplifications enable us to highlight several important ingredients and novel implications of our theory. Later in the book, we’ll go beyond these simplifications and discuss the richer tableau that emerges without them.

Think of most premodern polities starting somewhere near the bottom left, without powerful states or societies. The arrows that emanate from this bottom left trace the divergent development paths of state, society, and their relations over time. One typical path shown in the figure, approximating our discussion of the Tiv or Lebanon, begins where society is more powerful than the state and can stymie the emergence of powerful centralized state institutions. This results in a situation where the Leviathan is largely absent because initially the state and elites are too weak relative to society’s norms against political hierarchy. The fear of the slippery slope implies that, when possible, society will try to cripple the power of elites and undercut political hierarchy, so the power of state-like entities declines further, and the Absent Leviathan gets established even more firmly. The greater power of society relative to the state also explains why the cage of norms is so potent in this case—with no institutional ways of resolving and regulating conflicts, norms take on all sorts of functions, but in the process also create their own social inequities and various forms of stifling restrictions on individuals.

On the other side, starting with greater initial levels of state and elite power than societal power, we see an arrow approximating our initial discussion of the Chinese case where the configuration favors the emergence of the Despotic Leviathan. Here the arrows travel toward yet higher levels of state power. In the meantime, the power of society gets eroded as society finds itself no match for the state. This tendency is exacerbated as the Despotic Leviathan works to emasculate society so that it remains unshackled. In consequence, over time the Despotic Leviathan becomes overwhelmingly powerful relative to a meek society, and a change in the balance of power ultimately leading the Leviathan to be shackled becomes less likely.

But the figure also shows that we can have capable states matched by capable societies. This happens in the narrow corridor in the middle, where we see the emergence of the Shackled Leviathan. It is precisely in this corridor that the Red Queen effect is operative, and the struggle of state and society contributes to the strengthening of both and can, somewhat miraculously, help maintain the balance between the two.

In fact, the Red Queen—the race between state and society—does more than render both of them more capable. It also reconfigures the nature of institutions and makes the Leviathan more accountable and responsive to citizens. In the process, it transforms people’s lives too, not just because it removes the dominance of states and elites over them, but also because it relaxes and even breaks down the cage of norms, advancing individual liberty and enabling more effective popular participation in politics. Consequently, it is only in this corridor that true liberty, unencumbered by political, economic, and social dominances, emerges and evolves. Outside the corridor, liberty is curbed either by the absence of the Leviathan or by its despotism.

Yet it is important to recognize the precarious nature of the Red Queen effect. In all of that reaction and counterreaction, one party may pull ahead of the other, yanking both out of the corridor. The Red Queen effect also requires that the competition between state and society, between elites and non-elites, isn’t completely zero-sum, with each side trying to destroy and dispossess the other. So in all of that competition, some room for compromise, an understanding that there will be a counterreaction after every reaction, is critical. We’ll see in Chapter 13 that a process of polarization can sometimes turn the Red Queen effect into a zero-sum affair, making the process much more likely to spin out of control.

Another noteworthy feature of this figure is that at the bottom left corner, where both state and society are very weak, there is no corridor. This represents an important aspect of our discussion of the Tiv. Recall that the Tiv did not have norms and institutions capable of controlling political hierarchy once it emerged, and this was the reason why they were so keen to stamp out any whiff of political hierarchy; the choice wasn’t between a Shackled and Absent Leviathan, but between despotism and no state at all. This is a general feature that applies to many cases where both state and society are weak, and highlights that moving into the corridor is feasible only after both parties in the struggle have built some rudimentary capabilities and after some basic institutional prerequisites for a balance of power are in place.

The Proof of the Pudding

A theory is most useful when it offers new ways of thinking about the world. Let’s consider a few insights that follow from the theory we have just presented. We started in Chapter 1 with the question of where the world is heading. An idyllic version of Western democracy with no rivals? Anarchy? Or a digital dictatorship? From the vantage point of our theory, each one of these looks like one of the paths described in Figure 1. But what our theory clarifies is that there should be no presumption that all countries will follow the same path. We should expect not convergence but diversity. What’s more, it’s not as if countries can seamlessly transition from one path to the other. There is a lot of “path dependence.” Once you are in the orbit of the Despotic Leviathan, the state and elites controlling state institutions become stronger and society and the norms meant to keep the state in check become even weaker. Take China. Many policy makers and commentators have continued to predict that as it grows richer and more integrated into the global economic order, China will become more like a Western democracy. But the path of the Despotic Leviathan in Figure 1 doesn’t converge toward the corridor as time goes by. We’ll see in Chapter 7 that there is a lot of history shaping the dominance of the Chinese state over society and these relationships are reproduced by the specific actions that leaders and elites take in order to impair society so that it cannot challenge and constrain the state. This history makes a transition into the corridor much harder.

