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http://joc.sagepub.com/ Journal of Consumer Culture

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DOI: 10.1177/1469540503003001228

2003 3: 83Journal of Consumer Culture A. Loudermilk

George A. Romero's 'Dawn of the Dead' Eating 'Dawn' in the Dark : Zombie desire and commodified identity in

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83

ARTICLE

Eating ‘Dawn’ in the Dark Zombie desire and commodified identity in George A. Romero’s ‘Dawn of the Dead’ A. LOUDERMILK Indiana University

Abstract. Romero’s masterpiece about cannibal zombies plaguing the world is set in a US shopping center, redefining the zombie so as to infect consumer identity. The popular perception of mindless consumer as zombie is owed strictly to Dawn of the Dead (1979), and extends far beyond the film’s genre, demographics and era. This film – itself a commodity – has earned a place in the American imagination by undermining that very imagination’s dependence on commodity culture. A combination of film analysis, cultural studies and personal narrative, this essay endeavors to tell the story of the story called Dawn of the Dead by locating the postmodern zombie historically in popular culture, analyzing the film as a satire of what Romero calls ‘the false security of consumer society’, exploring Dawn as a commodity itself (one appropriated by the very consumer culture Romero sought to subvert), considering Dawn as a master tale spawning ‘rip-offs’ and hybrids, and articulating all the while the parallels between Dawn’s postmodern zombie and the North American consumer.

Key words appropriation ● cannibalism ● commodification ● consumerism ● film ● Romero

MY MOTHER BOUGHT MY TICKET TO HELL. She got me in. To be con- sumed alive by the darkness of a theater that wouldn’t let me in without an adult. If George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead had been stamped with the X the Motion Pictures of America Association (MPAA) wanted to give it,

Journal of Consumer Culture

Copyright © 2003 SAGE Publications (London, Thousand Oaks, CA and New Delhi) Vol 3(1): 83–108 [1469-5405 (200303) 3:1; 83–108; 028228]

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I wouldn’t have been allowed in even with my mommy, who’d read me Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot and wasn’t so worried about Dawn’s ‘unrated’ status/caveat: graphic violence/no sex. But that night – I was almost 11 years old in 1980 – she needed a cigarette and was too tired for the evening zombie flick I begged to see. So I was left to the consuming darkness, alone, in awe, never to be the same again. “I’ll be gone to bed,” she told me, meaning when I got home.“See you in the morning.” She turned from the ticket window, to go home just two blocks away, secretly proud, I now know, that her son loved movies, especially scary ones, just as she loved horror novels and the man she called by his first name: Stephen.

I love George.

ZOMBIES AT THE MALL: THE APOCALYPTIC JOKE EVERYONE GETS Dawn of the Dead, the second in Romero’s Dead trilogy, has been argued to be a remake rather than a sequel as it defies Night of the Living Dead’s con- cluding ‘return to normal’1 and more or less relocates for re-telling this zombie-brand of apocalypse from Night’s rural farmhouse in 1968 to a Cleveland shopping center in 1979. The shift in setting serves Romero’s shift in socio-critical focus: the typical-looking family home is under siege in Night, but by the light of Dawn, Romero’s zombie’d mall stands as a symbol of ‘the cheap,materialistic values that so often take precedence over traditional romantic, moral, and spiritual ideals in the twentieth century’ (Gagne, 1985: 88) and exposes what he calls ‘the false security of consumer society’ (Frumkes, 1989).You can’t tell the living dead ‘Don’t Leave Home Without It’, because zombies have no sense of ‘home’ or property, and anyway, martial law declares that even still-human citizens ‘may no longer occupy private residences no matter how well-protected or well-stocked’. As for American Express, Romero’s mall does not take credit cards of any kind.

Of course the mall signifies consumer society, indeed capitalism, but this fact is usually revered. In a 1950s cold war propaganda film sponsored by the American Legion, the narrator with a prayer turns back the ‘nuclear clock’ to its 11th hour before making this honorary pitch:“It gives me great satisfaction to represent two outstanding shopping centers in California . . . [names them] . . . because they are concrete expressions of the practical idealism that built America” (Atomic Café, 1982). Romero’s zombies flock to the mall, one character suggests, out of ‘some kind of instinct, a memory of what they used to do. This was an important place in their lives.’ This was an important place in my life, too. Regardless of whether or not my family shopped there, I knew what clothes from the mall meant, versus

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clothes from Wal-Mart. In the speck of a Midwestern town that didn’t even have a mall,my mom rarely trusted her rusty Nova to make trips to nearby mall towns.

Pure motorized instinct is what brings the living dead to Dawn’s mall, but once there, zombie desire makes null the capitalist structure the mall signifies. When watching Dawn of the Dead, all signifiers become like the zombie: ‘unmoored from meaning, figuring a social process that no longer serves rationalized ends, but has taken on a strange and sinister life of its own’ (Shaviro, 1998: 84). Capitalism is over, that’s the real apocalypse here. Its consumer citizenry – figuratively zombified by commercial culture – is literally zombified by those who once were us, our simulacral doubles as cannibal consumers. Despite a gore-factor that keeps most people from actually seeing Dawn of the Dead, almost everyone ‘gets’ the irony of zombies at the shopping mall, an irony that neither winks nor blinks when our capi- talist mode of consumption is overthrown by cannibal consumption. Several recognizable variations emerged after Dawn to embed Romero’s allegory ever deeper into our collective unconscious; the long shadow of Romero’s zombie crosses into the new millennium with the latest hybrid: a Wall Street cannibal known as American Psycho (2000) to be discussed later in this article.

The cannibal element of the postmodern zombie may have originated with Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, but popular perception of that cannibalism as ironic, as allegory, as a sort of cautionary tale for consumer America, is owed strictly to Dawn of the Dead. Combining film analysis, cultural studies and personal narrative,2 this essay endeavors to tell the story of the story called Dawn of the Dead, the masterpiece that redefined the zombie so as to infect consumer identity, the master tale better compre- hended by fin-de-siècle culture than any other zombie tale including Night.

Dawn of the Dead is more than one of the best horror films ever made, as Roger Ebert declared in the Chicago Sun Times, because it has snared the popular mind far beyond its genre, demographic and era. Romero’s magnum opus – itself a commodity – has earned a place in the American imagination by undermining that very imagination’s dependence on com- modity culture.

MONSTERS AND ECONOMY Romero’s postmodern zombie rises from a variety of tombs, a hybrid of corporeal and ideological monsters. Voodoo zombie, mummy and pod- person, all play into Romero’s conception of the postmodern zombie in bodies that tread the liminal position between human and inhuman (or life

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and death), and in economic circumstances that frame these far-flung narratives with moral caveats.

First off, Dawn’s dead is rooted in the ‘voodoo zombie’ of Hollywood ‘B’movies more than any actual Haitian tradition of necromancy as derived from African polytheism. Even this link is a strained one between Holly- wood’s representation of voodoo zombies (distinctly ‘dark others’) and Romero’s construction of a zombie diaspora; in both,however, the spiritual bankruptcy of the walking dead is (partly, at least) symptomatic of econ- omic conditions.Victor Halperin’s White Zombie (1932), for example, may exploit African blackness for its defining thrill – the ‘virginal white victim menaced by black erotic rites’ (Aizenberg, 1999: 461) – but on a less shrill note it decries the exploitation of slave labor. Edna Aizenberg, in her essay ‘“I Walked With a Zombie”: The Pleasures and Perils of Postcolonial Hybridity’, focuses on the race and gender dimensions of these postcolonial ‘celluloid dreams’ in which,

. . . the physical reification and psychological annihilation of African being – zombiefication in other words – becomes the plight of North American ‘love slaves’ . . . The shifting of black suffering onto white women, and the eliding or underplaying of the oppressive historical circumstances, remains at the film’s ideological and visual core . . . Hollywood’s zombie is thoroughly enclosed within a colonialist discourse that usurps history and identity. (pp. 461–2)

But, if nothing else, Romero might have gained a modicum of insight from White Zombie’s unexacting comment on the economic exploitation of human beings. Early in the film, prior to the zombiefication of the white virgin, we learn that voodoo sorcerer Legendre (played by Bela Lugosi) mans his Haitian sugar mill with formerly living locals. The scene at the mill is a hellish one in its implied eternity, the millstone never ceasing to be rotated by expressionless zombies below, even as we see one zombie above fall into the grinder along with his basket full of cane.“Perhaps”, Legendre entices plantation owner Beaumont,“you could make good use of men like mine on your plantations?” Men not worried about long hours, he adds, men who are “faithful”. Instead, Beaumont seeks to control the faithful heart of Madeline, a visitor to the island. The catch, of course, is that there is no emotional ‘heart’ within a zombie, a ‘fact’ confirmed later when the resident missionary describes zombies as men alive in every way but their minds and hearts.

If ‘African being’ is physically reified and psychologically annihilated as

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zombie in ‘B’ cinema’s colonialist discourse,‘consumer being’ is so rendered in the liberal/left-wing discourse of Romero’s Dawn of the Dead. The mill- stone in his film is an ideological one that takes the form of the shopping center, that North American hub for which we work, seeing nothing else as we go around and around. Our necromantic state is commercially induced, and on our part sufficiently indulged, making it difficult to sym- pathize with our allegorical zombiefication in the world of Romero’s undead.

I was surprised to find out that 100 years before Romero’s cannibal–consumer subversion of economic consumerism, the mummy emerges in British popular fiction (especially between 1880–1914) in a role that can be read as articulating changes in Britain’s ‘material culture’ (see Daly, 1994). This period ‘sees a shift in the British economy that caused people, intellectuals, and popular readers alike to conceive [the economy] in terms of consumption rather than production’ (p. 24). I am reminded of a contemporary phenomenon: a city kid’s ignorance of the udder, that common, telling assumption that milk comes from cartons, from the store, not a real source of production. Daly explains how Britain’s economy after 1880 was impacted by exports to the degree that they ‘took on a signifi- cance that far exceeded their humble object nature, to the extent that at times it appeared that commodities themselves were performing the work of empire without human agency’ (p. 25). Enter the mummy, an archaeo- logical commodity that rises to walk without human agency.

In Conan Doyle’s ‘Lot No. 249’, the mummy is literally a commodity purchased at auction, though not an object whose ‘commodity-nature’ is the effect of production (in the capitalist sense it was not produced to be an object of exchange). Therefore, this commodity is not (and cannot be) valued in terms of what it cost to produce, but in terms of the consumer’s desire to possess it, implying that consumer/commodity relations are ‘funda- mentally irrational – or, in other words, desire-driven’ (Daly, 1994: 26). If the mummy is the commodity come to life to menace the desire-driven consumer,Romero’s zombie can be seen as ‘the commodified identity’with its desire-fuse blown, plaguing consumer culture with compulsive bite and toothed irony.

The contagion aspect of the postmodern zombie could be linked to the vampire, given the infectious bite they have in common, but I see Romero so linked to Howard Hawks’ The Thing (1951) (which Romero claims as a major influence) as well as the definitive sci-fi tale for the Cold War, Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Don Siegel, 1956). In both films,humans are taken over cell-by-cell by alien invaders, ‘that very process, the loss of

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self to its manufactured and controlled double, recurr[ing] as nightmare within [this] movie genre of the 1950s’ (Rogin, 1989: 200). Like the zom- biefied Madeline in White Zombie, stricken with ‘that dreadful emptiness’, a body-snatched Uncle Ira may look like Uncle Ira, he may know every- thing Uncle Ira knows, may act basically as Uncle Ira always acts, but not quite: there’s no love, no desire, no ambition, no faith, and ‘without these human attributes,he loses himself ’ (Mosiman,1998: 62). No desire to love is paralleled with no desire to consume, the film implies. When Dr. Bennell returns to his small town in the beginning of Body Snatchers, there are subtle signs of alien- infiltration [cold war translation: brainwashing spies – who look like ‘us’ – infecting the capitalist family]. To start, a usually well-stocked vegetable stand is abandoned as “too much work” (linked in scene with a boy claim- ing his mother isn’t his mother). And then musicians have been “let go” at a usually bustling restaurant (a ‘date’ scene for a doomed couple) because “business is slowing down”.3 Romero’s final film in his series, Day of the Dead, opens with a similarly suggestive shot of ‘dollar bills blown about randomly in the wind: a sign that even commodity fetishism has collapsed as an animating structure of desire’ (Shaviro, 1998: 94).

‘Postmodern zombie’, a term coined by Steven Shaviro (1998), defines Romero’s zombies as a near-perfect allegory for capitalism, excessive in desire for more than enough, all of them

. . . vacuous, mimetic replications of the human beings they once were. Despite . . . signs of difference, they all act in exactly the same way. The zombies are devoid of personality yet they continue to allude to personal identity. (p. 85)

Personal identity and consumer identity seem to be two sides of the same coin in a capitalist society, both usurped by Dawn’s dead; and American history, and all history, is rendered meaningless.

In the consumer culture Romero satirizes in Dawn, human attributes don’t matter so much as the (desire for) commodities that signify these attributes. Desire is constructed in service of capitalist economy, and ‘pod people’ and postmodern zombies are deceivers in that they only appear to ‘desire’ this way – the former faking social roles until planetary take-over is complete; the latter by default, still wearing clothes that signify their social roles and acting out memory-rooted behaviors in a consumer context while actually desiring no commodity/signifier at all. Zombie desire is to consume/just consume/eternally/desire gone virally awry. So the post- modern zombie’s desire to consume consume consume (flesh) (thereby infecting all humankind) is not so different from the capitalist consumer’s

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desire for more more more (goods, wealth, resources, status symbols) (exploiting peoples globally and polluting the planet).4 Reflecting America’s habitual waste of goods and resources, Dawn’s emergency broad- cast scientist claims that the reason why great numbers of the cannibalized reanimate as body-functional zombies is because the living dead eat only 5 percent of their living victims’ bodies. A zombie rarely finishes his plate when nearby other sources of meat glisten and scent the air to distract zombie desire.

100 PERCENT DESIRE: MADE IN THE USA The imperial dimension of the mummy also suggests that desire is not exactly for the commodity alone, but what it signifies: the mummy signi- fies temporal and cultural otherness on the mummy-market, just as a dress from Paris might signify a connection to European tastes for a prairie-bound debutante. Imagine a time when the modern materialist identity was developing, when the first photographic portraits exteriorized identity, when Sears & Roebuck (who more or less invented the catalogue mail- order system) first delivered to rural and small-town people commodities considered significant of ‘city life’, travel and other privileges.The catalogue itself – even if you couldn’t afford to order its goods – served as a national/izing ‘code guide’ for commodity signification.5 Now this validat- ing sense of ‘connection’ is reflected in an internet web that functions similarly but on a ‘global village’ level, rendering even the mall archaic as a consumerist site. Between ebates online stores, ebay auctions, and amazon.com, a consumer need not leave the house. L.L. Bean offers ‘global navigation’ via its multi-lingual website. Our connection to the world is a virtualized gaze. One Time article I found on ‘web-casts’ was actually titled ‘I’m a Web Zombie’ (Hamilton, 2000).

In the ’70s and ’80s, the mall served as the pre-virtual ‘site’ for urban and heartland citizens-as-consumers alike. Dates began and ended at the mall: buy the outfit at the mall Tuesday, wear it to a restaurant and a movie at the mall Friday night. In Scenes from a Mall (1991), a married couple breaks up and makes up all at the mall. At the mall, we’re supposed to feel legitimized in our commodity culture, each of us part of a seemingly democratic weave of capitalism and individualism. As mall commodities afforded self- expression on one hand, they reinforced standardizing conformist codes on the other. Even those who couldn’t afford the mall’s excess in wares at least knew what they were supposed to desire, to work for so as to consume.“That is so me,” I know I have heard girls say to prom-ready mannequins in over- priced ‘Gunne Sax’,or,planning on losing a few pounds anyway,you bought

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on sale a size too small as motivation. As well, my ‘Mall Fantasia’ imagined privilege and the unaffordable: desire as signifier when the commodity cannot directly signify. What I’d buy if I could. The mall still locates con- sumers on a capitalist landscape and suggests the mythical ‘democracy of goods’.6

My small town marks the midway point between two college towns, but in 1980 most kids my age referred to these only as ‘mall towns’. I was always jealous of kids who went ‘malling’ regularly, and to go to both malls over the course of a single weekend was an excess to be bragged about all week. Girls who wore Gloria Vanderbilt jeans usually had what we called ‘mall hair’ that sizzled with sprays and mousses and de-frizzing oils. The mall made Panama Jacks out of ordinary boys. The mall brought you the Ocean Pacific. And if you could afford it: New Balance laced with neon. In a recent Journal of Social Psychology, the ideology of consumerism is defined as ‘the doctrine that the self cannot be complete without a wealth of consumer goods and that goals can be achieved and problems solved through proper consumption’ (Murphy,2000: 1).We construct for ourselves ‘material identities’, a ‘commodified self-concept’, to the degree that, as products are packaged, so we package ourselves.7 And at the time of Dawn of the Dead, the dawn of the ’80s, the dawn of my teens, I was just coming into a real desperation to fit in, to be popular, to be standardized by mall culture, have all my insecurities solved through a ‘proper consumption’ neither I nor my parents could readily afford. Related or not, the same year I saw Dawn of the Dead I took to shoplifting.

‘THE FALSE SECURITY OF CONSUMER SOCIETY’: ANALYZING ‘DAWN OF THE DEAD’ In Dawn of the Dead, the four ‘runners’ we identify with are two SWAT trooper AWOLs (Roger, and the film’s implied hero Peter) and a couple (Steven, a traffic reporter, and the film’s other implied hero, Fran).8 They have already encountered other armed runners taking a boat ‘to the island’. “What island?”, Steven asks. “Any island”, they answer: “Got a cigarette?”

The four, climbing into Steven’s just-gas’d helicopter, deny this stranger a cigarette, only to light up as soon as he’s gone. Precious commodity, what may be one’s last pack of cigarettes.

They don’t know where they’re going, but martial law makes everyone an outlaw and they know the dead plaguing the earth are not their only problem.

As in Night, Romero the auteur suggests (1) that militaristic power incites racist and hyper-masculine desire for domination and cannot be

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trusted.Peter and Roger have seen militaristic order give way to either racist power-abuse or impotence in the face of zombie-chaos. The first act of violence Romero exposes us to involves a racist white SWAT trooper trigger-happy in a tenement not killing zombies only: “Blow all their Puerto Rican and nigger asses right off,” he screams, follows through, stopped only by Peter’s bullet.

And (2) that what Americans consider an authorial voice is not only commodified but specifically media-constructed (TV/the doctor on TV/images and information produced for consumption/in working capi- talist society signifying ratings and money) and cannot be trusted. In the first scene with Fran, who works at a TV studio, she accuses her supervisor of murder because he is still so obsessed with the threat of viewers ‘tuning out’ that he runs outdated rescue station announcements rather than nothing. On the emergency broadcast, a black talk-show interviewer says to a white doctor of the living dead phenomenon: “I’m not so sure what to believe, Doctor. All we get is what you people tell us.”

Our four ‘runners’ in the traffic reporter’s helicopter land on top of a shopping center, looking for basic necessities like food and perhaps tem- porary shelter. Through rooftop sun windows, our first glimpse into the mall shows random zombies plodding along, pushing a random shopping cart out of the way to roll empty and (in the shot) seemingly without human agency, ‘unmoored’ from purpose and meaning like the zombie consumer himself. As Romero told an interviewer:

The moment we come in and see [the mall], I think it is going to be obvious about the false security of consumer society . . . In this film the people starting to get tempted and attracted by the mall and adopting their military attempts to taking it over . . . these are things that I’ve tried to stay as close as possible to the script. (Document of the Dead, 1989)

The four break into an isolated storage area on an upper level, find boxes full of Spam, complete ‘with its own key’, and consider the booty of goods in the mall shops downstairs.

It is at this point in Dawn that desire comes to be at specific odds with survival for our four runners and, implicitly, the human race. Peter and Fran, both rational and able survivors in the film, respond similarly to the mall. Peter:“There’s an awful lot of stuff down there we could use. Hit and Run?” Fran: “This is exactly what we’re trying to get away from . . . Let’s just take what we need and keep going.” Just as zombie desire for more blinds the contemporary consumer-citizen to socio-political and environmental

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realities nationally and globally, the more basic lesson Fran and Peter will learn from Roger and Steven is that desire for more than what you need induces survival-compromising myopia.

Peter and Fran survive because they resist – better than the others – the consumption of comforts that can never solve their problems. This is evidenced in scenes where they reject fetishized commodities that aren’t ‘real’. For example, when Steven proposes, Fran refuses his ring (a mall- original commodity like everything marking this dinner-for-two scene) because “it wouldn’t be real.” And later Romero’s camera catches Peter ditching his decorative silver rings when he’s called to arm himself, since rings might interfere with his shooting, his basic need to be dexterous so as to protect himself in a ‘real’, by which I mean ‘life or death’, situation. The whole planet is very ‘real’ this way in Romero’s Dead series.

When they find the keys to the mall shops, however, Roger calls them “the keys to the kingdom” and the ‘Spam key’ is put to shame. The score codes the scene with a holy-sounding organ in the key of ascension. Conversely, the zombies at this point get ‘scored’ with the mall’s muzak and for the first time seem non-threatening, slapstick-ish, and more like mind- less shoppers. They are victims of escalators, fascinated with mannequins,9

and when one zombie falls into a wishing-well fountain – his hands full of worthless pennies – Romero’s satire really aims for the brain of the capitalist identity.

The runners, empowered with the kingdom’s keys,now manipulate the zombies in such a way that the roles of zombie consumer and human consumable take on darkly comedic proportions. During their first depart- ment store raid, the runners must enact a sort of ‘false advertising’ – as decoys – in order to maneuver the slow-moving clusters of zombies. After acquiring some necessities (tools, a radio, etc.), they return to the store’s lower level, banging on the door and yelling “Come on! Over here!” and offering themselves to the zombies as consumables. When the zombies gather at this door, the runners hope the upstairs level will be cleared out and maneuverable. For the time being it seems that the desired human con- sumable has one-up on Romero’s walking dead consumer. As they distract the zombies with their brute advertising, a recorded woman’s voice announces over the mall’s intercom:“Why pay more when sales are popping right here?” (and later,“If you have a sweet tooth, we have a treat for you!”).

By blocking the mall’s entrances with semi-trucks and going on a hunt for zombies trapped inside, the four main characters are able to safely (for the moment) set up house in their isolated quarters at the top of a concealed stairwell where they ‘play games of make-up,acting out the roles of elegance

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and wealth (and the attendant stereotypes of gender, class, and race) that they dreamed of, but weren’t able to actually afford, in their previous lives’ (Shaviro,1998: 92). It is also at this point in the script that,Romero explains, ‘the group has become a family, with all the disadvantages of comfortable living, including the inability to communicate with one another’ (Gagne, 1985: 89). Mall Fantasia sets in, for the characters and for me as spectator, and the film proves a thin line between fantasia and stupor.

Part of the film’s appeal when I first saw its trailer as a kid was the idea of four people having a mall all to themselves, and I remember prioritizing all I would do and possess. Romero tempts me with the possibility of rampant consumption, a more polite version of ‘raiding’ and yet not on the same kind of clock as the shopping spree. (On a clock nonetheless, the mall’s centerpiece clock tolling the dawn as the camera pulls back to a zombie-wretched horizon-shot of the shopping center, the ascension score suggesting who the rising power is really: the living dead.) All the while, each character indulges in this consumer utopia and I can’t help but indulge my own fantasy. I would play all the gunfighting and duckhunting and car crashing video games as they did, with an eternity of tokens. And I would go ice skating like Fran with no-one else on the whole rink ever. And I would try caviar. Mink myself in three-way mirrors. And even as I had a hundred television sets how I would miss TV. “Great,” Fran ruins my shutterbugging with her sarcasm,“when you finish the roll we’ll drop it off at the drug store.” And we would wallow in cash and mock the security cameras just as I start to feel oh so insecure.

“We whipped them and we got it all!”Roger insists. During the secur- ing of the mall, Roger gets bitten/infected and now has only a few days before he himself becomes one of them. Steven’s greed surfaces at the film’s end when hog-riding raiders usurp the mall.“It’s ours. We took it,” he says to himself. The shot he fires at them rallies their war cry, gets him shot in return, and left for zombie-bait.

Mall Fantasia proves to be a sort of consumer dementia, and Fran had warned Steven early on,“You’re so hypnotized by this place, all of you. It’s so bright and neatly wrapped you don’t see that it’s a prison too.”The mall encourages excess and extravagance, as Shaviro (1998) points out, the ideology of ‘the more I consume, the more I demand to consume,’ refer- encing the artist Barbara Kruger’s play on words: ‘I shop therefore I am’ (p. 93). And when there’s no more room in hell, the dead will shop on earth. As I referenced earlier, the zombie mode of consumption – though irreverent of the commodity – seems to be just as demanding as the capi- talist mode, paralleling the consumption of useless commodities by the

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American middle class (p. 93). When an army of bikers called ‘raiders’ invades the mall, however, their consumption parallels the zombies while rejecting the middle class (a ‘shirt-and-tie’ display is tossed aside as quickly as it is nabbed). Their consumerism vandalizes; it is not status-driven but an anti-status power kick. After more than basics (like weapons and food), the raiders’ gluttony includes cash, things once significant of cash value (jewelry, silver) and other pointless items (mannequin or bowling ball) taken for the sake of taking.Their class resentment is most evident when the raiders break into a pie shop and attack the living dead mallers with pies-in-their-faces. The raiders’ greed, however, their desire for more than they need, as in mil- itaristic power and if not wealth’s status then capital, results in their gang’s genocide. The zombies’ feast on them is as frenetic and grabby-grabby as the raiders’ previous commodity spree, and other zombies not eating are seen clumsily milling about the mall,knocking over many of the same types of display items that the raiders pillaged.

The mall is now uninhabitable and Peter must fight his way up, up to the second floor, up into an air-shaft to escape the raiders, up the stairwell to their well-stocked and well-protected ‘home’ only to leave it all behind, up that last ladder to the rooftop of the mall where the helicopter waits. Fran, who wisely insisted Steven teach her to fly, pilots the helicopter that will take them up . . . into sky and tomorrow. The score’s ascension motif concludes the film with ambiguous heroism. Peter and Fran survive (imply- ing survival of the human race with Fran’s pregnancy and the helicopter’s retreat into a new day), yet their survival is qualified twofold: (1) the protagonists have already lost ‘something of their own morality as they gun[ned] down the zombies remaining in the mall with a zealous cruelty motivated by material greed’ (Gagne, 1985: 88); and (2) the eminence of zombie desire is apparent as the living dead dominate a shopping center landscape Fran and Peter leave behind.

Credits roll, and the last bit of pie is thrown in the face of consumer society with Romero’s blundering-zombie montage scored by the mall’s ludicrously chirpy muzak.

A COMMODIFIED ‘DAWN’ And yet Romero’s film operates as a commodity itself within the very commodity culture he critiques. Can a director like Romero achieve a film that subverts consumerism without depending on the very systems that construct consumer desire? How could he possibly succeed, unhypocriti- cally, when Dawn is dead-center in a constellation of distributors, advertis- ers and related merchandisers, and when whatever identity-informing

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epiphany I experienced as a spectator had its ticket price? In context of the zombie desire, the irony of this film’s commodification is certainly worth gnawing on.

For instance, in the film, zombies disrupt the capitalist system signified by the mall, but in the film-making, Romero’s contract with the shopping center that served as their primary set stipulated that filming would take place only between 11 pm and 7 am so as not to disrupt the mall’s hours. (As if to insure this, at precisely 7 am every morning the mall’s muzak turned on for an unstoppable business day.) In fact, Romero shut down the operation during December due to valuable shooting time lost taking down and replacing the mall’s Christmas decorations.

Did the mall actually profit from the film? Producer Richard Rubin- stein says this is not the case, but admits:

The owners . . . are getting enough so that it doesn’t cost them anything to have us in here, which is an expensive proposition in itself . . . It’s way beyond our capacity to pay in dollar value what the use of the mall is worth. (Document of the Dead, 1989)

Romero and Rubinstein were surprised that 130 out of 143 stores in the mall so easily gave permission to be pictured in the film (Gagne, 1985: 91). In other words,Romero could be seen as ‘exploiting’ store and brand names in order to make a point about brand-name culture, marking Penney’s, for example, as emblematic of the class system (lower and upper levels) inside which appliances and knock-off fashions reign supreme. As well, Romero’s choice of African ‘tribal’ music to play over the speakers in the mall’s gun shop – his camera focusing on bullet boxes whose packaging features safari- typical animals – codes the gun shop as linked to the very colonialism that the voodoo zombie emerges from. If the mall owners knew that Romero was out to make such a subversive horror movie, to expose ‘the false security of consumer society’, would they have allowed the film-making to take place there? Who knows, but that very mall may well have screened Romero’s films in its theater, profiting in spite of the film’s message. Doing web-research on Romero, I found a link to a site for the ‘Dawn of the Dead Mall: Today’. So Dawn in 2001, ‘unmoored’ from its own narrative, was helping to perpetuate business as usual for the mall it exploited in 1979.

Romero’s zombie/consumer has become so embedded in contem- porary American culture, it could be argued, that the analogy itself has become ‘unmoored’ from its original context and appropriated by the very consumer/capitalist society it sought to subvert. An ad for Stereo Ware- house ‘Presents: Night of the Living Deal’, showing zombie-like consumers

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that keep ‘coming and coming . . . [screams] . . . with big deals’ (Document of the Dead, 1989). This type of intra-cultural cannibalism, it’s safe to assume, is not something Romero would eschew, being an ad-maker himself once and ‘cannibalizing’Fantastic Voyage for his Calgon commercial. In at least one way, consumer culture is the very pulp of Romero’s films,‘pulp’ as in comic books from his childhood which inspired his vision of Dawn, and more directly his later film Creepshow written by Stephen King. These manifes- tations of consumer culture don’t fall under Romero’s critical eye as much as the forces that construct the commodified identity – that media-glazed and name-branded ‘individual’ for whom ‘more’ is always in focus but social realities like homelessness, or any forms of otherness, are distant, invisible, or distorted. In fewer words, to whom what’s not represented in advertisements is not relevant to life.

The essence of capitalism, after all, is zombiefication of citizens into con- sumers,primarily through advertisements. God as creator is eclipsed: ‘We are re-created in the ad’s image.’10We speak in ad-copy, live to ad-rhythms,daily dosed with ad-values. Leslie Savan in The Sponsored Life (1994) offers a boldly Romero-esque diagnosis: ‘Advertising now infects every organ of society’ (p. 1). The ad-spoofing magazine Adbusters extends this complaint beyond American society, anxiously mocking ‘the commercialization of the planet’. Ad-iconography has become a global tongue. At the Museum of Coca-Cola in Atlanta, Georgia, I saw photos of peoples all over the world, including Massai in full tribal gear, having Cokes with their smiles. McHu- manity.

But, in 1979, Dawn of the Dead was not so easy to commodify or adver- tise, when it came down to it. Because of gore enough to earn an X-rating from the MPAA, which Romero considered a ‘skull and crossbones’ that would mis-equate the horror film with pornography, the producers insisted on releasing the film unrated with this self-imposed warning: ‘There is no sex in this picture. However there are scenes of violence which may be considered shocking. No one under 17 will be admitted.’Producer Rubin- stein considered this a responsible approach to informing the public about the film’s content, even if exploitation flicks to come would vary this self- imposed warning as a way of sensationalizing its shocking content.11 Despite one theater circuit refusing to show the unrated Dawn, and a handful of newspapers and television stations refusing to run advertisements, this relatively low-budget film refused to die; it made back $900,000 of its $1.5 million budget in the first weekend and kept its ‘legs’ for months at the box office. Critics and fans alike embraced the independent film in 1979, and upon its 1983 re-release, the decision of United Film Distribution

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(UFD) to cater to the MPAA’s demands for an R rating was met with ‘radical rejection from the long-time cult followers [of the film]’. UFD pulled the edited version and promised in a press release to distribute Dawn ‘in its original state as an unrated picture’. As a sort of ‘anti-commodity’, this underdog film’s refusal to conform to norms of commodification did ‘pay off ’.

Dawn of the Dead – like Night 10 years earlier – earned its profits at the box office and its nobility in the history of independent films as com- modities. Its critical and financial success (including a European edit, and further serialization with Day of the Dead in 1985) is not the issue anyway, because what Romero criticizes in Dawn of the Dead is the false security of consumer society, not necessarily consumer culture itself, or notions of financial reward. Dawn’s huge success as a commodity disproved its era’s assumption that an independent and unrated film is fated to remain under- ground and illegitimate. Credit is due, then, to the innovative and stubborn Romero whose apocalyptic vision of consumer society was successful in subverting consumer norms.

AN APPROPRIATED ‘DAWN’ Above and beyond copyright law and its own profit margin, Dawn’s impact on consumer norms can be considered in terms of its widespread appro- priation. Romero’s vision,‘unmoored’ from his original narrative, has been manipulated by not only the ‘Dawn of the Dead Mall: Today’ and other advertisements, as I pointed out in the last section, but also in film imi- tations (which, even if some are considered ‘rip-offs’, constitute a type of serialization).

Copycat cannibal-zombie tales surfaced like a plague after Romero’s Night of the Living Dead: a mediatic cannibalizing all its own, a ‘zombie new wave’, according to Mikita Brottman (1998), since which it’s become ‘almost de rigeur for movie zombies to be . . . more aggressively cannibalis- tic than their originals’ (pp. 68–9).The cannibal element of the postmodern zombie originated with Night, but the popular perception of that canni- balism as an ironic sort of cautionary tale for American consumers, as I have stressed, is strictly Dawn’s. The Simpsons may parody Night’s cannibal- zombies in a Halloween special, but they conclude with a cautionary punchline according to Dawn: returned post-Nightmare to their couch in front of the TV, they are thankful – as their eyes glaze over – that “at least [they’re] not zombies”. More thoroughly embedded in the American mind than any other zombie tale, voodoo to Night, the profound pointlessness of zombies in a mall, that allegory Shaviro (1998) calls contagious, emerges in

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popular culture again and again and always leaving at least the residue of Dawn’s critique of the false security of consumer society.

City of the Walking Dead (Lenzi, 1980),The Video Dead (Scott, 1986) and Return of the Living Dead (O’Bannon, 1985) are examples of ‘rip-offs’ of Dawn of the Dead, while The Stuff (Cohen, 1985) and American Psycho (Harron, 2000) offer hybridized variations on Romero’s zombie. A can- vassing of these films should illuminate Dawn of the Dead as a masterpiece exploited but more: as a tale disseminated, an allegory mutated, an anti- commodity serially re-commodified into an ideological trend.

Umberto Lenzi’s Spanish/Italian production of City of the Walking Dead was the first Dawn-derived ‘rip-off ’, qualified as such because Lenzi does little more than restate the narrative he lifts. The residue of social critique is evident in Lenzi’s climax at an amusement park, not so amusing without ticket sales and roller coaster operators. When a TV studio is invaded by zombies, the dance show’s commodified bodies are literally consumed before cameras that – abandoned – continue to film the gory disco scene for televiewer consumption.

In a later American ‘rip-off ’The Video Dead, directed by Robert Scott, a haunted television insists on airing a Night-like zombie flick that literally breaks out of the confines of ‘the box’.12 The zombies – like Romero’s in that clothes code them with social roles (wedding gown, suit, greaser haircut) – are distinct in that they laugh together over their torture and/or cannibalization of human victims. The film mocks ad culture when a housewife opens the lid to her washing machine and out pops a zombie bride to consume her, leaving the remains to ‘come out in the rinse’. The murdered woman’s husband is still in bed with the newspaper, all the while, reading to her about “the stock that Phillipe the bus boy at the country club told [him] about”. When at this exact point zombie bride twists his head off, chuckling, the film is clearly punishing middle-class privilege.

By the time The Video Dead was released in 1986, most malls rep- resented in films were of the Encino ilk, as immortalized in Moon Zappa’s 1982 hit ‘Valley Girl’ and a hit movie of the same name (1983). An ’80s mall-stereotype in miniskirts and white pumps (with little ankle socks) wielding daddy’s credit card, the character April in The Video Dead exem- plifies this mind-numbed kind of conformity.13 I was then 16 years old in the Midwest, and my friends and I called mall girls ‘fluffs’ and identified with horror’s anti-social characters coded – like this film’s anti-hero – ‘punk’.

Punk and zombie anarchies collided a year earlier in Return of the Living Dead (O’Bannon, 1985). Released the same year as Romero’s Day of the

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Dead, with original script written by John Russo (co-writer of Night), this horror-comedy invited a legal suit against the film over its title – i.e. a court battle over appropriation/commodification. O’Bannon’s Return, which locates the postmodern zombie in the commodity culture of medicine and funereal practice, better serves as an example of what Shaviro (1998) examines in Dawn as ‘the rebellion of death against capitalist appropriation . . . Our society endeavors to transform death into value, but the zombies enact a radical refusal’ (p. 84). It is punk culture’s morbid aesthetics and social irruption that places it so appropriately in this zombie cult of anarchic death. When the toxic fumes of the breached storage tanks per- meate the warehouse, mounted butterflies and split dogs and cadavers on hooks all re-animate – like the mummy – to defy their status as objects of exchange.

“Are you eating it, or is it eating you?” asks The Stuff, directed by Larry Cohen (It’s Alive), a hybridization of postmodern zombie, cold-war body snatchers, and the Blob. An identity-subsuming commodity in the form of a creamy dessert, marketed as The Stuff, can move on its own much like The Blob, but has the reason and motivation of the pods in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It is a commodity not necessarily capable of the work of empire without human agency, but capable of infecting and manipulating humans for agency through empire. According to the video box,The Stuff ’s addictive presence in American society is an ‘invasion of brand-name body snatchers’:

An ice cream industry saboteur and a junk food mogul attempt to uncover the manufacturing secrets of The Stuff. They soon discover the horrifying truth . . . that it is a living and all- consuming parasite that turns its hosts into walking zombies!

As with pod persons, the ‘stuffed’ in The Stuff are part of a cognoscenti that seeks national and perhaps global indoctrination, motivated – unlike pod persons – by zombie desire for ‘more’, more ‘stuff ’. Bubbling up from the ground, The Stuff is discovered as a strange ‘natural resource’ (much like pods) and yet refigured into the consumer structure (like the mummy) as an object not originally produced for exchange. In The Stuff, ads for The Stuff feature celebrities Brooke Adams and Tammy Grimes, and Wendy’s “Where’s the Beef” lady who revises her pitch: “Where’s The Stuff?” The jingle everyone knows (“Can’t get enough – of The Stuff!”) is like the old Lays’ potato chips line about not being able to have “just one”. This brand of consumer excess again suggests the ideological standpoint that ‘the more I consume, the more I demand to consume’. To further this theme, our

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‘industrial saboteur’ protagonist introduces himself as Mo because “Every time people give me money I always want mo’.”

Even as it exploits business, The Stuff disrupts it, as a cancer or clog. The Stuff ’s town-of-origin perishes when vacated by its ‘stuffed’ residents. Supermarkets everywhere seem to be forsaking all other products but The Stuff. And Chocolate Chip Charlie (an allusion to indie-entrepeneur ‘Famous Amos’) is posited as a victim of The Stuff in terms of its takeover of his company (and eventually his body and identity).“We don’t get tired now that we’ve been eating properly,” the kid-hero’s mother says with a sales-pitch smile. Jason bucks his family’s pressure to conform to habits of proper consumption as a means to “kill the bad things inside of us”, asking them outright: “Why are you talking like you’re in a commercial?”

Romero may have intended for Dawn to reflect the materialistic ‘me’ generation of the ’70s, but his mall zombie more accurately anticipated the ’80s. What Dawn predicted in 1979, the habit-forming Stuff reflected about the ’80s at that very time . . . a period theme Mary Harron’s American Psycho (2000) locates on Wall Street and satirizes in hindsight.Based on Bret Easton Ellis’s controversy-eclipsed satire of ’80s status consumerism, American Psycho converges serial killing and zombie desire in stockbroker/cannibal Patrick Bateman (played by Christian Bale). Linda S. Kauffman (2001) in Film Quarterly spits criticism back at reviewers who did not appreciate Ellis’s and Harron’s satiric motifs: ‘the craven addiction to sex and commodities, the convergence of consumerism and psychosis in alienating urban environ- ments . . . Reviewers . . . ignored the fact that cannibalism was a metaphor for the conspicuous consumption of Ronald Reagan’s America in the 1980s’ (p. 41).14 Just as Romero’s zombie can be read as ‘the commodified identity’ with its desire-fuse blown, so Bateman as serial killer can be read as: ‘the conspicuous consumer run amok’ (p. 45). Either way it’s con- sumerism with a body count.

Zombie desire to consume consume consume is in a Kauffman phrase: ‘serial consumption’ (1998: 248). But this serial killer’s motivations for ‘more’must be distinct from the zombie who has broken from our culture’s codes for ‘humanity’. Patrick Bateman has not broken from this system of codes, but is broken into and by a hyper-entitled version of it. ‘American Psycho resembles a novelistic version of Consumer Reports’,Kauffman says of the novel, reminding us how far we are from the days of Sears & Roebuck catalogues. ‘It is a how-to guide to the best clothes, food, furniture, stereo components, rock and music videos money can buy . . .’ (p. 246). Spending as much as 17 pages describing beauty products, the novel is as excessive in its violence as its glorification of status symbols; Bateman simultaneously

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extols brand name weaponry and mainstream music, like Phil Collins and Whitney Houston, during killings. He is a contemporary cannibal on a ‘chopping spree’, as one film review puts it (Glieberman, 2000: 46). There’s a decapitated head in the freezer next to the sorbet.Your business card says more about who you are than who you are: watermark trumps hard body. According to The Journal of Social Psychology:

. . . commercialized culture has stressed the material self to such a degree that individuals often see themselves, or conceive of themselves, as objects or commodities. They are left with what has been termed here a commodified self-concept, which is similar to Fromm’s (1955) conception of a market-oriented person:

He does not experience himself as an active agent, as the bearer of human powers. He is alienated from these powers. His aim is to sell himself successfully on the market . . . His body, his mind, and his soul are his capital. (Murphy, 2000: 637–8)

Unlike the zombie, this serial consumer/cannibal has a human psych- ology, even if he has lost touch with reality. We are trapped in the mind of someone who has ‘invent[ed] a world where clothes and money and brand names are the value system . . . but’, horror director David Cronenberg interprets Ellis’s novel, ‘inside that mind there is an awareness that it is all meaningless and artificial . . . And the murders, the hideousness, are an attempt to break out of that, to try to shatter it and connect with some- thing real’ (Kauffman, 2001: 42). Patrick Bateman is a market-oriented monster, a psychotic incarnation of zombie desire, waging sadism on a society that thinks of itself ‘as a market rather than as a public, as consumers rather than as citizens’ (Kauffman, 1998: 244).