Nonetheless, that history matters doesn’t mean that history is destiny. This brings out a second important implication of our theory. There is a lot of agency—meaning that actions by leaders, elites, and political entrepreneurs can facilitate collective action and form new coalitions to reshape the society’s trajectory. That’s why path dependence coexists with occasional transitions from one type of path to another. This coexistence is particularly true for societies in the corridor because the balance between state and society is fragile and can easily break if society ceases to be vigilant or the state lets its capabilities atrophy.

A third, related implication is about the nature of liberty. In contrast to a vision emphasizing the virtues and relentless rise of Western institutions or constitutional designs, in our theory liberty emerges from a messy process, one that cannot be easily designed. Liberty cannot be engineered and its fate cannot be ensured by a clever system of checks and balances. It takes society’s mobilization, vigilance, and assertiveness to make it work. We need all that running!

Recall from the Preface that the strategy of restraining Gilgamesh with checks and balances, via his doppelgänger Enkidu, didn’t work in Uruk. It’s no different in most other settings, including in the U.S., even if the checks and balances introduced by the Constitution are often emphasized as the mainstay of American liberty. In 1787 James Madison and his collaborators descended on Philadelphia and seized the agenda of the constitutional assembly with the Virginia Plan, which became the basis for the Constitution. But the institutional architecture of the new country turned out to be different from the Virginia Plan because society (or some portion of it) didn’t fully trust the Federalists and wanted to have greater protections for their liberty. As we saw, Madison had to concede the Bill of Rights. It was society’s involvement and assertiveness that secured the protection of rights in the founding of the U.S. Republic.

A fourth implication of our theory is that there are many doorways into the corridor and quite a variety of societies inside. Think of all the ways a country can enter the corridor. Indeed, creating the conditions for liberty is a multifaceted process, involving the control of conflict and violence, the breaking down of the cage of norms, and the shackling of the power and despotism of state institutions. This is why liberty doesn’t emerge the moment a nation enters the corridor, but evolves gradually over time. Some will travel a long time in the corridor without fully controlling violence, some will make only limited progress in loosening the cage of norms, and for others combating despotism and making the state listen to society will be a work in progress. The historical conditions and coalitions that determine how a society gets into the corridor also influence what particular compromises are made in the corridor—often with major and long-lasting consequences.

The U.S. Constitution illustrates this point too. The Bill of Rights wasn’t the only concession that was necessary for ratification. The issue of states’ rights was a litmus test for Southern elites hell-bent on protecting slavery and their assets. To this end, the founders agreed that the Bill of Rights would apply only to federal legislation, not to state legislation. This “principle” gave free rein to all sorts of abuses at the state level, especially against black Americans. The Constitution itself enshrined this gross violation of the liberty of a large fraction of the population with the clause that agreed to count slaves as three-fifths of a free person when determining a state’s representation in Congress. Discrimination was not just woven into the very fabric of the Constitution; it was also forged by the deep-rooted norms in many parts of the country. The way in which the United States moved into and traveled in the corridor meant that the federal government did not attempt to weaken these norms and their institutional foundations in the South. So intense discrimination and dominance against black Americans lived on well after the Civil War and the end of slavery in 1865.

One of the many egregious manifestations of these discriminatory norms was the existence of “sundown towns,” towns where black people (and sometimes Mexicans and Jews) were not allowed after sunset. America is the country of the car, where people get their kicks “on Route 66.” But not everyone could get their kicks. In 1930, in 44 of the 89 counties that Route 66 wound through, there were “sundown towns.” What happened if you wanted to eat or maybe go to the toilet and the restaurants and bathrooms were only for whites? Even Coca-Cola machines had “White Customers Only” printed on them. Imagine the quandary of a black driver. The situation was so bad that in 1936 Victor Green, an African American postal worker in Harlem, New York, felt compelled to publish The Negro Motorist Green-Book, providing detailed instructions to black motorists about where they were allowed after dark or where they could go to the toilet (the last edition is dated 1966). So the U.S. experience exhibits the profound implications of how a society gets into the corridor. We’ll see in Chapter 10 that these have consequences not just for the extent of liberty but also for many policy and social choices, with far-reaching global significance.