And yet this satiric film operates as a commodity itself within the very commodity culture Harron exposes. Her indie-feature, compared to the more prototypical indie film-making of Dawn of the Dead 20 years earlier, doesn’t bear the weight of this hypocrisy nearly as well, but then times – like box office and home viewing trends – have changed.

Underdogs, Mary Harron and co-writer Guinivere Turner pitched American Psycho for years, the landmark controversy surrounding the novel isolating all studios but – eventually – Lion’s Gate who were ‘looking to graduate from art-house fare . . . to what Lion’s Gate Releasing co-presi- dent Tom Ortenberg calls “hip, edgy, commercially relevant films” ’ (Baldwin,2000: 36). Controversy,however commercially relevant,got in the

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way of the adaptation’s subversive resemblance to Consumer Reports, there- fore diminishing Harron’s satirization. The ‘Holly-Poli-Sci’ of turn-of-the- century film-making makes 1979 look contractually innocent; song rights and product placement cost American Psycho if not outrageous sums of money then – without the novel’s catalogue of status symbols – a sense of ’80s authenticity. Companies like Calvin Klein, Stolichnaya, Barneys and Sweet’n’Low declined Harron’s requests to use their products or brand names, and she admits, ‘The film has suffered from this – the brand-name quotient is lamentably low’ (p. 38). As for Harron’s location, she takes on more than a contract with a mall. Already the biggest production to date for Lion’s Gate, Harron’s $10 million movie was forced to build its own office set when bank buildings serving as Bateman’s office decided to refuse the production access. From the very first week, nearly every place the location manager had started to book was calling with ‘whiny little excuses’ (p. 37). These problems cost the film an extra $700,000.

The MPAA, as with Dawn of the Dead, slapped American Psycho with the contemporary equivalent of an X (an NC-17). Harron’s hands were tied, but she re-edited the film for a commercially viable R rating in theaters, knowing that many who see the film in theaters will also rent the uncut DVD to see what they missed, a technologically modern dimension of commodification that could not have consoled Romero in 1979.

Ultimately, of course, the film Lion’s Gate hoped would be its Miramax-maker indeed made such profits. The film’s controversy vexed production, and, like the novel, invited censorship, yet this very fact made it ‘commercially relevant’, a commodity made desirable because it is sold as a sort of hip transgression. ‘“All the behind-the-scenes brou-ha-ha [is] a tool to sell tickets”, says Lion’s Gate’ (Baldwin, 2000: 38).

Romero’s innovation in subverting capitalist values and making a profit at the same time occurred 20 years before indie films moved into the main- stream, a cultural and economic shift that raised the stakes for – and stock- value of – Harron’s similar satire. American Psycho satirizes ’80s status culture with a stalker on the stock market, while Lion’s Gate in 2000 ‘offer[s] cash dividends to moviegoers who invest virtual shares in American Psycho on the Hollywood Stock Exchange website – provided the film scares up at least $20 million in four weeks at the box office’ (Baldwin, 2000: 36). It is more difficult to see Harron’s indie film as a ‘David’ when it ends up serving the very Goliath it’s supposedly mocking.15

From the point-of-view of the film’s distributor, controversial content constitutes a marketing strategy, as Dawn of the Dead unintentionally proved with its ‘self-imposed warning’. ‘People dare not go to a cocktail party’, the

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distributor boasts, ‘and not have their own opinion about American Psycho’ (Baldwin, 2000: 38). Harron must position her film dead-center in a con- stellation of producers, distributors, and advertisers more hostile than Romero’s ‘insular little “family” of friends and contributors’ (Gagne, 1985: 101). In 2000, when the film and its controversy become significant for American consumer-citizens just like the products Patrick Bateman depends on to ‘signify’ himself at cocktail parties and the finest restaurants, then producers and distributors (if not the director) have succeeded.

Harron says she first conceived of her film as a period piece, the ’80s for her ‘a bygone time – a kind of weird madness that was long over. “It’s odd”, she concludes,“how much has returned; the culture of spending that has come back is amazing. Society just seems to be awash in money” ’ (Kauffman, 2001: 45). Harron echoes an earlier interview with Romero (Curci, 1992) in which he prophesies the turn of the millennium:

I don’t know what zombies of the year 2000 will be like. I had this dream, a nightmare rather, of the homeless walking through the deserted streets of an American metropolis. People were eating and drinking in restaurants, and paying no attention to what was going on in the middle of the street. (p. 127)

CONCLUSION Dawn of the Dead encored at our town’s little theater a few years later, and I was there again.By this time I was more than a regular movie-goer;movies were my life. My mother no longer had to come to the ticket window to get me into R rated movies, even if once or twice when I had bad dreams16

she had to climb into bed with me. When I dreamt about the living dead plaguing my own world of loved ones and cultural icons, I woke with the greatest sense of anxiety and loneliness.

In Billie Sue Mosiman’s (1998) personal essay on the Body Snatchers series, she touches on what I was feeling as a spectator of Dawn of the Dead. ‘If aliens don’t show up and take over human bodies, there are other perhaps even more horrifying threats waiting . . .’ She mentions the wife who dis- covers her husband is not whom she thought, but is an abuser or a cheat. She mentions the kids who grow into strangers. ‘If none of that comes to pass and we live to ripe old ages’, she concludes, ‘surely the darkness will creep over our minds toward the end and render us incapable of recog- nizing our closest and dearest kin’ (pp. 58–9).What so horrifies me in Dawn of the Dead is that we cannot blame an alien force, nature, or God, for the darkness creeping over humanity’s consciousness; it’s our bad karma. In

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Night, radioactivity is blamed,but Dawn points toward a spiritual bankruptcy when its promo quotes one of the film’s heroes: “When there’s no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.” And they will come as they are, to the mall. More so than the body-snatched, than the everyday serial killer, the postmodern zombie is the postmodern identity completely disengaged from a system of commodities-as-code for humanity, a system I depend on to declare who I am in a consumer culture of ‘individuals’.

When the moon over the mall wanes irrelevant, all together we each will be absolute and alone.

Perhaps, Mr Romero, that sensation of anxiety and alienation I felt watching your film, which only reminded me of the growing anxiety and alienation I already felt in commodified society, instilled in me a suspicion of my own zombie desire.

Even so, in the dark, consuming your body of films . . . especially that night watching my very first post-apocalyptic vision unfold in Dawn of the Dead . . . I’d never felt so alone as I did when I imagined my mother indif- ferent to her cigarettes and her novels. Or me, never again to crave the next movie.

Notes 1. Other than the wider conflict between humans and zombies, the primary conflict

in Night is over control of the farmhouse, the protagonists’ temporary shelter from the newly plagued world. In casting ‘the best actor for the part’ who happened to be black, this struggle for power between the heroic black character and the white patriarchal male ended up reflecting the tense politics of integration at the time. Night ends with only the black character surviving, until he is mistaken for a ‘zombie other’ and shot by the white and militaristic posse who seem to be restoring order to the world.

2. I do not claim that my epiphanic spectatorship of Dawn is typical, but in featuring my personal experience within consumer society, especially during my formative, adolescent years, i.e. clarifying my subject position as a working-class kid, I hope to make more evocative the impact of a film that tackles consumer society’s influence on mass and personal identity.

3. Thanks to Joan Hawkins for this insight into Invasion of the Body Snatchers. 4. In The Hunger for More (1989), Shames considers productivity growth and

economic history to suggest that we are running out of more now that we’ve developed ‘a habit’ for it, a craving ‘there in the national bloodstream, a remnant of the frontier . . . a two hundred year dependency on a drug that was now [for baby boomers in the ’80s] in short supply.’ In the movie The Stuff, which I discuss later, an addictive and mind-controlling dessert is marketed as ‘The taste that makes you hungry for more.’

5. ‘The Sears’ Catalogue and the Bible’ – according to the ‘American Experience’ documentary Mr. Sears’Catalogue (Gray and Levis, 1989), ‘in much of rural

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America, those were the only two pieces of literature in the home’. Like the mall ahead of him, Sears offered variety and the latest styles, and at the same time ‘he did a great deal as a merchant to homogenize America, as the rural [people] could have the same things that people bought in town.’

6. Roland Marchand’s Advertising the American Dream:Making Way for Modernity 1920–1940 (1985) defines the ‘Democracy of Goods’ as a parable according to which ‘the wonders of modern mass production and distribution enabled every person to enjoy the society’s most significant pleasure, convenience, or benefit’ (p. 12).

7. Like products fighting for their place on the shelf, individuals have had to recreate or at least represent themselves in order to seem both desirable and safe. Moreover many jobs have been said to depersonalize individuals and to make them part of a packaged service experience.

Here,Thomas Hine (from the opening chapter of his book, The Total Package, 1995: 11) suggests a thin line between consumer and consumable (a confusion exaggerated by the zombie allegory). If identifiable commodity and consumer identity are so blurred, then terms in this essay like consumer identity, commodified identify and commodified self-concept are relatively interchangeable.

8. Peter (Ken Foree), Fran (Gaylen Ross), Roger (Scott H. Reiniger) and Steven (David Emge). Much is made of Romero’s casting a ‘black hero’ in Night, casting a black man and a pregnant white woman as survivors in Dawn, and casting a white woman and a black man/white man (coded couple) in Day. I will not delve into these specific aspects of representation in Romero’s Dead series, but I acknowledge them as foundational to the films’ successes as progressive horror films in a genre and film industry troubled by racism, misogyny and homophobia.

9. Mannequins are a motif in Dawn, further stressing the zombie/cannibal consumers as simulacral doubles of human/economic consumers.

10. See the documentary Signals to Noise (Mertes, 1995), a PBS (Public Broadcasting Service) special on media: advertising (part one) and the news (part two). In part one: ‘Ads sell a lot more than products. They sell a whole system of values and a whole set of do’s and don’ts about life. Slowly over time we are recreated in the ad’s image.’ Also see Leslie Savan’s 1994 book The Sponsored Life:Ads,TV and American Culture: ‘Commercial culture sells our own experiences back to us . . . ones reconstituted inside us, mixing the most intimate processes of individual thought with commercial values’ (p. 1).

11. See Gagne (1985: 100). Dawn’s self-imposed warning did not necessarily start a brand new advertising trend of framing film-experiences with warnings about controversial content (which Hitchcock and William Castle were good at), but for an unrated feature in the late ’70s, Dawn revitalized ‘graphic violence warnings’ in a new era of mostly exploitative, independent features like the Faces of Death series.

12. Lamberto Bava’s Demons (1985) and Demons 2 (1986) also play on this theme of movie/TV as commodified reality infiltrating the ‘real life’ of the spectator- characters, but The Video Dead would probably be considered an even lower-shelf

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title in the scheme of low-budget horror, making evidence in the film of Dawn- like ‘class resentment’ pertinent here.

13. April says of her name: “Don’t you hate it? Sounds like the smell they put on Kleenex.” For fun descriptions of valley girls, ‘punks translated to TV’, malls ‘bigger than cathedrals and more revered’, ‘mall walkers’, Gunne Sax, and other aspects of ’70s/’80s popular culture, see the encyclopedic Retrohell by the editors of Ben Is Dead magazine (1997).

14. Kauffman’s complaint reminds me of that of Michael Weldon concerning Mother’s Day (Kaufman, 1981). In this X-rated (self-imposed) film, two backwoods brothers, whose house is described by Weldon (1983) as a ‘riot of consumer products’, occasionally rape and kill (“Just like I seen on TV”, one of them says) under the supervision of their aged mother.

Of all the violent films released in the last few years, none has received reviews so unfairly reviling as Mother’s Day. None of the critics mentioned or even seemed to recognize the satirical point of this admittedly twisted comedy – that it is the ‘launderized’ violence performed by the bland villains of television that makes a violent society livable, more than any gore show. (p. 487)

15. Actor Bale says American Psycho ‘has become something of a benchmark for indie films – a David and Goliath thing where people feel, rightly or wrongly, that David triumphed’ (Baldwin, 2000: 37). He may just be glad that Lion’s Gate didn’t succeed in casting Leonardo Di Caprio as it wanted to – despite Harron’s original verbal commitment to casting Bale.

16. Like many other kids in the ’80s, my anxiety about nuclear war informed many bad dreams, especially after Armageddon predictions heard at church, and television movies about nuclear war like The Day After (Meyer, 1983). The nuclear winter my dreams imagined was remarkably similar to the landscape in Romero’s Dead movies.

References Aizenberg, Edna (1999) ‘“I Walked with a Zombie”: The Pleasures and Perils of Post-

Colonial Hybridity’, World Literature Today, Summer, 73(3): 461–7. Baldwin,Kristen (2000) ‘Psychodrama’, Entertainment Weekly, 24 April: pp. 36–8. Ben Is Dead magazine eds (1997) Retrohell:Life in the 70s and 80s, from Afros to Zotz.

Boston, MA: Little,Brown & Company. Brottman, Mikita (1998) Meat Is Murder:An Illustrated Guide to Cannibal Culture.

London: Creation Books International. Curci, Loris (1992) Shock Masters of the Cinema. Toronto: Fantasma Books. Daly, Nicholas (1994) ‘That Obscure Object of Desire: Victorian Commodity Culture

and Fictions of the Mummy’, Novel:A Forum on Fiction, Fall, 28(1): 24–52. Gagne, Paul R. (1985) The Zombies That Ate Pittsburgh. New York: Dodd, Mead &

Company. Glieberman, Owen (2000) ‘Chopping Spree’, Entertainment Weekly, 14 April: 46–7. Hamilton, Anita (2000) ‘I’m a Web Zombie’, Time, 31 July, 156(5): 66. Hine,Thomas (1995) The Total Package:The Evolution and Secret Meanings of Boxes,

Bottles, Cans, and Tubes. Boston, MA: Little,Brown & Company.

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Kauffman, Linda (1998) ‘Masked Passions: Meese,Mercy, and American Psycho’, in Bad Boys and Sick Girls: Fantasies in Contemporary Art and Culture, pp. 228–61. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Kauffman, Linda (2001) ‘American Psycho Review’, Film Quarterly 54(2): 41–5. Marchand, Roland (1985) Advertising the American Dream:Making Way for Modernity

1920–1940. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mosiman,Billie Sue (1998) ‘They Came from Another World’, in Kevin McCarthy

and Ed Gorman (eds) ‘They’re Here’: Invasion of the Body Snatchers:A Tribute. New York: Berkeley Publishing.

Murphy, Patricia L. (2000) ‘The Commodified Self in Consumer Culture: A Cross- Cultural Perspective’, Journal of Social Psychology, October, 140(5): 636–738.

Rogin, Michael Paul (1989) ‘Kiss Me Deadly: Communism, Motherhood and the Cold War’, in Al LaValley (ed.) Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Rutgers Films in Print Series). New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press.

Savan, Leslie (1994) The Sponsored Life:Ads,TV and American Culture. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Shames, Laurence (1989) The Hunger for More. New York: Times Books/Random House.

Shaviro, Steven (1998) ‘Contagious Allegories: George Romero’, in The Cinematic Body, pp. 83–103. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Weldon, Michael J. (1983) The Psychotronic Encyclopedia. New York: Ballantine Books/Random House.

Films and documentaries American Psycho (2000) Mary Harron. Atomic Café (1982) Kevin Rafferty, Jayne Loader and Pierce Rafferty. City of the Walking Dead (1980) Umberto Lenzi. Creepshow (1982)George A. Romero. Dawn of the Dead (1979) George A. Romero. Day of the Dead (1985) George A. Romero. Demons (1985) Lamberto Bava. Demons 2 (1986) Lamberto Bava. Document of the Dead (1989) Roy Frumkes. Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) Don Siegel. Mother’s Day (1981) Charles Kaufman. Mr. Sears’Catalogue (1989) Edward Gray and Ken Levis. Night of the Living Dead (1968) George A. Romero. Return of the Living Dead (1985) Dan O’Bannon. Scenes from a Mall (1991) Paul Mazursky Signals to Noise (1995) Cara Mertes. The Day After (1983) Nicholas Meyer The Stuff (1985) Larry Cohen. The Thing (1951) Howard Hawks. Valley Girl (1983) Martha Coolidge. The Video Dead (1986) Robert Scott. White Zombie (1932) Victor Halperin.

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A. Loudermilk (aka T.C . Jones) teaches creative writing and composition at Indiana University. His poems and nonfiction appear in Tin House, The M ississippi Review , The Madison Review (as w inner of the Phyllis Smart Young Prize in Poetry), Rhino, Journal X, River Teeth, The Journal of Sexuality & Culture, and the anthologies Car Crash Culture and We the Other Victorians. His poetry collection The Daughterliest Son won the 2001 Swan Scythe Press Chapbook Contest. Address: T.C . Jones, 706 South Park Avenue, Bloomington, IN 47401, USA . [email: [email protected]]

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Why Do States Build Nuclear Weapons?: Three Models in Search of a Bomb Author(s): Scott D. Sagan Source: International Security, Vol. 21, No. 3 (Winter, 1996-1997), pp. 54-86 Published by: The MIT Press Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2539273 . Accessed: 08/01/2011 20:43

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Why Do States Build Scott D. Sagan

Nuclear Weapons? Three Models in Search of a Bomb

Why do states build nuclear weapons? Having an accurate answer to this question is critically important both for predicting the long-term future of international security and for current foreign policy efforts to prevent the spread of nuclear weapons. Yet given the importance of this central proliferation puzzle, it is surprising how little sustained attention has been devoted to examining and comparing alter- native answers.

This lack of critical attention is not due to a lack of information: there is now a large literature on nuclear decision-making inside the states that have devel- oped nuclear weapons and a smaller, but still significant, set of case studies of states' decisions to refrain from developing nuclear weapons. Instead, the inattention appears to have been caused by the emergence of a near-consensus that the answer is obvious. Many U.S. policymakers and most international relations scholars have a clear and simple answer to the proliferation puzzle: states will seek to develop nuclear weapons when they face a significant military threat to their security that cannot be met through alternative means; if they do not face such threats, they will willingly remain non-nuclear states.1

Scott D. Sagan is Associate Professor of Political Science and a faculty associate of the Center for International Security and Arms Control at Stanford University.

I greatly benefited from discussions about earlier drafts of this article at seminars at the Aspen Strategy Group, the Institute for Defense Analysis, the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, the Monterey Institute of International Studies, the Olin Institute for Strategic Studies, and the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute. For especially detailed comments and criticisms, I thank Itty Abraham, Eric Arnett, Michael Barletta, George Bunn, Colin Elman, Miriam Fendius Elman, Peter Feaver, Harald Muller, George Perkovich, Jessica Stern, and Bradley Thayer. Benjamin Olding and Nora Bensahel provided excellent research assistance. Support for this research was provided by the W. Alton Jones Foundation and the Institute for Defense Analysis.

1. Among policymakers, John Deutsch presents the most unadorned summary of the basic argu- ment that "the fundamental motivation to seek a weapon is the perception that national security will be improved." John M. Deutsch, "The New Nuclear Threat," Foreign Affairs, Vol. 71, No. 41 (Fall 1992), pp. 124-125. Also see George Shultz, "Preventing the Proliferation of Nuclear Weap- ons," Department of State Bulletin, Vol. 84, No. 2093 (December 1984), pp. 17-21. For examples of the dominant paradigm among scholars, see Michael M. May, "Nuclear Weapons Supply and Demand," American Scientist, Vol. 82, No. 6 (November-December 1994), pp. 526-537; Bradley A. Thayer, "The Causes of Nuclear Proliferation and the Nonproliferation Regime," Security Studies, Vol. 4, No. 3 (Spring 1995), pp. 463-519; Benjamin Frankel, "The Brooding Shadow: Systemic Incentives and Nuclear Weapons Proliferation," and Richard K. Betts, "Paranoids, Pygmies, Pari- ahs, and Nonproliferation Revisited," both in Zachary S. Davis and Benjamin Frankel, eds. The

International Security, Vol. 21, No. 3 (Winter 1996/97), pp. 54-86 ? 1996 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

54

Why Do States Build Nuclear Weapons? | 55

The central purpose of this article is to challenge this conventional wisdom about nuclear proliferation. I argue that the consensus view, focusing on na- tional security considerations as the cause of proliferation, is dangerously inadequate because nuclear weapons programs also serve other, more paro- chial and less obvious objectives. Nuclear weapons, like other weapons, are more than tools of national security; they are political objects of considerable importance in domestic debates and internal bureaucratic struggles and can also serve as international normative symbols of modernity and identity.

The body of this article examines three alternative theoretical frameworks- what I call "models" in the very informal sense of the term-about why states decide to build or refrain from developing nuclear weapons: "the security model," according to which states build nuclear weapons to increase national security against foreign threats, especially nuclear threats; "the domestic poli- tics model," which envisions nuclear weapons as political tools used to ad- vance parochial domestic and bureaucratic interests; and "the norms model," under which nuclear weapons decisions are made because weapons acquisi- tion, or restraint in weapons development, provides an important normative symbol of a state's modernity and identity. Although many of the ideas under- lying these models exist in the vast case-study and proliferation-policy litera- tures, they have not been adequately analyzed, nor placed in a comparative theoretical framework, nor properly evaluated against empirical evidence. When I discuss these models, therefore, I compare their theoretical conceptions of the causes of weapons development, present alternative interpretations of the history of some major proliferation decisions, and contrast the models' implications for nonproliferation policy. The article concludes with an outline of a research agenda for future proliferation studies and an examination of the policy dilemmas produced by the existence of these three proliferation models.

It is important to recognize from the start that the nuclear proliferation problem will be a critical problem in international security for the foreseeable future. Despite the successful 1995 agreement to have a permanent extension of the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty (NPT), there will be continuing NPT review conferences assessing the implementation of the treaty every five years; each member state can legally withdraw from the treaty, under the "supreme national interest" clause, if it gives three months notice; and many new states

Proliferation Puzzle, special issue of Security Studies, Vol. 2, No, 3/4 (Spring/Summer 1993), pp. 37-38 and pp. 100-124; and David Gompert, Kenneth Watman, amd Dean Wilkening, "Nuclear First Use Revisited," Survival, Vol. 37, No. 3 (Autumn 1995), p. 39.

International Security 21:3 | 56

can be expected to develop a "latent nuclear weapons capability" over the coming decade. Indeed, some fifty-seven states now operate or are constructing nuclear power or research reactors, and it has been estimated that about thirty countries today have the necessary industrial infrastructure and scientific ex- pertise to build nuclear weapons on a crash basis if they chose to do so.2 The NPT encourages this long-term trend by promoting the development of power reactors in exchange for the imposition of safeguards on the resulting nuclear materials. This suggests that while most attention concerning proliferation in the immediate-term has appropriately focused on controlling nuclear materials in the former Soviet Union and preventing the small number of active prolif- erators (such as Iraq, Iran, Libya, and North Korea) that currently appear to have vigorous nuclear weapons programs from getting the bomb, the longer- term and enduring proliferation problem will be ensuring that the larger and continually growing number of latent nuclear states maintain their non-nuclear weapons status. This underscores the policy importance of addressing the sources of the political demand for nuclear weapons, rather than focusing primarily on efforts to safeguard existing stockpiles of nuclear materials and to restrict the supply of specific weapons technology from the "haves" to the "have-nots."

If my arguments and evidence concerning the three models of proliferation are correct, however, any future demand-side nonproliferation strategy will face inherent contradictions. For, in contrast to the views of scholars who claim that a traditional realist theory focusing on security threats explains all cases of proliferation and nuclear restraint,3 I believe that the historical record sug- gests that each theory explains some past cases quite well and others quite poorly. Unfortunately, since the theories provide different and often contradic- tory lessons for U.S. nonproliferation policy, this suggests that policies designed to address one future proliferation problem will exacerbate others. As I discuss in more detail below, particularly severe tensions are likely to emerge in the future between U.S. extended deterrence policies designed to address security

2. See Steve Fetter, "Verifying Nuclear Disarmament," Occasional Paper No. 29, Henry L. Stimson Center, Washington, D.C., October 1996, p. 38; and "Affiliations and Nuclear Activities of 172 NPT Parties," Arms Control Today, Vol. 25, No. 2 (March 1995), pp. 33-36. For earlier pioneering efforts to assess nuclear weapons latent capability and demand, see Stephen M. Meyer, The Dynamics of Nuclear Proliferation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984); and William C. Potter, Nuclear Power and Nonproliferation (Cambridge, Mass: Oelgeschlager, Gunn and Hain, 1982). 3. For example, May, "Nuclear Weapons Supply and Demand"; Thayer, "The Causes of Nuclear Proliferation and the Nonproliferation Regime"; and Frankel, "The Brooding Shadow: Systemic Incentives and Nuclear Weapons Proliferation."

Why Do States Build Nuclear Weapons? | 57

concerns of potential proliferators and U.S. NPT policies designed to maintain and enhance international norms against nuclear use and acquisition.

The Security Model: Nuclear Weapons and International Threats

According to neorealist theory in political science, states exist in an anarchical international system and must therefore rely on self-help to protect their sov- ereignty and national security.4 Because of the enormous destructive power of nuclear weapons, any state that seeks to maintain its national security must balance against any rival state that develops nuclear weapons by gaining access to a nuclear deterrent itself. This can produce two policies. First, strong states do what they can: they can pursue a form of internal balancing by adopting the costly, but self-sufficient, policy of developing their own nuclear weapons. Second, weak states do what they must: they can join a balancing alliance with a nuclear power, utilizing a promise of nuclear retaliation by that ally as a means of extended deterrence. For such states, acquiring a nuclear ally may be the only option available, but the policy inevitably raises questions about the credibility of extended deterrence guarantees, since the nuclear power would also fear retaliation if it responded to an attack on its ally.

Although nuclear weapons could also be developed to serve either as deter- rents against overwhelming conventional military threats or as coercive tools to compel changes in the status quo, the simple focus on states' responses to emerging nuclear threats is the most common and most parsimonious expla- nation for nuclear weapons proliferation.5 George Shultz once nicely summa- rized the argument: "Proliferation begets proliferation."6 Every time one state develops nuclear weapons to balance against its main rival, it also creates a

4. The seminal text of neorealism remains Kenneth N. Waltz, Theory of International Politics (New York: Random House, 1979). Also see Kenneth N. Waltz, "The Origins of War in Neorealist Theory," in Robert I. Rotberg and Theodore K. Rabb, eds., The Origin and Prevention of Major Wars (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 39-52; and Robert 0. Keohane, ed., Neorealism and Its Critics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986). 5. The Israeli, and possibly the Pakistani, nuclear weapons decisions might be the best examples of defensive responses to conventional security threats; Iraq, and possibly North Korea, might be the best examples of the offensive coercive threat motivation. On the status quo bias in neorealist theory in general, see Randall L. Schweller, "Bandwagoning for Profit: Bringing the Revisionist State Back In," International Security, Vol. 19, No. 1 (Summer 1994), pp. 72-107, and Richard Rosecrance and Arthur A. Stein, eds., The Domestic Bases of Grand Strategy (Ithaca, N.Y: Cornell University Press, 1993). 6. Shultz, "Preventing the Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons," p. 18.

International Security 21:3 | 58

nuclear threat to another state in the region, which then has to initiate its own nuclear weapons program to maintain its national security.

From this perspective, one can envision the history of nuclear proliferation as a strategic chain reaction. During World War II, none of the major belliger- ents was certain that the development of nuclear weapons was possible, but all knew that other states were already or could soon be working to build the bomb. This fundamental fear was the central impetus for the United States, British, German, Soviet, and Japanese nuclear weapons programs. The United States developed atomic weapons first, not because it had any greater demand for the atomic bomb than these other powers but, rather, because the United States invested more heavily in the program and made the right set of techno- logical and organizational choices.7

After August 1945, the Soviet Union's program was reinvigorated because the U.S. atomic attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki demonstrated that nuclear weapons were technically possible, and the emerging Cold War meant that a Soviet bomb was a strategic imperative. From the realist perspective, the Soviet response was perfectly predictable. Josef Stalin's reported request to Igor Kurchatov and B.L. Yannikov in August 1945 appears like a textbook example of realist logic:

A single demand of you comrades.... Provide us with atomic weapons in the shortest possible time. You know that Hiroshima has shaken the whole world. The balance has been destroyed. Provide the bomb-it will remove a great danger from us.8

The nuclear weapons decisions of other states can also be explained within the same framework. London and Paris are seen to have built nuclear weapons because of the growing Soviet military threat and the inherent reduction in the credibility of the U.S. nuclear guarantee to NATO allies once the Soviet Union was able to threaten retaliation against the United States.9 China developed the bomb because Beijing was threatened with possible nuclear attack by the United States at the end of the Korean War and again during the Taiwan Straits

7. On the genesis of the atomic programs in World War II, see McGeorge Bundy, Danger and Survival: Choices about the Bomb in the First Fifty Years (New York: Random House, 1988) pp. 3-53; and Richard Rhodes, The Making of the Atomic Bomb (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1986). 8. A. Lavrent'yeva in "Stroiteli novogo mira," V mire knig, No. 9 (1970), in David Holloway, The Soviet Union and the Arms Race (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1980), p. 20, also quoted in Thayer, "The Causes of Nuclear Proliferation," p. 487. 9. Important sources on the British case include Margaret Gowing, Britain and Atomic Energy, 1939-1945 (London: Macmillan, 1964); Margaret Gowing, Independence and Deterrence: Britain and Atomic Energy 1945-1952, vols. 1 and 2 (London: Macmillan, 1974); and Andrew Pierre, Nuclear

Why Do States Build Nuclear Weapons? | 59

crises in the mid-1950s. Not only did Moscow prove to be an irresolute nuclear ally in the 1950s, but the emergence of hostility in Sino-Soviet relations in the 1960s further encouraged Beijing to develop, in Avery Goldstein's phrase, the "robust and affordable security" of nuclear weapons, since the border clashes "again exposed the limited value of China's conventional deterrent."'10

After China developed the bomb in 1964, India, which had just fought a war with China in 1962, was bound to follow suit. India's strategic response to the Chinese test came a decade later, when their Atomic Energy Commission successfully completed the long research and development process required to construct and detonate what was called a "peaceful nuclear explosion" (PNE) in May 1974. According to realist logic, India has maintained an ambiguous nuclear posture since that time-building sufficient nuclear materials and com- ponents for a moderate-sized nuclear arsenal, but not testing or deploying weapons into the field-in a clever strategic effort to deter the Chinese, while simultaneously not encouraging nuclear weapons programs in other neighbor- ing states.1" After the Indian explosion, however, the nascent Pakistani weapons program had to move forward according to the realist view: facing a recently hostile neighbor with both nuclear weapons and conventional military supe- riority, it was inevitable that the government in Islamabad would seek to produce a nuclear weapon as quickly as possible.12

Politics: The British Experience with anl Independent Strategic Force, 1939-1970 (London: Oxford Uni- versity Press, 1972). On the French case, see Lawrence Scheinman, Atonmic Energy Policy in France Under the Fourth Republic (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1965) and Wilfred L. Kohl, French Nuclear Diplomacy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971). 10. Avery Goldstein, "Robust and Affordable Security: Some Lessons from the Second-Ranking Powers During the Cold War," Journal of Strategic Studies, Vol. 15, No. 4 (December 1992), p. 494. The seminal source on the Chinese weapons program, which emphasizes the importance of U.S. nuclear threats in the 1950s, is John W. Lewis and Xue Litai, China Builds the Bomb (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1988). 11. Recent estimates of the number of weapons India could deploy on short notice range from 25 to 105. See Mitchell Reiss, Bridled Ambition: Why Countries Constrain Their Nuclear Capabilities (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1995), p. 185; Leonard S. Spector and Mark G. McDonough, Tracking Nuclear Proliferation (Washington, D.C.: Carnegie Endowment for Interna- tional Peace, 1995), p. 89; and Eric Arnett, "Implications of the Comprehensive Test Ban," in Eric Arnett, ed., Nuclear Weapons after the Comprehensive Test Ban (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 13. Important sources on the Indian nuclear program include Ashok Kapur, India's Nuclear Option: Atomic Diplomacy and Decision Making (New York: Praeger, 1976); Brahma Chellaney, "South Asia's Passage to Nuclear Power," International Security, Vol. 16, No. 1 (Summer 1991), pp. 43-72; and T. T. Poulose, ed., Perspectives of India's Nuclear Policy (New Delhi: Young Asia Publications, 1978). 12. Valuable sources on Pakistan's program include Ziba Moshaver, Nuclear Weapons Proliferationi in the Indian Subcontinent (Basingstoke, U.K.: Macmillan, 1991) and Ashok Kapur, Pakistan's Nuclear Development (New York: Croom Helm, 1987).

International Security 21:3 | 60

EXPLAINING NUCLEAR RESTRAINT

Given the strong deterrent capabilities of nuclear weapons, why would any state give up such powerful sources of security? The major recent cases of nuclear weapons restraint can also be viewed through the lens provided by the security model if one assumes that external security threats can radically change or be reevaluated. The case of South Africa has most often been analyzed in this light, with the new security threats that emerged in the mid-1970s seen as the cause of South Africa's bomb program and the end of these threats in the late 1980s as the cause of its policy reversal. As President EW. de Klerk explained in his speech to Parliament in March 1993, the Pretoria government saw a growing "Soviet expansionist threat to southern Africa"; "the buildup of the Cuban forces in Angola from 1975 onwards reinforced the perception that a deterrent was necessary, as did South Africa's relative inter- national isolation and the fact that it could not rely on outside assistance should it be attacked." 13 Six atomic weapons were therefore constructed, but were stored disassembled in a secret location, between 1980 and 1989, when the program was halted. The South African nuclear strategy during this period was designed to use the bomb both as a deterrent against the Soviets and as a tool of blackmail against the United States. If Soviet or Soviet-supported military forces directly threatened South Africa, the regime reportedly planned to an- nounce that it had a small arsenal of nuclear weapons, dramatically testing one or more of the weapons if necessary by dropping them from aircraft over the ocean, hoping that such a test would shock the United States into intervention on behalf of the Pretoria regime.14

South Africa destroyed its small nuclear weapons arsenal in 1991, the theory suggests, because of the radical reduction in the external security threats to the regime. By 1989, the risk of a Soviet-led or sponsored attack on South Africa was virtually eliminated. President de Klerk cited three specific changes in military threats in his speech to Parliament: a cease-fire had been negotiated

13. F. W. de Klerk, March 24, 1993 address to the South African parliament as transcribed in Foreign Broadcast Information Service (FBIS), JPRS-TND-93-009, (March 29, 1993), p. 1 (henceforth cited as de Klerk, "Address to Parliament.") For analyses that focus largely on security threats as the cause of the program, see Darryl Howlett and John Simpson, "Nuclearization and Denuclearization in South Africa," Survival, Vol. 35, No. 3 (Autumn 1993), pp. 154-173; and J.W. de Villers, Roger Jardine, and Mitchell Reiss, "Why South Africa Gave up the Bomb," Foreign Affairs, Vol. 72, No. 5 (November/December 1993), pp. 98-109. For a more detailed and more balanced perspective see Reiss, Bridled Ambition, pp. 7-44. 14. Military planners nonetheless developed nuclear target lists in their contingency military plans and research was conducted on development of the hydrogen bomb until 1985. See Reiss, Bridled Ambition, p. 16.

Why Do States Build Nuclear Weapons? | 61

in Angola; the tripartite agreement granted independence to Namibia in 1988; and most dramatically, "the Cold War had come to an end."'15

Although the details change in different cases, the basic security model has also been used to explain other examples of nuclear restraint. For example, both Argentina and Brazil refused to complete the steps necessary to join the Latin American nuclear weapons-free zone (NWFZ) and began active pro- grams in the 1970s that could eventually have produced nuclear weapons; however, their 1990 joint declaration of plans to abandon their programs is seen as the natural result of the recognition that the two states, which had not fought a war against one another since 1828, posed no fundamental security threat to each other.16 Similarly, it has been argued that the non-Russian former states of the Soviet Union that were "born nuclear"-Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Belarus-decided to give up their arsenals because of a mixture of two realist model arguments: their long-standing close ties to Moscow meant that these states did not perceive Russia as a major military threat to their security and sovereignty, and increased U.S. security guarantees to these states made their possession of nuclear weapons less necessary.17 In short, from a realist's per- spective, nuclear restraint is caused by the absence of the fundamental military threats that produce positive proliferation decisions.

POLICY IMPLICATIONS OF THE SECURITY MODEL

Several basic predictions and prescriptions flow naturally from the logic of the security model. First, since states that face nuclear adversaries will eventually develop their own arsenals unless credible alliance guarantees with a nuclear power exist, the maintenance of U.S. nuclear commitments to key allies, in-

15. See de Klerk, "Address to Parliament," p. 2. 16. Thayer, "The Causes of Nuclear Proliferation," p. 497; and May, "Nuclear Weapons Supply and Demand," pp. 534-535. For analyses of the Argentine-Brazilian decision, see Monica Serrano, "Brazil and Argentina," in Mitchell Reiss and Robert S. Litwak, eds. Nuclear Proliferation After the Cold War (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1994), pp. 231-255; Jose Goldemberg and Harold A. Feiveson, "Denuclearization in Argentina and Brazil," Arms Control Today, Vol. 24, No. 2 (March 1994), pp. 10-14; Reiss, Bridled Ambition, pp. 45-88; and John R. Redick, Julio C. Carasales, and Paulo S. Wrobel, "Nuclear Rapprochement: Argentina, Brazil, and the Nonprolif- eration Regime," Washington Quarterly, Vol. 18, No. 1 (Winter 1995), pp. 107-122. 17. Sherman Garnett writes, for example, that "for many Ukrainian citizens-not just the ethnic Russians-it is difficult to conceive of Russia as an enemy to be deterred with nuclear weapons." Sherman W. Garnett, "Ukraine's Decision to Join the NPT," Arms Control Today, Vol. 25, No. 1 (January 1995), p. 8. Garnett also maintains that "the role that security assurances played in the creation of a framework for Ukrainian denuclearization is obvious. They were of immense impor- tance." Sherman W. Garnett, "The Role of Security Assurances in Ukrainian Denuclearization," in Virginia Foran, ed., Missed Opportunities?: The Role of Security Assurances in Nuclear Non-Proliferation (Washington, D.C.: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, forthcoming 1997).

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cluding some form of continued first-use policy, is considered crucial.18 Other efforts to enhance the security of potential proliferators-such as confidence- building measures or "negative security assurances" that the nuclear states will not use their weapons against non-nuclear states-can also be helpful in the short-run, but will likely not be effective in the long-term given the inherent suspicions of potential rivals produced by the anarchic international system.

Under the security model's logic, the NPT is seen as an institution permitting non-nuclear states to overcome a collective action problem. Each state would prefer to become the only nuclear weapons power in its region, but since that is an unlikely outcome if it develops a nuclear arsenal, it is willing to refrain from proliferation if, and only if, its neighbors remain non-nuclear. The treaty permits such states to exercise restraint with increased confidence that their neighbors will follow suit, or at a minimum, that they will receive sufficient advance warning if a break-out from the treaty is coming. It follows, from this logic, that other elements of the NPT regime should be considered far less important: specifically, the commitments that the United States and other nuclear states made under Article VI of the treaty-that the nuclear powers will pursue "negotiations in good faith on measures relating to cessation of the nuclear arms race at an early date and to nuclear disarmament"-are merely sops to public opinion in non-nuclear countries. The degree to which the nuclear states follow through on these Article VI commitments will not sig- nificantly influence the actual behavior of non-nuclear states, since it will not change their security status.

Under realist logic, however, U.S. nonproliferation policy can only slow down, not eliminate, the future spread of nuclear weapons. Efforts to slow down the process may of course be useful, but they will eventually be coun- tered by two very strong structural forces that create an inexorable momentum toward a world of numerous nuclear weapons states. First, the end of the Cold War creates a more uncertain multipolar world in which U.S. nuclear guaran- tees will be considered increasingly less reliable; second, each time one state develops nuclear weapons, it will increase the strategic incentives for neigh- boring states to follow suit.19

18. See Lewis Dunn, Controlling the Bomb (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982); May, "Nuclear Weapons Supply and Demand," p. 535; and Frankel, "The Brooding Shadow," pp. 47-54. 19. See Kenneth N. Waltz, "The Emerging Structure of International Politics," International Security, Vol. 18, No. 2 (Fall 1993), pp. 44-79; and John J. Mearsheimer, "Back to the Future: Instability in Europe after the Cold War," International Security, Vol. 15, No. 1 (Summer 1990), pp. 5-56.

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PROBLEMS AND EVIDENCE

What's wrong with this picture? The security model is parsimonious; the resulting history is conceptually clear; and the theory fits our intuitive belief that important events in history (like the development of a nuclear weapon) must have equally important causes (like national security). A major problem exists, however, concerning the evidence, for the realist history depends pri- marily on first, the statements of motivation by the key decision-makers, who have a vested interest in explaining that the choices they made served the national interest; and second, a correlation in time between the emergence of a plausible security threat and a decision to develop nuclear weapons. Indeed, an all too common intellectual strategy in the literature is to observe a nuclear weapons decision and then work backwards, attempting to find the national security threat that "must" have caused the decision. Similarly, scholars too often observe a state decision not to have nuclear weapons and then work backwards to find the change in the international environment that "must" have led the government to believe that threats to national security were radically decreasing.