A surprising, fifth implication of our theory concerns the development of state capacity. In Figure 1 the arrow inside the corridor is heading toward higher levels of state capacity than the Despotic Leviathan is achieving. This is because it is the contest between state and society that underpins greater state capacity. This notion runs counter to many arguments accepted in social science and policy debates, especially on the critical role of strong leaders, that contend that complete control of security and powerful armed forces are necessary for building state capacity. It is this belief that makes many argue that China may be a good role model for other developing (and perhaps even developed) countries because the lack of challenges to the dominance of the Communist Party enables its state to have such great capacity. But look deeper, and you will see that the Chinese Leviathan, despotic though it is, possesses less capacity than a Shackled Leviathan like the U.S. or Scandinavian states. This is because China doesn’t have a robust society to push it, cooperate with it, or contest its power. Without this balance of power between state and society, the Red Queen effect doesn’t come into play and the Leviathan ends up with less capacity.

To see the limitations of Chinese state capacity, you need to look no further than the education system. Education is a priority for many states, and not just because a nation would be more successful with an educated workforce. It is also because education is an effective way of inculcating the right sort of beliefs among citizens. So you would expect that a state with significant capacity would be able to provide affordable, high-quality, and meritocractic education and mobilize its public servants to work for that objective. But the reality is rather different. In the Chinese education system, everything is up for sale, including front-row seats near the blackboard or a post as class monitor.

When Zhao Hua went to enroll her daughter in a Beijing elementary school, she was met by officials from the district education committee who already had a list showing how much each family had to pay. The officials didn’t hang out at the school, but at a bank where Zhao had to deposit $4,800 to get the enrollment. The schools are free, so these “fees” are illegal and the government has banned them five times since 2005 (and it is telling that they had to be banned five times). In another elite Beijing high school, students receive an extra point for each $4,800 their parents contribute to the school. If you want to get your child into a top school, such as the one associated with the prestigious Renmin University in Beijing, the bribe could be as much as $130,000. Teachers also expect gifts—lots of gifts. Chinese news media report that many teachers now expect to be given designer watches, expensive teas, gift cards, and even vacations. More aggressive teachers welcome debit cards attached to bank accounts that can be replenished throughout the year. In an interview with The New York Times, a Beijing businesswoman summed it up: “If you don’t give a nice present and the other parents do, you’re afraid the teacher will pay less attention to your kid.”

How can public servants be so venal? Isn’t China the home of the world’s first meritocratic state bureaucracy? Yes and no. As we’ll see in Chapter 7, there is a long history of a complex, capable bureaucracy in China, but there is an equally long history of pervasive corruption in which many positions are given to the politically connected or auctioned off to the highest bidder. That history continues today. A 2015 survey of 3,671 Communist Party officials found that two-thirds of them thought that “political loyalty,” not merit, was the most important criterion for getting a government job. Once you’ve surrounded yourself with loyalists, you can get down to the business of shaking down businesspeople and citizens. You can also create compliant subordinates by selling government jobs. The political scientist Minxin Pei analyzed a sample of 50 court cases of Communist Party officials who had been found guilty of corruption between 2001 and 2013. On average, each had sold 41 positions for money. At the bottom of the pile were county bosses, like Zhang Guiyi and Xu Shexin of Wuhe County in Anhui Province. Zhang sold 11 positions for an average price of 12,000 yuan, a measly $1,500. Xu sold 58 positions at over $2,000 each on average. But higher up the food chain, for example in the prefectures, jobs were sold for a lot more, with some officials managing to get over $60,000 per position. In Pei’s sample the average corrupt official made about $170,000 from selling posts.

People like Zhang and Xu are just small fry. When railway minister Liu Zhijun was arrested in 2011, his charges included having 350 apartments in his name and over $100 million in cash. This is largely because China’s high-speed rail system had presented an unrivaled opportunity for graft. But so do most other aspects of Chinese economic expansion. Though Liu fell from grace, most don’t. In 2012, 160 of China’s wealthiest 1,000 people were members of the Communist Party Congress. Their net worth was $221 billion, about twenty times that of the top 660 officials in all three branches of the government of the United States, a country whose income per capita is over seven times that of China. All of this shouldn’t be completely surprising. Controlling corruption, whether in the bureaucracy or in the education system, requires cooperation from society. The state needs to trust that people will report to it truthfully, and the people need to trust state institutions to the extent that they put their neck on the line by sharing their information. That doesn’t happen under the stern gaze of the Despotic Leviathan.