These problems suggest that a more serious analysis would open up the black box of decision-making and examine in more detail how governments actually made their nuclear decisions. Any rigorous attempt to evaluate the security model of proliferation, moreover, also requires an effort to develop alternative explanations, and to assess whether they provide more or less compelling explanations for proliferation decisions. The following sections therefore develop a domestic politics model and a norms model of proliferation and evaluate the explanations that flow from their logic, versus the security model's arguments offered above, for some important cases of both nuclear proliferation and nuclear restraint.

The Domestic Politics Model: Nuclear Pork and Parochial Interests

A second model of nuclear weapons proliferation focuses on the domestic actors who encourage or discourage governments from pursuing the bomb. Whether or not the acquisition of nuclear weapons serves the national interests of a state, it is likely to serve the parochial bureaucratic or political interests of at least some individual actors within the state. Three kinds of actors com- monly appear in historical case-studies of proliferation: the state's nuclear energy establishment (which includes officials in state-run laboratories as well as civilian reactor facilities); important units within the professional military

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(often within the air force, though sometimes in navy bureaucracies interested in nuclear propulsion); and politicians in states in which individual parties or the mass public strongly favor nuclear weapons acquisition. When such actors form coalitions that are strong enough to control the government's decision- making process-either through their direct political power or indirectly through their control of information-nuclear weapons programs are likely to thrive.

Unfortunately, there is no well-developed domestic political theory of nu- clear weapons proliferation that identifies the conditions under which such coalitions are formed and become powerful enough to produce their preferred outcomes.20 The basic logic of this approach, however, has been strongly influenced by the literature on bureaucratic politics and the social construction of technology concerning military procurement in the United States and the Soviet Union during the Cold War.21 In this literature, bureaucratic actors are not seen as passive recipients of top-down political decisions; instead, they create the conditions that favor weapons acquisition by encouraging extreme perceptions of foreign threats, promoting supportive politicians, and actively lobbying for increased defense spending. This bottom-up view focuses on the formation of domestic coalitions within the scientific-military-industrial com- plex. The initial ideas for individual weapons innovations are often developed inside state laboratories, where scientists favor military innovation simply because it is technically exciting and keeps money and prestige flowing to their laboratories. Such scientists are then able to find, or even create, sponsors in the professional military whose bureaucratic interests and specific military responsibilities lead them also to favor the particular weapons system. Finally, such a coalition builds broader political support within the executive or legis- lative branches by shaping perceptions about the costs and benefits of weapons programs.

20. This is a serious weakness shared by many domestic-level theories in intemational relations, not just theories of proliferation. On this issue, see Ethan B. Kapstein, "Is Realism Dead? The Domestic Sources of Intemational Politics," International Organization, Vol. 49, No. 4 (Autumn 1995), pp. 751-774. 21. The best examples of this literature include Morton H. Halperin, Bureaucratic Politics and Foreign Policy (Washington, D.C.: The Brookings Institution, 1974); Matthew Evangelista, Innovation and the Arms Race: How the United States and Soviet Union Develop New Military Technologies (Ithaca, N.Y: Comell University Press, 1988); and Donald MacKenzie, Inventing Accuracy: A Historical Sociology of Nuclear Missile Guidance (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990). For a valuable effort to apply insights from the literature on social construction of technology to proliferation problems, see Steven Flank, "Exploding the Black Box: The Historical Sociology of Nuclear Proliferation," Security Studies, Vol. 3, No. 2 (Winter 1993/94), pp. 259-294.

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Realists recognize that domestic political actors have parochial interests, of course, but argue that such interests have only a marginal influence on crucial national security issues. The outcome of bureaucratic battles, for example, may well determine whether a state builds 500 or 1000 ICBMs or emphasizes submarines or strategic bombers in its nuclear arsenal; but a strong consensus among domestic actors will soon emerge about the need to respond in kind when a potential adversary acquires nuclear weapons. In contrast, from this domestic politics perspective, nuclear weapons programs are not obvious or inevitable solutions to international security problems; instead, nuclear weap- ons programs are solutions looking for a problem to which to attach themselves so as to justify their existence. Potential threats to a state's security certainly exist in the international system, but in this model, international threats are seen as being more malleable and more subject to interpretation, and can therefore produce a variety of responses from domestic actors. Security threats are therefore not the central cause of weapons decisions according to this model: they are merely windows of opportunity through which parochial interests can jump.

PROLIFERATION REVISITED: ADDRESSING THE INDIA PUZZLE

The historical case that most strongly fits the domestic politics model is the Indian nuclear weapons experience. In contrast to the brief realist's account outlined above, a closer look at the history of the Indian program reveals that there was no consensus among officials in New Delhi that it was necessary to have a nuclear deterrent as a response to the 1964 Chinese nuclear test. If that had been the case, according to realist logic, one of two events would likely have occurred. First, a crash weapons program could have been initiated; there is no evidence that such an emergency program was started, however, and indeed, given the relatively advanced state of Indian nuclear energy at the time, such an effort could have produced a nuclear weapon by the mid-to-late 1960s, relatively soon after the Chinese test, instead of in 1974.22 Second, leaders in New Delhi could have made a concerted effort to acquire nuclear guarantees from the United States, the Soviet Union, or other nuclear powers. Indian officials, however, did not adopt a consistent policy to pursue security guaran-

22. In 1963, U.S. intelligence agencies estimated that India could test a nuclear weapon in four to five years (1967 or 1968). By 1965, U.S. estimates were that it would take one to three years additional years. See Peter R. Lavoy, "Nuclear Myths and the Causes of Proliferation," in Davis and Frankel, The Proliferation Puzzle, p. 202; and George Bunn, Arms Control by Committee: Managing Negotiations with the Russians (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1992), p. 68.

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tees: in diplomatic discussions after the Chinese test, officials rejected the idea of bilateral guarantees because they would not conform with India's non- aligned status, refused to consider foreign bases in India to support a nuclear commitment, and publicly questioned whether any multilateral or bilateral guarantee could possibly be considered credible.23

Instead of producing a united Indian effort to acquire a nuclear deterrent, the Chinese nuclear test produced a prolonged bureaucratic battle, fought inside the New Delhi political elite and nuclear energy establishment, between actors who wanted India to develop a nuclear weapons capability as soon as possible and other actors who opposed an Indian bomb and supported global nuclear disarmament and later Indian membership in the NPT. Soon after the Chinese nuclear test, for example, Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri argued against developing an Indian atomic arsenal, in part because the estimated costs ($42-84 million) were deemed excessive; Homi Bhabba, the head of the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), however, loudly lobbied for the develop- ment of nuclear weapons capability, claiming that India could develop a bomb in 18 months and that an arsenal of 50 atomic bombs would cost less than $21 million (a figure that excluded the construction of reactors, separation plants, and the opportunity costs of diverting scientists from development projects).24 Although Shastri continued to oppose weapons development and rebuked legislators in congressional debates for quoting Bhabba's excessively optimistic cost estimates, he compromised with the pro-bomb members of the Congress party and the AEC leadership, agreeing to create a classified project to develop an ability to detonate a PNE within 6 months of any final political decision.25 However, even this compromise was short-lived, as Bhabba's successor at the AEC, Vikram Sarabhai, opposed the development of any Indian nuclear explo- sives, whether they were called PNEs or bombs, and ordered a halt to the PNE preparation program.26

23. See A.G. Noorani, "India's Quest for a Nuclear Guarantee," Asian Survey, Vol. 7, No. 7 (July 1967), pp. 490-502. 24. Frank E. Couper, "Indian Party Conflict on the Issue of Atomic Weapons," Journal of Developing Areas, Vol. 3, No. 2 (January 1969), pp. 192-193. Also see Lavoy, "Nuclear Myths and the Causes of Proliferation," p. 201. 25. See Shyam Bhatia, India's Nuclear Bomb (Ghaziabad: Vikas Publishing House, 1979), pp. 120- 122. The director of the PNE study later wrote that "getting the Prime Minister to agree to this venture must have required great persuasion, as Shastriji was opposed to the idea of atomic explosions of any kind." Raja Ramanna, Years of Pilgrimage: An Autobiography (New Delhi: Viking, 1991), p. 74. 26. See Kapur, India's Nuclear Option, p. 195; Mitchell Reiss, Without the Bomb: The Politics of Nuclear Nonproliferation (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), p. 221 and p. 325 (note 42); and Ramanna, Years of Pilgrimage, p. 75.

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After Sarabhai's death in 1971, the pro-bomb scientists in the AEC began to lobby Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, and developed an alliance with defense laboratories whose participation was needed to fabricate the explosive lenses for a nuclear test.27 Unfortunately, firm evidence on why Gandhi decided to approve the scientists' recommendation to build and test a "peaceful" Indian nuclear device does not exist: indeed, even nuclear scientists who pushed for the May 1974 test now acknowledge that it is impossible to know whether Gandhi was primarily responding to domestic motives, since she neither asked questions at the critical secret meetings in early 1974 nor explained why she approved their PNE recommendations.28 A number of observations about the decision, however, do suggest that addressing domestic political concerns, rather than countering international security threats, were paramount. First, it is important to recognize that the decision was made by Prime Minister Gandhi, with the advice of a very small circle of personal advisers and scien- tists from the nuclear establishment. Senior defense and foreign affairs officials in India were not involved in the initial decision to prepare the nuclear device, nor in the final decision to test it: the military services were not asked how nuclear weapons would affect their war plans and military doctrines; the Defense Minister was reportedly informed of, but not consulted about, the final test decision only 10 days before the May 18 explosion; the Foreign Minister was merely given a 48-hour notice of the detonation.29 This pattern suggests that security arguments were of secondary importance, and at a minimum, were not thoroughly analyzed or debated before the nuclear test. Second, the subsequent absence of a systematic program for either nuclear weapons or PNE development and testing, and New Delhi's lack of preparedness for Canada's immediate termination of nuclear assistance, suggest that the decision was taken quickly, even in haste, and thus may have focused more on immediate political concerns rather than on longer-term security or energy interests.

Third, it is important to recognize that domestic support for the Gandhi government had fallen to an all-time low in late 1973 and early 1974 due to a

27. Ramanna, Years of Pilgrimage, p. 89. 28. See George Perkovich, "Indian Nuclear Decision-Making and the 1974 PNE," unpublished manuscript, W. Alton Jones Foundation, Charlottesville, Va., 1996, p. 15; and Ramanna, Years of Pilgrimage, p. 89. 29. See Neil H.A. Joeck, Nuclear Proliferation and National Security in India and Pakistan, unpublished dissertation, UCLA, 1986, p. 229; and Kapur, India's Nuclear Option, p. 198. One former Indian Defense Secretary, K.B. Lall, has stated that the chairman of the chiefs of staff, the defense minister, and the defense secretary were not involved in the planning and argued therefore that "[the test] did not arise out of the Defense Ministry or on security grounds" since "if it was a defense project, there should have been some discussion." Lall interview quoted in Joeck, Nuclear Proliferation and National Security, p. 229.

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prolonged and severe domestic recession, the eruption of large-scale riots in a number of regions, and the lingering effects of the splintering of the ruling Congress Party. From a domestic politics perspective, it would be highly sur- prising for a politician with such problems to resist what she knew was a major opportunity to increase her standing in public opinion polls and to defuse an issue about which she had been criticized by her domestic opponents.30 Indeed, the domestic consequences of the test were very rewarding: the nuclear deto- nation occurred during the government's unprecedented crackdown on the striking railroad workers and contributed to a major increase in support for the Gandhi government. Indian public opinion polls taken in June 1974 re- ported, for example, that a full 91 percent of the adult literate population knew about the explosion and 90 percent of those individuals answered in the affirmative when asked if they were "personally proud of this achievement." The overall result was that public support for Mrs. Gandhi increased by one-third in the month after the nuclear test according to the Indian Institute of Public Opinion, leading the Institute to conclude that "both she [Gandhi] and the Congress Party have been restored to the nation's confidence."31

These arguments linking decision-making processes and domestic results to potential causes of proliferation clearly do not prove that the domestic politics model provides the correct explanation of the Indian case. But they do consti- tute stronger evidence than what has been offered in the literature to support a security model explanation, and provide an answer to what is otherwise the very puzzling occurrence of a state (India) not developing the bomb for ten years after one rival (China) tested a weapon, and then changing its prolifera- tion policy and developing and testing a weapon less than three years after it attacked and dismembered its other rival state (Pakistan). In light of the domestic politics model, the unusual nature of Indian nuclear weapons policy since the 1974 test also becomes more understandable; it appears less like a calculated strategy of nuclear ambiguity and more like a political rationaliza- tion for latent military capabilities developed for other reasons. Finally, from

30. Although Gandhi denied, in a later interview, that domestic concerns influenced her 1974 decision, she did acknowledge that the nuclear test "would have been useful for elections." See Rodney W. Jones, "India," in Jozef Goldblat, ed., Non-Proliferation: the Why and the Wherefore (London: Taylor and Francis, 1985), p. 114. 31. The Institute's analysis was that the increase was the result of both "the demonstration of India's atomic capability and the decisive action on the Railway strike," though the data outlined above suggests that more emphasis should be placed on the weapons test. See "The Prime Minister's Popularity: June 1974," and "Indian Public Opinion and the Railway Strike," in Monthly Public Opinion Surveys (Indian Institute of Public Opinion), Vol. 19, No. 8 (May 1974), pp. 5-6 and pp. 7-11; and "Public Opinion on India's Nuclear Device," Monthly Public Opinion Surveys, Vol. 19, No. 9 (June 1974), Blue Supplement, pp. III-IV.

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the domestic model's perspective, the 1974 test and subsequent building of significantly greater nuclear weapons capabilities are not seen as proud sym- bols of the success of an Indian national security program; instead, they are symbols of the failure of the Indian civilian nuclear power industry, which was forced to form an alliance with the pro-bomb lobby to justify its existence and funding after its failure to avoid cost overruns and prevent safety problems in its domestic energy program.32

DEVELOPMENT AND DENUCLEARIZATION: SOUTH AFRICA REVISITED

From the domestic model's perspective, one would expect that reversals of weapons decisions occur not when external threats are diminished, but rather when there are major internal political changes. There are a number of reasons why purely internal changes could produce restraint: a new government has an opportunity to change course more easily because it can blame failed policies of the previous regime; actors with parochial interests in favor of weapons programs may lose internal struggles to newly empowered actors with other interests; and the outgoing government may fear that the incoming government would not be a reliable custodian over nuclear weapons. It is important to note, however, that each of these domestic pathways to restraint can be relatively independent of changes in international security threats.

A quite different interpretation of the South African weapons program emerges when one reexamines the history with a focus on domestic political interests rather than national security. For example, President de Klerk's public explanation for the program stressed that it was caused by the need to deter "a Soviet expansionist threat to Southern Africa," especially after Cuban mili- tary forces intervened in Angola in October 1975. Yet the preliminary research needed to develop nuclear devices was started inside South Africa's Atomic Energy Board in 1971, on the independent authority of the Minister of Mines; a non-nuclear scale model of a gun-type explosive device was secretly tested in May 1974; and later in 1974, after the results of this test were known, Prime Minister John Voster approved plans to construct a small number of explosive devices and to build a secret testing site in the Kalahari desert.33 Such evidence

32. For a detailed analysis, see Itty Abraham's Atomic Energy and the Making of the Indian State, unpublished manuscript, Center for International Security and Arms Control, Stanford University, 1996; and Itty Abraham, "India's 'Strategic Enclave': Civilian Scientists and Military Technologies," Armed Forces and Society, Vol. 18, No. 2 (Winter 1992), pp. 231-252. 33. See the chronology in Reiss, Bridled Ambition, p. 8 and p. 27; and Waldo Stumpf, "South Africa's Nuclear Weapons Program: From Deterrence to Dismantlement," Arms Control Today, Vol. 25, No. 10 (December 1995/January 1996), p. 4. Also see David Fischer, "South Africa," in Mitchell

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strongly supports the claims of South African scientists that the nuclear pro- gram was originally designed to produce PNEs, and was championed within the government by the South African nuclear power and mining industries to enhance their standing in international scientific circles and to be utilized in mining situations.34

This explanation for the origin of the nuclear program helps in turn to explain South African nuclear doctrine, which otherwise appears so strange, as a post hoc development used to exploit devices that were originally developed for other purposes. (Testing a nuclear device in the event of a Soviet invasion might, after all, reduce the likelihood of U.S. intervention and would raise great risks of the use of Soviet nuclear weapons.) Senior officials in the program have stated, for example, that the military was not consulted about the bomb design and that operational considerations, such as the size and weight of the devices, were not taken into account.35 As a result, the first South African nuclear device was actually too large to be deliverable by an aircraft and had to be redesigned because it did not meet the safety and reliability standards set by Armscor, the engineering organization run by the South African military, which took over the nuclear program in 1978.36

The timing and details of actions concerning the decision to dismantle and destroy the existing bomb stockpile also suggest that domestic political consid- erations were critical. In September 1989, de Klerk was elected president and immediately requested a high-level report on the possibility of dismantling the existing six nuclear devices. It is important to note that this request came before the Cold War was unambiguously over (the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989), and that de Klerk's action was considered by officials in South Africa as a sign that he had already decided to abandon the weapons program. Although possible concerns about who would inherit nuclear weapons are rarely dis- cussed in the public rationales for the dismantlement decision, the de Klerk government's actions spoke more loudly than its words: the weapons compo- nents were dismantled before IAEA inspections could be held to verify the activities, and all the nuclear program's plans, history of decisions, and ap-

Reiss and Robert S. Litwak, eds., Nuclear Proliferation After the Cold War (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1994), p. 208; and David Albright, "South Africa's Secret Nuclear Weapons," ISIS Report (Washington, D.C.: Institute for Science and International Security, May 1994), pp. 6-8. 34. See Mark Hibbs, "South Africa's Secret Nuclear Program: From a PNE to a Deterrent," Nuclear Fuel, May 10, 1993, pp. 3-6; and Stumpf, "South Africa's Nuclear Weapons Program," p. 4. 35. See Reiss, Bridled Ambitions, p. 12. 36. Albright, "South Africa's Secret Nuclear Weapons," p. 10.

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proval and design documents were burned prior to the public announcement of the program's existence. This was a highly unusual step and strongly suggests that fear of ANC control of nuclear weapons (and perhaps also concern about possible seizure by white extremists) was critical in the deci- sion.37

Domestic politics can also be seen as playing critical roles in other cases of nuclear restraint. In Argentina and Brazil, for example, the key change explain- ing the shift from nuclear competition to cooperative restraint in the 1980s could not have been a major reduction of security threats, since there was no such reduction. Indeed, a traditional realist view would predict that the expe- rience of the 1982 Falklands/Malvinas War-in which Argentina was defeated by a nuclear power, Great Britain-would have strongly encouraged Argen- tina's nuclear ambitions. Instead, the important change was the emergence of liberalizing domestic regimes in both states, governments supported by coali- tions of actors-such as banks, export-oriented firms, and state monetary agencies-who value unimpeded access to international markets and oppose economically unproductive defense and energy enterprises. Nuclear programs that were run as fiefdoms and served the interests of the atomic industry bureaucrats and the military were therefore abandoned by new civilian regimes with strong support of liberalizing coalitions.38

POLICY IMPLICATIONS OF THE DOMESTIC POLITICS MODEL

With respect to U.S. nonproliferation policy, a domestic politics approach both cautions modest expectations about U.S. influence and calls for a broader set of diplomatic efforts. Modest expectations are in order, since the key factors that influence decisions are domestic in origin and therefore largely outside the control of U.S. policy. Nevertheless, a more diverse set of tools could be useful to help create and empower domestic coalitions that oppose the development or maintenance of nuclear arsenals.

A variety of activities could be included in such a domestic-focused non- proliferation strategy International financial institutions are already demand-

37. A rare public hint that concerns about domestic stability played a role in the decision is the acknowledgment by the head of the Atomic Energy Corporation that the government discussed issuing an immediate announcement revealing the existence of the weapons and thus permitting the IAEA to dismantle them because "the state of the country's internal political transformation was not considered conducive to such an announcement at the time." See Stumpf, "South Africa's Nuclear Weapons Program," p. 7. 38. The best analysis is Etel Solingen, "The Political Economy of Nuclear Restraint," International Security, Vol. 19, No. 2 (Fall 1994), pp. 126-169.

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ing that cuts in military expenditures be included in conditionality packages for aid recipients. More direct conditionality linkages to nuclear programs- such as deducting the estimated budget of any suspect research and develop- ment program from IMF or U.S. loans to a country-could heighten domestic opposition to such programs.39 Providing technical information and intellectual ammunition for domestic actors-by encouraging more accurate estimates of the economic and environmental costs of nuclear weapons programs and highlighting the risks of nuclear accidents40-could bring new members into anti-proliferation coalitions. In addition, efforts to encourage strict civilian control of the military, through educational and organizational reforms, could be productive, especially in states in which the military has the capability to create secret nuclear programs (like Brazil in the 1980s) to serve their parochial interests. Finally, U.S. attempts to provide alternative sources of employment and prestige to domestic actors who might otherwise find weapons programs attractive could decrease nuclear incentives. To the degree that professional military organizations are supporting nuclear proliferation, encouraging their involvement in other military activities (such as Pakistani participation in peacekeeping operations or the Argentine Navy's role in the Persian Gulf) could decrease such support. Where the key actors are laboratory officials and scientists, assistance in non-nuclear research and development programs (as in the current U.S.-Russian "lab-to-lab" program) could decrease personal and organizational incentives for weapons research.

A different perspective on the role of the NPT also emerges from the domes- tic politics model. The NPT regime is not just a device to increase states' confidence about the limits of their potential adversaries' nuclear programs; it is also a tool that can help to empower domestic actors who are opposed to nuclear weapons development. The NPT negotiations and review conferences create a well-placed elite in the foreign and defense ministries with consider- able bureaucratic and personal interests in maintaining the regime. The IAEA creates monitoring capabilities and enforcement incentives against unregulated activities within a state's own nuclear power organizations. The network of

39. Etel Solingen, The Domestic Sources of Nuclear Postures, Institute of Global Conflict and Coop- eration, Policy Paper No. 8, October 1994, p. 11. 40. On these costs and risks, see Kathleen C. Bailey, ed., Weapons of Mass Destruction: Costs Versus Benefits (New Delhi: Manohar Publishers, 1994); Stephen I. Schwartz, "Four Trillion and Counting," Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, Vol. 51, No. 6 (November/December 1995); Bruce G. Blair, The Logic of Accidental Nuclear War (Washington, D.C.: The Brookings Institution, 1993); and Scott D. Sagan, The Limits of Safety: Organizations, Accidents, and Nuclear Weapons (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Uni- versity Press, 1993).

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non-governmental organizations built around the treaty supports similar anti- proliferation pressure groups in each state.

According to this model, the U.S. commitment under Article VI to work for the eventual elimination of nuclear weapons is important because of the impact that the behavior of the United States and other nuclear powers can have on the domestic debates in non-nuclear states. Whether or not the United States originally signed Article VI merely to placate domestic opinion in non-nuclear states is not important; what is important is that the loss of this pacifying tool could influence outcomes in potential proliferators. In future debates inside such states, the arguments of anti-nuclear actors-that nuclear weapons pro- grams do not serve the interests of their states-can be more easily countered by pro-bomb actors whenever they can point to specific actions of the nuclear powers, such as refusals to ban nuclear tests or the maintenance of nuclear first-use doctrines, that highlight these states' continued reliance on nuclear deterrence.

The Norms Model: Nuclear Symbols and State Identity

A third model focuses on norms concerning weapons acquisition, seeing nu- clear decisions as serving important symbolic functions-both shaping and reflecting a state's identity According to this perspective, state behavior is determined not by leaders' cold calculations about the national security inter- ests or their parochial bureaucratic interests, but rather by deeper norms and shared beliefs about what actions are legitimate and appropriate in interna- tional relations.

Given the importance of the subject, and the large normative literature in ethics and law concerning the use of nuclear weapons, it is surprising that so little attention has been paid to "nuclear symbolism" and the development of international norms concerning the acquisition of nuclear weapons.41 Sociolo- gists and political scientists have studied the emergence and influence of international norms in other substantive areas, however, and their insights can

41. On nuclear ethics, see Joseph S. Nye, Jr., Nuclear Ethics (New York: Free Press, 1986); and Steven P. Lee, Morality, Prudence, and Nuclear Weapons (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993). For a recent analysis of legal restraints on the use of nuclear weapons, see Nicholas Rostow, "The World Health Organization, the International Court of Justice, and Nuclear Weapons," Yale Journal of International Law, Vol. 20, No. 1 (Winter 1995), pp. 151-185. For a rare analysis of the symbolism of nuclear weapons, see Robert Jervis, "The Symbolic Nature of Nuclear Politics," in Jervis, The Meaning of the Nuclear Revolution (Ithaca, N.Y: Cornell University Press, 1989), pp. 174-225.

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lead to a valuable alternative perspective on proliferation. Within sociology, the "new institutionalism" literature suggests that modern organizations and in- stitutions often come to resemble each other (what is called institutional iso- morphism) not because of competitive selection or rational learning but because institutions mimic each other.42 These scholars emphasize the impor- tance of roles, routines, and rituals: individuals and organizations may well have "interests," but such interests are shaped by the social roles actors are asked to play, are pursued according to habits and routines as much as through reasoned decisions, and are embedded in a social environment that promotes certain structures and behaviors as rational and legitimate and denigrates others as irrational and primitive.

From this sociological perspective, military organizations and their weapons can therefore be envisioned as serving functions similar to those of flags, airlines, and Olympic teams: they are part of what modern states believe they have to possess to be legitimate, modern states. Air Malawi, Royal Nepal Airlines, and Air Myanmar were not created because they are cost-effective means of transport nor because domestic pressure groups pushed for their development, but rather because government leaders believed that a national airline is something that modern states have to have to be modern states. Very small and poor states, without a significant number of scientists, nevertheless have official government-sponsored science boards. From a new institutionalist perspective, such similarities are not the result of functional logic (actions designed to serve either international or domestic goals); they are the product of shared beliefs about what is legitimate and modern behavior.43

Within political science, a related literature has evolved concerning the de- velopment and spread of norms within international regimes. Although this norms perspective has rarely been applied to the proliferation problem, schol-

42. Among the most important sources are the essays collected in Walter W. Powell and Paul J. DiMaggio, eds., The New Institutionalism in Organizational Analysis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); and John W. Meyer and W. Richard Scott, Organizational Environments: Ritual and Rationality, 2nd ed. (Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1992). 43. See Marc C. Suchman and Dana P. Eyre, "Military Procurement as Rational Myth: Notes on the Social Construction of Weapons Proliferation," Sociological Forum, Vol. 7, No. 1 (March 1992), pp. 137-161; Martha Finnemore, "International Organizations as Teachers of Norms: UNESCO and Science Policy," International Organization, Vol. 47, No. 4 (Autumn 1993), pp. 565-598; Francisco 0. Ramirez and John Boli, "Global Patterns of Educational Institutionalization," in George M. Thomas, John W. Meyer, Francisco 0. Ramirez, and John Boli, eds., Institutional Structure: Constituting State, Society, and the Individual (Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1987), pp. 150-172. For an excellent survey and critique, see Martha Finnemore, "Norms, Culture, and World Politics: Insights from Sociology's Institutionalism," International Organization, Vol. 50, No. 2 (Spring 1996), pp. 325- 348.

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ars have studied such important phenomena as the global spread of anti- colonialism, the abolition of the African slave trade, the near-total elimination of piracy at sea, and constraints against the use of chemical weapons.44 There is a diverse set of ideas emerging in this field, producing a valuable debate about the role of global norms, but not a well-developed theory about their causal influence. Still, as one would expect of political scientists, coercion and power are seen to play a more important role in spreading norms than is the case in the sociologists' literature. Normative pressures may begin with the actions of entrepreneurial non-state actors, but their beliefs only have signifi- cant influence once powerful state actors join the cause. Religious and liberal opposition to slavery, for example, was clearly important in fueling American and British leaders' preferences in the nineteenth century, but such views would not easily have become an international norm without the bayonets of the Army of the Potomac at Gettysburg or the ships of the British Navy patrol- ling the high seas between Africa and Brazil.45 Similarly, normative beliefs about chemical weapons were important in creating legal restrictions against their use in war; yet, the norm was significantly reenforced at critical moments by the fear of retaliation-in-kind and by the availability of other weapons that were believed by military leaders to be more effective on the battlefield.46

The sociologists' arguments highlight the possibility that nuclear weapons programs serve symbolic functions reflecting leaders' perceptions of appropri- ate and modern behavior. The political science literature reminds us, however,

44. For rare applications of the norms perspective to proliferation, see Harald Muller, "The Internationalization of Principles, Norms, and Rules by Governments: The Case of Security Re- gimes," in Volker Rittberger, ed., Regime Theory and International Relations (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 361-390; and Muller, "Maintaining Non-Nuclear Weapon Status," in Regina Cowen Karp, ed., Security With Nuclear Weapons? (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), pp. 301-339. Also see Robert H. Jackson, "The Weight of Ideas in Decolonization: Normative Change in International Relations," in Judith Goldstein and Robert 0. Keohane, eds., Ideas and Foreign Policy (Ithaca, N.Y: Cornell University Press, 1993), pp. 111-138; Neta C. Crawford, "Decolonization as an International Norm," in Laura W. Reed and Carl Kaysen, eds., Emerging Norms of Justified Intervention (Cambridge, Mass.: American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1993), pp. 37-61; Ethan A. Nadelmann, "Global Prohibition Regimes: The Evolution of Norms in International Society," International Organization, Vol. 44, No. 4 (Autumn 1990), pp. 479-526; and Richard Price, "A Genealogy of the Chemical Weapons Taboo," International Organization, Vol. 49, No. 1 (Winter 1995), pp. 73-104. 45. Ethan Nadelman, who stresses this point about power, also adds, however, that "even among the laggards, indeed especially among the laggards, the consciousness of being perceived as primitive and deviant surely weighed heavily in the decisions of local rulers to do away with slavery." Nadelman, "Global Prohibition Regimes," p. 497. 46. See Price, "A Genealogy of the Chemical Weapons Taboo"; and Jeffrey Legro, Cooperation Under Fire: Anglo-German Restraint During World War II (Ithaca, N.Y: Cornell University Press, 1995), pp. 144-216.

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that such symbols are often contested and that the resulting norms are spread by power and coercion, and not by the strength of ideas alone. Both insights usefully illuminate the nuclear proliferation phenomenon. Existing norms con- cerning the non-acquisition of nuclear weapons (such as those embedded in the NPT) could not have been created without the strong support of the most powerful states in the international system, who believed that the norms served their narrow political interests. Yet, once that effort was successful, these norms shaped states' identities and expectations and even powerful actors became constrained by the norms they had created.47 The history of nuclear prolifera- tion is particularly interesting in this regard because a major discontinuity-a shift in nuclear norms-has emerged as the result of the NPT regime.

Although many individual case studies of nuclear weapons decisions men- tion the belief that nuclear acquisition will enhance the international prestige of the state, such prestige has been viewed simply as a reasonable, though diffuse, means used to enhance the state's international influence and security. What is missing from these analyses is an understanding of why and how actions are granted symbolic meaning: why are some nuclear weapons acts considered prestigious, while others produce opprobrium, and how do such beliefs change over time? Why, for example, was nuclear testing deemed prestigious and legitimate in the 1960s, but is today considered illegitimate and irresponsible? An understanding of the NPT regime is critical here, for it appears to have shifted the norm concerning what acts grant prestige and legitimacy from the 1960s notion of joining "the nuclear club" to the 1990s concept of joining "the club of the nations adhering to the NPT." Moreover, the salience of the norms that were made explicit in the NPT treaty has shifted over time. These arguments are perhaps best supported by contrasting two cases-the French decision to build and test nuclear weapons and the Ukrain- ian decision to give up its nuclear arsenal-in which perceptions of legitimacy and prestige appear to have had a major influence, albeit with very different outcomes.

PROLIFERATION REVISITED: FRENCH GRANDEUR AND WEAPONS POLICY

According to realist theory, the French decision to develop nuclear weapons has a very simple explanation: in the 1950s, the Soviet Union was a grave military threat to French national security, and the best alternative to building

47. For an excellent analysis of how such a process can work in other contexts, see Michael Byers,. "Custom, Power, and the Power of Rules," Michigan Journal of International Law, Vol. 17, No. 1 (Fall 1995), pp. 109-180.

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an independent arsenal-reliance on the United States's nuclear guarantee to NATO-was ruled out after the Soviet development of a secure second strike capability reduced the credibility of any U.S. nuclear first-use threats. Accord- ing to this explanation, the need for a French arsenal was driven home by the 1956 Suez Crisis, when Paris was forced to withdraw its military intervention forces after a nuclear threat from Russia and under U.S. economic pressure. "The Suez humiliation of 1956 was decisive," writes David Yost. "It was felt that a nuclear weapons capability would reduce France's dependence on the U.S. and her vulnerability to Soviet blackmail."48 The central realist argument for French nuclear weapons was clearly expressed in the rhetorical question Charles de Gaulle posed to Dwight Eisenhower in 1959: "Will they [future U.S. presidents] take the risk of devastating American cities so that Berlin, Brussels and Paris might remain free?"49

This explanation of French nuclear policy, however, does not stand up very well against either existing evidence or logic. Indeed, the two most critical decisions initiating the weapons program-Prime Minister Mendes-France's December 1954 decision to start a secret nuclear weapons research program inside the Commissariat a l'energie atomique (CEA) and the May 1955 authori- zation by the Ministry of Defense for funds to be transferred to the CEA for the development of a prototype weapon-predated the 1956 Suez Crisis.50 In addition, as Lawrence Scheinman has argued, it is by no means clear why French leaders would think that the traumatic Suez experience could have been avoided if there had been an independent French nuclear arsenal, since Great Britain had also been forced to withdraw from the intervention in Egypt under U.S. and Soviet pressure, despite its possession of nuclear weapons.51 A simple exercise in comparative logic also raises doubts about the security model. If the critical cause of proliferation in France was the lack of credibility of U.S. nuclear guarantees given the growing Soviet threat in the mid-1950s, why then did other nuclear-capable states in Europe, faced with similar security threats at the time, not also develop nuclear weapons?52 If one even briefly examines

48. David S. Yost, "France's Deterrent Posture and Security in Europe, Part I: Capabilities and Doctrine," Adelphi Paper No. 194 (London: International Institute for Strategic Studies [IISSI, Winter 1984/85), p. 4. Also see Kohl, French Nuclear Diplomacy, p. 36. 49. Jean Lacouture, De Gaulle: The Ruler 1945-1970 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1993), p. 421, as quoted in Thayer, "The Causes of Nuclear Proliferation," p. 489. 50. See Bertrand Goldschmidt, The Atomic Complex (La Grange Park, Ill.: American Nuclear Society, 1982), p. 131; and Scheinman, Atomic Energy Policy in France Under the Fourth Republic, pp. 120-122. 51. Scheinman, Atomic Energy Policy in France Under the Fourth Republic, pp. 171-173. 52. The British acquisition of nuclear weapons in 1952 predated the Soviet development of a secure second-strike capability.

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the list of all the nuclear-capable states in Europe that were both threatened by Soviet military power and had reasons to doubt the credibility of the U.S. first-use pledge, France appears alone on the nuclear proliferation side of the ledger; West Germany, the Netherlands, Italy, Switzerland, Belgium, Norway, and Sweden were all on the nuclear restraint side. This presents a puzzle for the security model, since the Soviet Union's conventional and nuclear threat to most of these states' security was at least as great as the Soviet threat to France; the American nuclear guarantee should not have been not considered more credible by those states that had been U.S. enemies or neutrals in World War II, compared to France, a U.S. ally of long standing, and one which the United States had strongly aided once it entered the war in 1941.

A stronger explanation for the French decision to build nuclear weapons emerges when one focuses on French leaders' perceptions of the bomb's sym- bolic significance. The belief that nuclear power and nuclear weapons were deeply linked to a state's position in the international system was present as early as 1951, when the first French Five-Year Plan was put forward with its stated purpose being "to ensure that in 10 years' time France will still be an important country."53 France emerged from World War II in an unusual posi- tion: it was a liberated victor whose military capabilities and international standing were not at all comparable to the power and status it had before the war. It should therefore not be surprising that the governments of both the Fourth and the Fifth Republics vigorously explored alternative means to return France to its historical great power status.54 After the war, the initial French effort to restore its tarnished prestige focused on the fight to hold onto an overseas empire, yet as Michel Martin has nicely put it, "as the curtain was drawn over colonial domination, it became clear that the country's grandeur had to be nourished from other sources."55

After 1958, the Algerian crisis contributed greatly to Charles de Gaulle's obsession with nuclear weapons as the source of French grandeur and inde- pendence. In contrast, de Gaulle appeared less concerned about whether French nuclear forces could provide adequate deterrence against the Soviet

53. The document is quoted in Goldschmidt, The Atomic Complex, p. 126. 54. For detailed analyses of the French nuclear weapons decision which focus attention on political prestige as the central source of policy, see Scheinman, Atomic Energy Policy in France Under the Fourth Republic; and Kohl, French Nuclear Diplomacy. Also see Bundy, Danger and Survival, pp. 472- 487, 499-503. 55. Michel L. Martin, Warriors to Managers: The French Military Establishment Since 1945 (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1981), p. 21.

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military threat. For example, during both the Berlin crisis of 1958 (before the 1960 French nuclear weapons test) and the 1962 Cuban crisis (after the test, but before French nuclear forces were operational), de Gaulle expressed great confidence that the Soviets would not risk an attack on NATO Europe.56 Wilfred Kohl also reports on a revealing incident in which a French military strategist sent de Gaulle a copy of a book on French nuclear doctrine and de Gaulle replied, "thanking the man for his interesting analysis of strategic questions, but stressing that for him the central and clearly the only important issue was: 'Will France remain France?"'57 For de Gaulle, the atomic bomb was a dramatic symbol of French independence and was thus needed for France to continue to be seen, by itself and others, as a great power. He confided to President Dwight Eisenhower in 1959:

A France without world responsibility would be unworthy of herself, especially in the eyes of Frenchmen. It is for this reason that she disapproves of NATO, which denies her a share in decision-making and which is confined to Europe. It is for this reason too that she intends to provide herself with an atomic armament. Only in this way can our defense and foreign policy be inde- pendent, which we prize above everything else.58

When the French nuclear weapons arsenal is viewed as primarily serving symbolic functions, a number of puzzling aspects of the history of French atomic policy become more understandable. The repeated Gaullist declarations that French nuclear weapons should have world-wide capabilities and must be aimed in all directions ("tous azimuts") are seen, not as the product of security threats that came from all directions, but rather because only such a policy could be logically consistent with global grandeur and independence. Similarly, the French strategic doctrine of "proportional deterrence" against the Soviet Union during the Cold War-threatening more limited destruction in a retali- atory strike than did the United States under its targeting doctrine-is seen as being produced, not by France's geographical position or limited economic resources, but rather because deterrence of the Soviet Union was a justification, and never the primary purpose of its arsenal. Finally, the profound French reluctance to stop nuclear testing in the mid-1990s is seen as being produced,

56. See Philip H. Gordon, "Charles de Gaulle and the Nuclear Revolution," Security Studies, Vol. 5, No. 1 (Autumn 1995), pp. 129-130. 57. Kohl, French Nuclear Diplomacy, p. 150, quoted in Bundy, Danger and Survival, p. 502. 58. Charles de Gaulle, Memoirs of Hope: Renewal and Endeavor (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1971), p. 209 (emphasis in the original), quoted in Yost, France's Deterrent Posture and Security in Europe, pp. 13-14.

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not only by the stated concerns about weapons modernization and warhead safety, but also because weapons tests were perceived by Parisian leaders as potent symbols of French identity and status as a great power.

RESTRAINT REVISITED: THE NPT AND THE UKRAINE CASE

Stark contrasts exist between French nuclear decisions in the 1950s and Ukrain- ian nuclear decisions in the 1990s. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, an independent Ukraine was "born nuclear" with more than 4,000 nuclear weapons on or under its soil. In November 1994, however, the Rada in Kiev voted overwhelmingly to join the NPT as a non-nuclear state, and all weapons were removed from Ukrainian territory by June 1996.

This decision to give up a nuclear arsenal is puzzling from the realist perspective: a number of prominent realist scholars, after all, maintained that given the history of Russian expansionist behavior and continuing tensions over the Crimea and the treatment of Russian minorities, Ukraine's inde- pendence was seriously threatened, and further argued that nuclear weapons were the only rational solution to this security threat.59 The disarmament decision is also puzzling from a traditional domestic politics perspective. De- spite the tragic consequences of the Chernobyl accident, public opinion polls in Ukraine showed rapidly growing support for keeping nuclear weapons in 1992 and 1993: polls showed support for an independent arsenal increasing from 18 percent in May 1992 to 36 percent in March 1993, to as much as 45 percent in the summer of 1993.60 In addition, well-known retired military officers, such as Rada member General Volodomyr Tolubko, vigorously lobbied to maintain an arsenal and senior political leaders, most importantly Prime Minister (then President) Leonid Kuchma, came from the Soviet missile-build- ing industry and would not therefore be expected to take an anti-nuclear position.61

An understanding of Ukraine's decision to eliminate its nuclear arsenal requires that more attention be focused on the role that emerging NPT non- proliferation norms played in four critical ways. First, Ukrainian politicians

59. See John J. Mearsheimer, "The Case for a Ukrainian Nuclear Deterrent," Foreign Affairs, Vol. 72, No. 3 (Summer 1993), pp. 50-66; and Barry R. Posen, "The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict," Survival, Vol. 35, No. 1 (Spring 1993), pp. 44-45. 60. See William C. Potter, "The Politics of Nuclear Renunciation: The Cases of Belarus, Kazakhstan, and Ukraine," Henry L. Stimson Center, Occasional Paper No. 22, April 1995, p. 49. 61. For a detailed analysis see Bohdan Nahaylo, "The Shaping of Ukrainian Attitudes Toward Nuclear Arms," RFE/RL (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty) Research Report, Vol. 2, No. 8 (February 19, 1993), pp. 21-45.