You might think this is mostly a problem of corruption. Could it be that corruption is tolerated in China despite high state capacity? That interpretation is contradicted not only by the persistent (and only mildly successful) attempts by the Chinese state to rein in corruption, but also by the fact that even beyond corruption, routine state functions do not come easily to the Chinese Leviathan. As we mentioned when discussing Lebanon, making society legible appears to be a primary goal of any self-respecting state. This is doubly true for making the economy legible. Indeed, given the critical role that economic growth plays in the Communist Party’s ability to justify its dominant position in China, understanding and accurately measuring economic activity must be a key objective. But legibility, just like controlling corruption, requires cooperation from society. When cooperation is withheld, problems creep in; will businesses seek shelter in the informal, unregistered sector? Will individuals withhold their information from a state they do not trust? Will bureaucrats manipulate data to get ahead? The answer to all three questions is yes, especially in China. That is why nobody seems to trust national income statistics in China, not even the premier Li Keqiang, who in 2007, before he was promoted to this post, described the country’s national income numbers as “man-made and unreliable.” He suggested eschewing official statistics and looking at electricity consumption, the volume of rail cargo, and bank lending as better gauges of how the economy is doing. So much for the capacity of the Chinese state to make its economy legible.

Shackling the Leviathan: Trust and Verify

The Shackled Leviathan sounds exactly like the sort of state we should all dream of, and one we can trust. But if it is indeed to be a Shackled Leviathan, this trust must have limits. After all, the Leviathan, shackled or not, is Janus-faced, and despotism is in its DNA.

This means that living with the Leviathan is hard work, particularly because there is a natural tendency for it to become more powerful over time. The Leviathan is not itself an agent; when we are talking of the Leviathan, we are typically referring to political elites, such as rulers, politicians, or leaders controlling it, and sometimes to economic elites with a disproportionate influence on it. The majority of these elites, as well as many of those working for the Leviathan, have an interest in expanding the Leviathan’s power. Think of the bureaucrats who are tirelessly working to provide you with public services or to regulate economic activity so that you do not get dominated by a monopoly or by predatory lending practices. Why wouldn’t they want their own power and authority expanded? Think of the politicians who are steering the Leviathan. Why wouldn’t they wish their own sea monster to become even more capable and dominant? What’s more, the more complex our lives become, the more we need conflict resolution, regulation, public services, and protection for our liberties. And yet, the more capable the Leviathan becomes, the harder it is to control. So the more powerful society—meaning the common people, all of us and our organizations and associations—must become in order to control it. This is the Red Queen effect in action.

But there is more to the Red Queen. As we have seen, cooperation with a powerful society can greatly increase the capacity of the state. Once the Leviathan is shackled, society may choose to give it a long leash and allow it to increase its reach so that the state uses its capacity for things that its citizens want and need. It is a strategy of “trust and verify”—trust the state to acquire more powers but at the same time increase your own control over it. When it works, as it has to some degree in the United States and Western Europe, the outcome is an ongoing process of both state and society becoming more powerful, and expanding in a balanced way, so that neither dominates the other. When this fine balance works, the Shackled Leviathan not only ends Warre but also becomes an instrument for the political and social development of society, for the blossoming of civic engagement, institutions, and capabilities, for the dismantling of the cage of norms, and for economic prosperity. But only if we manage to keep it shackled. Only if we succeed in preventing the messy Red Queen effect from getting out of control. No easy feat.

Before we turn to the Shackled Leviathan, it is useful to understand how and why states emerge, how they deal with conflicts in society, and how they transform economic conditions of societies under the Absent Leviathan. That’s where we start in the next chapter.

Chapter 3

WILL TO POWER

The Rise of a Prophet

Muhammad was born in Mecca around 570 CE into a merchant family. Brought up by his uncle, he grew up in the vibrant trading hub that Mecca was in this period. The origins of the city seem to have been tied to the Kaaba, the dense black granite cube that was a sacred place for pre-Islamic local gods and later became the holiest shrine of Islam. During part of the year people came to Mecca on pilgrimage, which turned out to be a great opportunity to engage in commerce. The nascent trading community of the town soon spread far and wide to intermediate more broadly between the Arabian Peninsula and Damascus and the Byzantine and Persian Empires.

But the people who settled Mecca and the neighboring town of Medina, 250 miles to the north (see Map 4), were desert nomads, new to sedentary life. Their societies lacked states and centralized authorities, and like many other stateless societies, they were organized around kinship groups known as clans. Muhammad’s clan was the Hashim, part of the Quraysh tribe. Adjusting to life in the new town around the Kaaba wasn’t easy. The clans were used to migrating with their flocks of camels and goats across hundreds of miles of open desert. There were the potential disputes about access to a water hole or good pasture for the flocks, or any of myriad daily conflicts. But these were usually handled by the norms and traditions of the nomadic tribes, and when that didn’t work, especially for conflict between different groups, they could just go their own separate ways in the sparsely populated peninsula. When this strategy couldn’t solve the disputes, there was retaliation and feud. The basic principle was an eye for an eye, but in some cases it had evolved into a hundred camels for an eye.