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initially adopted anti-nuclear positions as a way of buttressing Kiev's claims to national sovereignty. In one of its first efforts to assert an independent foreign policy from Moscow, Ukraine tried to accede to the NPT as a non-nu- clear state in early 1990, attempting to use NPT membership as a way of separating itself from the Soviet Union.62 In July 1990, this policy was under- scored when the parliament in Kiev issued its Declaration of Sovereignty. Embedded in declarations about Ukraine's right to participate as a full member in all agreements concerning "international peace and security" was the proc- lamation that Ukraine would "become a neutral state that does not participate in military blocs and that adheres to three non-nuclear principles: not to maintain, produce, or acquire nuclear weapons." This extraordinary statement was an expedient designed to buttress Kiev's claim to independence from the Soviet Union, rather than a blueprint laying out Ukraine's long-term strategy: indeed, it was adopted by a vote of 355-4, without extensive debate, by the parliament in which conservative communists (many of whom would later take pro-nuclear positions) still held the majority of seats.63 Nevertheless, the declaration placed the onus of reneging on an international commitment on the politicians and scholars who afterwards called for keeping an arsenal, and it is revealing that even many of the more hawkish analysts thereafter defen- sively advocated keeping the arsenal on a temporary basis until other sources of security could be found.64 Second, although Ukrainian officials continued to be interested in enhancing the state's international prestige, the strength of the NPT regime created a history in which the most recent examples of new or potential nuclear states were so-called "rogue states" such as North Korea, Iran, and Iraq. This was hardly a nuclear club whose new members would receive international prestige, and during the debate in Kiev, numerous pro-NPT Ukrainian officials insisted that renunciation of nuclear weapons was now the best route to enhance Ukraine's international standing.65 Third, economic pres- sures were clearly critical to the Ukrainian decision: the United States and NATO allies encouraged Kiev to give up the arsenal not by convincing officials that nuclear weapons could never serve as a military deterrent against Moscow, but by persuading them that not following the NPT norm would result in very

62. Potter, "The Politics of Nuclear Renunciation," p. 19. 63. See Nahaylo, "The Shaping of Ukrainian Attitudes," pp. 21-22. 64. Potter, "The Politics of Nuclear Renunciation," pp. 21-23; and Nahaylo, "The Shaping of Ukrainian Attitudes." 65. See Potter, "The Politics of Nuclear Renunciation," p. 44; and Garnett, "Ukraine's Decision to Join the NPT," p. 12.

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negative economic consequences.66 It is important to recognize, however, that the ability to coordinate such activities, and credibly to threaten collective sanctions and promised inducements for disarmament, were significantly heightened by the existence of the NPT norm against the creation of new nuclear weapons states. Fourth, the Kiev government and the Ukrainian public could more easily accept the economic inducements offered by the United States-such as Nunn-Lugar payments to help transport and destroy the weap- ons-with the belief that they were enabling Ukraine to keep an international commitment.

As with all counterfactuals, it is impossible to assess with certainty whether Ukraine would have made the same decision had the NPT norms not been in existence. Still, it is valuable to try to imagine how much more difficult a disarmament outcome would have been in the absence of the NPT and its twenty-five year history. Without the NPT, a policy of keeping a nuclear arsenal would have placed Ukraine in the category of France and China; instead, it placed Ukraine in the company of dissenters like India and Pakistan and pariahs like Iraq and North Korea. International threats to eliminate economic aid and suspend political ties would be less credible, since individual states would be more likely to defect from an agreement. Finally, without the NPT norm, U.S. dismantlement assistance would have been seen in Kiev as the crass purchase of Ukrainian weapons by a foreign government, instead of being viewed as friendly assistance to help Kiev implement an international agree- ment.

POLICY IMPLICATIONS OF THE NORMS MODEL

If the norms model of proliferation is correct, the key U.S. policy challenges are to recognize that such norms can have a strong influence on other states' nuclear weapons policy, and to adjust U.S. policies to increase the likelihood that norms will push others toward policies that also serve U.S. interests. Recognizing the possibility that norms can influence other states' behavior in complex ways should not be difficult. After all, the norms of the NPT have already influenced U.S. nuclear weapons policy in ways that few scholars or policymakers predicted ahead of time: in January 1995, for example, the Clin- ton administration abandoned the long-standing U.S. position that the Com- prehensive Test Ban Treaty (CTBT) must include an automatic escape clause

66. An excellent analysis of U.S. policy appears in Garnett, "Ukraine's Decision to Join the NPT," pp. 10-12.

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permitting states to withdraw from the treaty after ten years. Despite the arguments made by Pentagon officials that such a clause was necessary to protect U.S. security, the administration accepted the possibility of a permanent CTBT because senior decision-makers became convinced that the U.S. position was considered illegitimate by non-nuclear NPT members, due to the Article VI commitment to eventual disarmament, and might thereby jeopardize the effort to negotiate a permanent extension of the NPT treaty.67

Adjusting U.S. nuclear policies in the future to reenforce emerging nonpro- liferation norms will be difficult, however, because many of the recommended policies derived from the norms perspective directly contradict recommenda- tions derived from the other models. Focusing on NPT norms raises especially severe concerns about how existing U.S. nuclear first-use doctrine influences potential proliferators' perceptions of the legitimacy or illegitimacy of nuclear weapons possession and use.68 To the degree that such first-use policies create beliefs that nuclear threats are what great powers do, they will become desired symbols for states that aspire to that status. The norms argument against U.S. nuclear first-use doctrine, however, contradicts the policy advice derived from the security model, which stresses the need for continued nuclear guarantees for U.S. allies. Similarly, the norms perspective suggests that current U.S. government efforts to maintain the threat of first use of nuclear weapons to deter the use of biological or chemical weapons would have a negative impact on the nuclear nonproliferation regime.69 Leaders of non-nuclear states are much less likely to consider their own acquisition of nuclear weapons to deter adversaries with chemical and biological weapons illegitimate and ill-advised if the greatest conventional military power in the world can not refrain from making such threats.

Other possible policy initiatives are less problematic. For example, if norms concerning prestige are important, then it would be valuable for the United States to encourage the development of other sources of international prestige

67. Douglas Jehl, "U.S. in New Pledge on Atom Test Ban," New York Timtes, January 31, 1995, p. 1; Dunbar Lockwood, "U.S. Drops CTB 'Early Out' Plan; Test Moratorium May Be Permanent," Arms Control Today, Vol. 25, No. 2 (March 1995), p. 27. 68. On this issue, see Barry M. Blechman and Cathleen S. Fisher, "Phase Out the Bomb," Foreign Policy, No. 97 (Winter 1994-95), pp. 79-95; and Wolfgang K.H. Panofsky and George Bunn, "The Doctrine of the Nuclear-Weapons States and the Future of Non-Proliferation," Armns Control Today, Vol. 24, No. 6 (July/August 1994), pp. 3-9. 69. For contrasting views on this policy, see George Bunn, "Expanding Nuclear Options: Is the U.S. Negating its Non-Use Pledges?" Arms Control Today, Vol. 26, No. 4 (May/June 1996), pp. 7-10; and Gompert, Watman, and Wilkening, "Nuclear First Use Revisited."

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for current or potential proliferators. Thus, a policy that made permanent UN Security Council membership for Japan, Germany, and India conditional upon the maintenance of non-nuclear status under the NPT might further remove nuclear weapons possession from considerations of international prestige.

Finally, the norms model produces a more optimistic vision of the potential future of nonproliferation. Norms are sticky: individual and group beliefs about appropriate behavior change slowly, and over time norms can become rules embedded in domestic institutions.70 In the short run, therefore, norms can be a brake on nuclear chain reactions: in contrast to more pessimistic realist predictions that "proliferation begets proliferation," the norms model suggests that such nuclear reactions to emerging security threats can be avoided or at least delayed because of normative constraints. The long-term future of the NPT regime is also viewed with more optimism, for the model envisions the possibility of a gradual emergence of a norm against all nuclear weapons possession. The development of such a norm may well have been inadvertent in the sense that the United States did not take its Article VI commitment to work in good faith for complete nuclear disarmament seriously, for quite understandable reasons, during the Cold War. But to the degree that other states believe that such commitments are real and legitimate, their perceptions that the United States is backsliding away from Article VI will influence their behavior over time. This emphasis on emerging norms therefore highlights the need for the nuclear powers to reaffirm their commitments to global nuclear disarmament, and suggests that it is essential that the U.S. and other govern- ments develop a public, long-term strategy for the eventual elimination of nuclear weapons.71 The norms model can not, of course, predict whether such efforts will ever resolve the classic risks of nuclear disarmament: that states can break treaty obligations in crises, that small arsenals produce strategic insta- bilities, and that adequate verification of complete dismantlement is exceed- ingly difficult. But the model does predict that there will be severe costs

70. For useful discussions, see Abram Chayes and Antonia Handler Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995); and Andrew P. Cortell and James W. Davis Jr., "How Do International Institutions Matter?: The Domestic Impact of International Rules and Norms," International Studies Quarterly, Vol. 40, No. 4 (December 1996), pp. 451-478. 71. For important efforts to rethink the elimination issue, see "An Evolving U.S. Nuclear Posture," Report of the Steering Committee of the Project on Eliminating Weapons of Mass Destruction, Henry L. Stimson Center, Washington, D.C., December 1995; and Donald MacKenzie and Graham Spinardi, "Tacit Knowledge, Weapons Design, and the Uninvention of Nuclear Weapons," American Journal of Sociology, Vol. 101, No. 1 (July 1995), pp. 44-100.

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involved if the nuclear powers are seen to have failed to make significant progress toward nuclear disarmament.

Conclusions: Causal Complexity and Policy Tradeoffs

The ideas and evidence presented in this article suggest that the widely held security model explanation for nuclear proliferation decisions is inadequate. A realist might well respond to this argument by asserting that evidence is always ambiguous in complex historical events, and that I underestimate foreign threats and thus provide a poor measure of the effects of security concerns on decision-makers. Moreover, it could be argued that the best theories are those that explain the largest number of cases and that the largest number of positive nuclear weapons decisions in the past (the United States, the Soviet Union, China, Israel, Pakistan) and the majority of the most pressing proliferation cases today (Iraq, Libya, and possibly North Korea and Iran) appear to be best explained by the basic security model.

I have no quarrel with the argument that the largest number of past and even current active proliferant cases are best explained by the security model. But the evidence presented above strongly suggests that multicausality, rather than measurement error, lies at the heart of the nuclear proliferation problem. Nuclear weapons proliferation and nuclear restraint have occurred in the past, and can occur in the future, for more than one reason: different historical cases are best explained by different causal models.

If this central argument is correct, it has important implications for future scholarship on proliferation as well as for U.S. nonproliferation policy. The challenge for scholars is not to produce increasing numbers of detailed, but atheoretical, case studies of states' nuclear proliferation and restraint decisions; it is to produce theory-driven comparative studies to help determine the conditions under which different causal forces produced similar outcomes. Predicting the future based on such an understanding of the past will still be problematic, since the conditions that produced the past proliferation outcomes may themselves be subject to change. But future scholarship focusing on how different governments assess the nuclear potential and intention of neighbors, on why pro-bomb and anti-bomb domestic coalitions form and gain influence, and on when and how NPT norms about legitimate behavior constrain states- men will be extremely important.

For policymakers, the existence of three different reasons why states develop nuclear weapons suggests that no single policy can ameliorate all future pro-

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liferation problems. Fortunately, some of the policy recommendations derived from the models are quite compatible: for example, many of the diplomatic tools suggested by the domestic politics model, which attempts to reduce the power of individual parochial interests in favor of nuclear weapons, would not interfere with simultaneous efforts to address states' security concerns. Simi- larly, efforts to enhance the international status of some non-nuclear states need not either undercut deterrence or promote pro-nuclear advocates in those countries.

Unfortunately, other important recommendations from different models are more contradictory. Most importantly, a security-oriented strategy of maintain- ing a major role for U.S. nuclear guarantees to restrain proliferation among allies will eventually create strong tensions with a norms-oriented strategy seeking to delegitimize nuclear weapons use and acquisition. The final out- come of these alternative strategies, of course, is not under the control of the United States, as leaders of potential proliferators will decide for themselves whether to pursue or reject nuclear weapons programs. Yet U.S. policy will not be without influence, and intelligent decisions will not emerge if we refuse to recognize that painful tradeoffs are appearing on the horizon. U.S. decision- makers will eventually have to choose between the difficult non-proliferation task of weaning allies away from nuclear guarantees without producing new nuclear states, and the equally difficult task of maintaining a norm against nuclear proliferation without the U.S. government facing up to its logical final consequence.

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  • Issue Table of Contents
    • International Security, Vol. 21, No. 3 (Winter, 1996-1997), pp. 1-187
      • Front Matter [pp. 1-2]
      • Editors' Note [pp. 3-4]
      • Competing Visions for U.S. Grand Strategy [pp. 5-53]
      • A Boom of One's Own
        • Why Do States Build Nuclear Weapons?: Three Models in Search of a Bomb [pp. 54-86]
        • Proliferation Pessimism and Emerging Nuclear Powers [pp. 87-119]
      • Coping with Collapse in Africa
        • Responding to State Failure in Africa [pp. 120-144]
        • Lessons of Liberia: ECOMOG and Regional Peacekeeping [pp. 145-176]
      • Correspondence
        • Democracy and Peace [pp. 177-187]
      • Back Matter

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Schulz The Earthquake That Will Devastate the Pacific Northwest - The New Yorker (2).pdf

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Annals of Seismology

JULY 20, 2015 ISSUE

The Really Big One An earthquake will destroy a sizable portion of the coastal Northwest. The question is when.

BY KATHRYN SCHULZ

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The next full-margin rupture of the Cascadia subduction zone will spell the worst natural disaster in the history of the continent. ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTOPH NIEMANN; MAP BY ZIGGYMAJ / GETTY

hen the 2011 earthquake and tsunami struck Tohoku, Japan, Chris Goldfinger was

two hundred miles away, in the city of Kashiwa, at an international meeting on seismology. As the shaking started, everyone in the room began to laugh. Earthquakes are common in Japan—that one was the third of the week—and the participants were, after all, at a seismology conference. Then everyone in the room checked the time.

Seismologists know that how long an earthquake lasts is a decent proxy for its magnitude. The 1989 earthquake in Loma Prieta, California, which killed sixty-three people and caused six billion dollars’ worth of damage, lasted about fifteen seconds and had a magnitude of 6.9. A thirty-second earthquake generally has a magnitude in the mid-sevens. A minute-long quake is in the high sevens, a two-minute quake has entered the eights, and a three-minute quake is in the high eights. By four minutes, an earthquake has hit magnitude 9.0.

When Goldfinger looked at his watch, it was quarter to three. The conference was wrapping up for the day. He was thinking about sushi. The speaker at the lectern was wondering if he should carry on with his talk. The earthquake was not particularly strong. Then it ticked past the sixty-second mark, making it longer than the others that week. The shaking intensified. The seats in the conference room were small plastic desks with wheels. Goldfinger, who is tall and solidly built, thought, No way am I crouching under one of those for cover. At a minute and a half, everyone in the room got up and went outside.

It was March. There was a chill in the air, and snow flurries, but no snow on the ground.

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It was March. There was a chill in the air, and snow flurries, but no snow on the ground. Nor, from the feel of it, was there ground on the ground. The earth snapped and popped and rippled. It was, Goldfinger thought, like driving through rocky terrain in a vehicle with no shocks, if both the vehicle and the terrain were also on a raft in high seas. The quake passed the two-minute mark. The trees, still hung with the previous autumn’s dead leaves, were making a strange rattling sound. The flagpole atop the building he and his colleagues had just vacated was whipping through an arc of forty degrees. The building itself was base-isolated, a seismic-safety technology in which the body of a structure rests on movable bearings rather than directly on its foundation. Goldfinger lurched over to take a look. The base was lurching, too, back and forth a foot at a time, digging a trench in the yard. He thought better of it, and lurched away. His watch swept past the three- minute mark and kept going.

Oh, shit, Goldfinger thought, although not in dread, at first: in amazement. For decades, seismologists had believed that Japan could not experience an earthquake stronger than magnitude 8.4. In 2005, however, at a conference in Hokudan, a Japanese geologist named Yasutaka Ikeda had argued that the nation should expect a magnitude 9.0 in the near future—with catastrophic consequences, because Japan’s famous earthquake-and- tsunami preparedness, including the height of its sea walls, was based on incorrect science. The presentation was met with polite applause and thereafter largely ignored. Now, Goldfinger realized as the shaking hit the four-minute mark, the planet was proving the Japanese Cassandra right.

For a moment, that was pretty cool: a real-time revolution in earthquake science. Almost immediately, though, it became extremely uncool, because Goldfinger and every other seismologist standing outside in Kashiwa knew what was coming. One of them pulled out a cell phone and started streaming videos from the Japanese broadcasting station NHK, shot by helicopters that had flown out to sea soon after the shaking started. Thirty minutes after Goldfinger first stepped outside, he watched the tsunami roll in, in real time, on a two-inch screen.

In the end, the magnitude-9.0 Tohoku earthquake and subsequent tsunami killed more than eighteen thousand people, devastated northeast Japan, triggered the meltdown at the Fukushima power plant, and cost an estimated two hundred and twenty billion dollars. The shaking earlier in the week turned out to be the foreshocks of the largest earthquake in the nation’s recorded history. But for Chris Goldfinger, a paleoseismologist at Oregon State University and one of the world’s leading experts on a little-known fault line, the main quake was itself a kind of foreshock: a preview of another earthquake still to come.

ost people in the United States know just one fault line by name: the San Andreas, which runs nearly the length of California and is perpetually rumored

to be on the verge of unleashing “the big one.” That rumor is misleading, no matter what

the San Andreas ever does. Every fault line has an upper limit to its potency, determined by its length and width, and by how far it can slip. For the San Andreas, one of the most extensively studied and best understood fault lines in the world, that upper limit is roughly an 8.2—a powerful earthquake, but, because the Richter scale is logarithmic, only six per cent as strong as the 2011 event in Japan.

“Perhaps I’ve said too much.”

Just north of the San Andreas, however, lies another fault line. Known as the Cascadia subduction zone, it runs for seven hundred miles off the coast of the Pacific Northwest, beginning near Cape Mendocino, California, continuing along Oregon and Washington, and terminating around Vancouver Island, Canada. The “Cascadia” part of its name comes from the Cascade Range, a chain of volcanic mountains that follow the same course a hundred or so miles inland. The “subduction zone” part refers to a region of the planet where one tectonic plate is sliding underneath (subducting) another. Tectonic plates are those slabs of mantle and crust that, in their epochs-long drift, rearrange the earth’s continents and oceans. Most of the time, their movement is slow, harmless, and all but undetectable. Occasionally, at the borders where they meet, it is not.

Take your hands and hold them palms down, middle fingertips touching. Your right hand represents the North American tectonic plate, which bears on its back, among other things, our entire continent, from One World Trade Center to the Space Needle, in Seattle. Your left hand represents an oceanic plate called Juan de Fuca, ninety thousand square miles in size. The place where they meet is the Cascadia subduction zone. Now slide your left hand under your right one. That is what the Juan de Fuca plate is doing: slipping steadily beneath North America. When you try it, your right hand will slide up your left arm, as if you were pushing up your sleeve. That is what North America is not doing. It is stuck, wedged tight against the surface of the other plate.

Without moving your hands, curl your right knuckles up, so that they point toward the ceiling. Under pressure from Juan de Fuca, the stuck edge of North America is bulging upward and compressing eastward, at the rate of, respectively, three to four millimetres and thirty to forty millimetres a year. It can do so for quite some time, because, as continent stuff goes, it is young, made of rock that is still relatively elastic. (Rocks, like us, get stiffer as they age.) But it cannot do so indefinitely. There is a backstop—the craton, that ancient unbudgeable mass at the center of the continent—and, sooner or later, North America will rebound like a spring. If, on that occasion, only the southern part of the Cascadia subduction zone gives way—your first two fingers, say—the magnitude of

the resulting quake will be somewhere between 8.0 and 8.6. That’s the big one. If the entire zone gives way at once, an event that seismologists call a full-margin rupture, the magnitude will be somewhere between 8.7 and 9.2. That’s the very big one.

Flick your right fingers outward, forcefully, so that your hand flattens back down again. When the next very big earthquake hits, the northwest edge of the continent, from California to Canada and the continental shelf to the Cascades, will drop by as much as six feet and rebound thirty to a hundred feet to the west—losing, within minutes, all the elevation and compression it has gained over centuries. Some of that shift will take place beneath the ocean, displacing a colossal quantity of seawater. (Watch what your fingertips do when you flatten your hand.) The water will surge upward into a huge hill, then promptly collapse. One side will rush west, toward Japan. The other side will rush east, in a seven-hundred-mile liquid wall that will reach the Northwest coast, on average, fifteen minutes after the earthquake begins. By the time the shaking has ceased and the tsunami has receded, the region will be unrecognizable. Kenneth Murphy, who directs FEMA’s Region X, the division responsible for Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Alaska, says, “Our operating assumption is that everything west of Interstate 5 will be toast.”

In the Pacific Northwest, the area of impact will cover* (#editorsnote) some hundred and forty thousand square miles, including Seattle, Tacoma, Portland, Eugene, Salem (the capital city of Oregon), Olympia (the capital of Washington), and some seven million people. When the next full-margin rupture happens, that region will suffer the worst natural disaster in the history of North America. Roughly three thousand people died in San Francisco’s 1906 earthquake. Almost two thousand died in Hurricane Katrina. Almost three hundred died in Hurricane Sandy. FEMA projects that nearly thirteen thousand people will die in the Cascadia earthquake and tsunami. Another twenty-seven thousand will be injured, and the agency expects that it will need to provide shelter for a million displaced people, and food and water for another two and a half million. “This is one time that I’m hoping all the science is wrong, and it won’t happen for another thousand years,” Murphy says.

In fact, the science is robust, and one of the chief scientists behind it is Chris Goldfinger. Thanks to work done by him and his colleagues, we now know that the odds of the big Cascadia earthquake happening in the next fifty years are roughly one in three. The odds of the very big one are roughly one in ten. Even those numbers do not fully reflect the danger—or, more to the point, how unprepared the Pacific Northwest is to face it. The truly worrisome figures in this story are these: Thirty years ago, no one knew that the Cascadia subduction zone had ever produced a major earthquake. Forty-five years ago, no one even knew it existed.

“I’ll do what everybody does—sell this startup just before we have to hire a female employee.”

In May of 1804, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, together with their Corps of Discovery, set

off from St. Louis on America’s first official cross- country expedition. Eighteen months later, they reached the Pacific Ocean and made camp near the present-day town of Astoria, Oregon. The United States was, at the time, twenty-nine years old. Canada was not yet a country. The continent’s far expanses were so unknown to its white explorers that Thomas Jefferson, who commissioned the journey, thought that the men would come across woolly mammoths. Native Americans had lived in the Northwest for millennia, but they had no written language, and the many things to which the arriving Europeans subjected them did not include seismological inquiries. The newcomers took the land they encountered at face value, and at face value it was a find: vast, cheap, temperate, fertile, and, to all appearances, remarkably benign.

A century and a half elapsed before anyone had any inkling that the Pacific Northwest was not a quiet place but a place in a long period of quiet. It took another fifty years to uncover and interpret the region’s seismic history. Geology, as even geologists will tell you, is not normally the sexiest of disciplines; it hunkers down with earthly stuff while the glory accrues to the human and the cosmic—to genetics, neuroscience, physics. But, sooner or later, every field has its field day, and the discovery of the Cascadia subduction zone stands as one of the greatest scientific detective stories of our time.

The first clue came from geography. Almost all of the world’s most powerful earthquakes occur in the Ring of Fire, the volcanically and seismically volatile swath of the Pacific that runs from New Zealand up through Indonesia and Japan, across the ocean to Alaska, and down the west coast of the Americas to Chile. Japan, 2011, magnitude 9.0; Indonesia, 2004, magnitude 9.1; Alaska, 1964, magnitude 9.2; Chile, 1960, magnitude 9.5—not until the late nineteen-sixties, with the rise of the theory of plate tectonics, could geologists explain this pattern. The Ring of Fire, it turns out, is really a ring of subduction zones. Nearly all the earthquakes in the region are caused by continental plates getting stuck on oceanic plates—as North America is stuck on Juan de Fuca—and then getting abruptly unstuck. And nearly all the volcanoes are caused by the oceanic plates sliding deep beneath the continental ones, eventually reaching temperatures and pressures so extreme that they melt the rock above them.

The Pacific Northwest sits squarely within the Ring of Fire. Off its coast, an oceanic plate is slipping beneath a continental one. Inland, the Cascade volcanoes mark the line where, far below, the Juan de Fuca plate is heating up and melting everything above it. In other words, the Cascadia subduction zone has, as Goldfinger put it, “all the right anatomical parts.” Yet not once in recorded history has it caused a major earthquake—or, for that matter, any quake to speak of. By contrast, other subduction zones produce major earthquakes occasionally and minor ones all the time: magnitude 5.0, magnitude 4.0,

magnitude why are the neighbors moving their sofa at midnight. You can scarcely spend a week in Japan without feeling this sort of earthquake. You can spend a lifetime in many parts of the Northwest—several, in fact, if you had them to spend—and not feel so much as a quiver. The question facing geologists in the nineteen-seventies was whether the Cascadia subduction zone had ever broken its eerie silence.

In the late nineteen-eighties, Brian Atwater, a geologist with the United States Geological Survey, and a graduate student named David Yamaguchi found the answer, and another major clue in the Cascadia puzzle. Their discovery is best illustrated in a place called the ghost forest, a grove of western red cedars on the banks of the Copalis River, near the Washington coast. When I paddled out to it last summer, with Atwater and Yamaguchi, it was easy to see how it got its name. The cedars are spread out across a low salt marsh on a wide northern bend in the river, long dead but still standing. Leafless, branchless, barkless, they are reduced to their trunks and worn to a smooth silver-gray, as if they had always carried their own tombstones inside them.

What killed the trees in the ghost forest was saltwater. It had long been assumed that they died slowly, as the sea level around them gradually rose and submerged their roots. But, by 1987, Atwater, who had found in soil layers evidence of sudden land subsidence along the Washington coast, suspected that that was backward—that the trees had died quickly when the ground beneath them plummeted. To find out, he teamed up with Yamaguchi, a specialist in dendrochronology, the study of growth-ring patterns in trees. Yamaguchi took samples of the cedars and found that they had died simultaneously: in tree after tree, the final rings dated to the summer of 1699. Since trees do not grow in the winter, he and Atwater concluded that sometime between August of 1699 and May of 1700 an earthquake had caused the land to drop and killed the cedars. That time frame predated by more than a hundred years the written history of the Pacific Northwest— and so, by rights, the detective story should have ended there.

But it did not. If you travel five thousand miles due west from the ghost forest, you reach the northeast coast of Japan. As the events of 2011 made clear, that coast is vulnerable to tsunamis, and the Japanese have kept track of them since at least 599 A.D. In that fourteen-hundred-year history, one incident has long stood out for its strangeness. On the eighth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year of the Genroku era, a six-hundred-mile-long wave struck the coast, levelling homes, breaching a castle moat, and causing an accident at sea. The

Japanese understood that tsunamis were the result of earthquakes, yet no one felt the ground shake before the Genroku event. The wave had no discernible origin. When scientists began studying it, they called it an orphan tsunami.

Finally, in a 1996 article in Nature, a seismologist named Kenji Satake and three colleagues, drawing on the work of Atwater and Yamaguchi, matched that orphan to its parent—and thereby filled in the blanks in the Cascadia story with uncanny specificity. At approximately nine o’ clock at night on January 26, 1700, a magnitude-9.0 earthquake struck the Pacific Northwest, causing sudden land subsidence, drowning coastal forests, and, out in the ocean, lifting up a wave half the length of a continent. It took roughly fifteen minutes for the Eastern half of that wave to strike the Northwest coast. It took ten hours for the other half to cross the ocean. It reached Japan on January 27, 1700: by the local calendar, the eighth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year of Genroku.

Once scientists had reconstructed the 1700 earthquake, certain previously overlooked accounts also came to seem like clues. In 1964, Chief Louis Nookmis, of the Huu-ay-aht First Nation, in British Columbia, told a story, passed down through seven generations, about the eradication of Vancouver Island’s Pachena Bay people. “I think it was at nighttime that the land shook,” Nookmis recalled. According to another tribal history, “They sank at once, were all drowned; not one survived.” A hundred years earlier, Billy Balch, a leader of the Makah tribe, recounted a similar story. Before his own time, he said, all the water had receded from Washington State’s Neah Bay, then suddenly poured back in, inundating the entire region. Those who survived later found canoes hanging from the trees. In a 2005 study, Ruth Ludwin, then a seismologist at the University of Washington, together with nine colleagues, collected and analyzed Native American reports of earthquakes and saltwater floods. Some of those reports contained enough information to estimate a date range for the events they described. On average, the midpoint of that range was 1701.

It does not speak well of European-Americans that such stories counted as evidence for a proposition only after that proposition had been proved. Still, the reconstruction of the Cascadia earthquake of 1700 is one of those rare natural puzzles whose pieces fit together as tectonic plates do not: perfectly. It is wonderful science. It was wonderful for science. And it was terrible news for the millions of inhabitants of the Pacific Northwest. As Goldfinger put it, “In the late eighties and early nineties, the paradigm shifted to ‘uh- oh.’ ”

Goldfinger told me this in his lab at Oregon State, a low prefab building that a passing English major might reasonably mistake for the maintenance department. Inside the lab is a walk-in freezer. Inside the freezer are floor-to-ceiling racks filled with cryptically labelled tubes, four inches in diameter and five feet long. Each tube contains a core sample of the seafloor. Each sample contains the history, written in seafloorese, of the past ten thousand years. During subduction-zone earthquakes, torrents of land rush off

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the continental slope, leaving a permanent deposit on the bottom of the ocean. By counting the number and the size of deposits in each sample, then comparing their extent and consistency along the length of the Cascadia subduction zone, Goldfinger and his colleagues were able to determine how much of the zone has ruptured, how often, and how drastically.

Thanks to that work, we now know that the Pacific Northwest has experienced forty-one subduction-zone earthquakes in the past ten thousand years. If you divide ten thousand by forty-one, you get two hundred and forty-three, which is Cascadia’s recurrence interval: the average amount of time that elapses between earthquakes. That timespan is dangerous both because it is too long—long enough for us to unwittingly build an entire civilization on top of our continent’s worst fault line—and because it is not long enough. Counting from the earthquake of 1700, we are now three hundred and fifteen years into a two-hundred-and-forty-three-year cycle.

It is possible to quibble with that number. Recurrence intervals are averages, and averages are tricky: ten is the average of nine and eleven, but also of eighteen and two. It is not possible, however, to dispute the scale of the problem. The devastation in Japan in 2011 was the result of a discrepancy between what the best science predicted and what the region was prepared to withstand. The same will hold true in the Pacific Northwest—but here the discrepancy is enormous. “The science part is fun,” Goldfinger says. “And I love doing it. But the gap between what we know and what we should do about it is getting bigger and bigger, and the action really needs to turn to responding. Otherwise, we’re going to be hammered. I’ve been through one of these massive earthquakes in the most seismically prepared nation on earth. If that was Portland”—Goldfinger finished the sentence with a shake of his head before he finished it with words. “Let’s just say I would rather not be here.”

“This heat is killing me. Let’s get a drink in Little Antarctica.”

JULY 20, 2009

he first sign that the Cascadia earthquake has begun will be a compressional wave, radiating

outward from the fault line. Compressional waves are fast-moving, high-frequency waves, audible to dogs and certain other animals but experienced by humans only as a sudden jolt. They are not very harmful, but they are potentially very useful, since they travel fast enough to be detected by sensors thirty to ninety seconds ahead of other seismic waves. That is enough time for earthquake early-warning systems, such as those in use throughout Japan, to automatically perform a variety of lifesaving functions: shutting down railways and power

plants, opening elevators and firehouse doors, alerting hospitals to halt surgeries, and triggering alarms so that the general public can take cover. The Pacific Northwest has no early-warning system. When the Cascadia earthquake begins, there will be, instead, a cacophony of barking dogs and a long, suspended, what-was-that moment before the surface waves arrive. Surface waves are slower, lower-frequency waves that move the ground both up and down and side to side: the shaking, starting in earnest.

Soon after that shaking begins, the electrical grid will fail, likely everywhere west of the Cascades and possibly well beyond. If it happens at night, the ensuing catastrophe will unfold in darkness. In theory, those who are at home when it hits should be safest; it is easy and relatively inexpensive to seismically safeguard a private dwelling. But, lulled into nonchalance by their seemingly benign environment, most people in the Pacific Northwest have not done so. That nonchalance will shatter instantly. So will everything made of glass. Anything indoors and unsecured will lurch across the floor or come crashing down: bookshelves, lamps, computers, cannisters of flour in the pantry. Refrigerators will walk out of kitchens, unplugging themselves and toppling over. Water heaters will fall and smash interior gas lines. Houses that are not bolted to their foundations will slide off—or, rather, they will stay put, obeying inertia, while the foundations, together with the rest of the Northwest, jolt westward. Unmoored on the undulating ground, the homes will begin to collapse.

Across the region, other, larger structures will also start to fail. Until 1974, the state of Oregon had no seismic code, and few places in the Pacific Northwest had one appropriate to a magnitude-9.0 earthquake until 1994. The vast majority of buildings in the region were constructed before then. Ian Madin, who directs the Oregon Department of Geology and Mineral Industries (DOGAMI), estimates that seventy-five per cent of all structures in the state are not designed to withstand a major Cascadia quake. FEMA calculates that, across the region, something on the order of a million buildings—more than three thousand of them schools—will collapse or be compromised in the earthquake. So will half of all highway bridges, fifteen of the seventeen bridges spanning Portland’s two rivers, and two-thirds of railways and airports; also, one-third of all fire stations, half of all police stations, and two-thirds of all hospitals.

Certain disasters stem from many small problems conspiring to cause one very large problem. For want of a nail, the war was lost; for fifteen independently insignificant errors, the jetliner was lost. Subduction-zone earthquakes operate on the opposite principle: one enormous problem causes many other enormous problems. The shaking from the Cascadia quake will set off landslides throughout the region—up to thirty thousand of them in Seattle alone, the city’s emergency-management office estimates. It will also induce a process called liquefaction, whereby seemingly solid ground starts behaving like a liquid, to the detriment of anything on top of it. Fifteen per cent of Seattle is built on liquefiable land, including seventeen day-care centers and the homes of some thirty-four thousand five hundred people. So is Oregon’s critical energy-

infrastructure hub, a six-mile stretch of Portland through which flows ninety per cent of the state’s liquid fuel and which houses everything from electrical substations to natural- gas terminals. Together, the sloshing, sliding, and shaking will trigger fires, flooding, pipe failures, dam breaches, and hazardous-material spills. Any one of these second-order disasters could swamp the original earthquake in terms of cost, damage, or casualties— and one of them definitely will. Four to six minutes after the dogs start barking, the shaking will subside. For another few minutes, the region, upended, will continue to fall apart on its own. Then the wave will arrive, and the real destruction will begin.

Among natural disasters, tsunamis may be the closest to being completely unsurvivable. The only likely way to outlive one is not to be there when it happens: to steer clear of the vulnerable area in the first place, or get yourself to high ground as fast as possible. For the seventy-one thousand people who live in Cascadia’s inundation zone, that will mean evacuating in the narrow window after one disaster ends and before another begins. They will be notified to do so only by the earthquake itself—“a vibrate-alert system,” Kevin Cupples, the city planner for the town of Seaside, Oregon, jokes—and they are urged to leave on foot, since the earthquake will render roads impassable. Depending on location, they will have between ten and thirty minutes to get out. That time line does not allow for finding a flashlight, tending to an earthquake injury, hesitating amid the ruins of a home, searching for loved ones, or being a Good Samaritan. “When that tsunami is coming, you run,” Jay Wilson, the chair of the Oregon Seismic Safety Policy Advisory Commission (OSSPAC), says. “You protect yourself, you don’t turn around, you don’t go back to save anybody. You run for your life.”

The time to save people from a tsunami is before it happens, but the region has not yet taken serious steps toward doing so. Hotels and businesses are not required to post evacuation routes or to provide employees with evacuation training. In Oregon, it has been illegal since 1995 to build hospitals, schools, firehouses, and police stations in the inundation zone, but those which are already in it can stay, and any other new construction is permissible: energy facilities, hotels, retirement homes. In those cases, builders are required only to consult with DOGAMI about evacuation plans. “So you come in and sit down,” Ian Madin says. “And I say, ‘That’s a stupid idea.’ And you say, ‘Thanks. Now we’ve consulted.’ ”

These lax safety policies guarantee that many people inside the inundation zone will not get out. Twenty-two per cent of Oregon’s coastal population is sixty-five or older. Twenty-nine per cent of the state’s population is disabled, and that figure rises in many coastal counties. “We can’t save them,” Kevin Cupples says. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it and say, ‘Oh, yeah, we’ll go around and check on the elderly.’ No. We won’t.” Nor will anyone save the tourists. Washington State Park properties within the inundation zone see an average of seventeen thousand and twenty-nine guests a day. Madin estimates that

up to a hundred and fifty thousand people visit Oregon’s beaches on summer weekends. “Most of them won’t have a clue as to how to evacuate,” he says. “And the beaches are the hardest place to evacuate from.”

Those who cannot get out of the inundation zone under their own power will quickly be overtaken by a greater one. A grown man is knocked over by ankle-deep water moving at 6.7 miles an hour. The tsunami will be moving more than twice that fast when it arrives. Its height will vary with the contours of the coast, from twenty feet to more than a hundred feet. It will not look like a Hokusai-style wave, rising up from the surface of the sea and breaking from above. It will look like the whole ocean, elevated, overtaking land. Nor will it be made only of water—not once it reaches the shore. It will be a five-story deluge of pickup trucks and doorframes and cinder blocks and fishing boats and utility poles and everything else that once constituted the coastal towns of the Pacific Northwest.

To see the full scale of the devastation when that tsunami recedes, you would need to be in the international space station. The inundation zone will be scoured of structures from California to Canada. The earthquake will have wrought its worst havoc west of the Cascades but caused damage as far away as Sacramento, California—as distant from the worst-hit areas as Fort Wayne, Indiana, is from New York. FEMA expects to coördinate search-and-rescue operations across a hundred thousand square miles and in the waters off four hundred and fifty-three miles of coastline. As for casualties: the figures I cited earlier—twenty-seven thousand injured, almost thirteen thousand dead—are based on the agency’s official planning scenario, which has the earthquake striking at 9:41 A.M. on February 6th. If, instead, it strikes in the summer, when the beaches are full, those numbers could be off by a horrifying margin.

Wineglasses, antique vases, Humpty Dumpty, hip bones, hearts: what breaks quickly generally mends slowly, if at all. OSSPAC estimates that in the I-5 corridor it will take between one and three months after the earthquake to restore electricity, a month to a year to restore drinking water and sewer service, six months to a year to restore major highways, and eighteen months to restore health-care facilities. On the coast, those numbers go up. Whoever chooses or has no choice but to stay there will spend three to six months without electricity, one to three years without drinking water and sewage systems, and three or more years without hospitals. Those estimates do not apply to the tsunami-inundation zone, which will remain all but uninhabitable for years.

How much all this will cost is anyone’s guess; FEMA puts every number on its relief- and-recovery plan except a price. But whatever the ultimate figure—and even though U.S. taxpayers will cover seventy-five to a hundred per cent of the damage, as happens in declared disasters—the economy of the Pacific Northwest will collapse. Crippled by a lack of basic services, businesses will fail or move away. Many residents will flee as well.

O

OSSPAC predicts a mass-displacement event and a long-term population downturn. Chris Goldfinger didn’t want to be there when it happened. But, by many metrics, it will be as bad or worse to be there afterward.

n the face of it, earthquakes seem to present us with problems of space: the way we live along fault lines, in brick buildings, in homes made valuable by their

proximity to the sea. But, covertly, they also present us with problems of time. The earth is 4.5 billion years old, but we are a young species, relatively speaking, with an average individual allotment of three score years and ten. The brevity of our lives breeds a kind of temporal parochialism—an ignorance of or an indifference to those planetary gears which turn more slowly than our own.

This problem is bidirectional. The Cascadia subduction zone remained hidden from us for so long because we could not see deep enough into the past. It poses a danger to us today because we have not thought deeply enough about the future. That is no longer a problem of information; we now understand very well what the Cascadia fault line will someday do. Nor is it a problem of imagination. If you are so inclined, you can watch an earthquake destroy much of the West Coast this summer in Brad Peyton’s “San Andreas,” while, in neighboring theatres, the world threatens to succumb to Armageddon by other means: viruses, robots, resource scarcity, zombies, aliens, plague. As those movies attest, we excel at imagining future scenarios, including awful ones. But such apocalyptic visions are a form of escapism, not a moral summons, and still less a plan of action. Where we stumble is in conjuring up grim futures in a way that helps to avert them.

That problem is not specific to earthquakes, of course. The Cascadia situation, a calamity in its own right, is also a parable for this age of ecological reckoning, and the questions it raises are ones that we all now face. How should a society respond to a looming crisis of uncertain timing but of catastrophic proportions? How can it begin to right itself when its entire infrastructure and culture developed in a way that leaves it profoundly vulnerable to natural disaster?

The last person I met with in the Pacific Northwest was Doug Dougherty, the superintendent of schools for Seaside, which lies almost entirely within the tsunami- inundation zone. Of the four schools that Dougherty oversees, with a total student population of sixteen hundred, one is relatively safe. The others sit five to fifteen feet above sea level. When the tsunami comes, they will be as much as forty-five feet below it.

In 2009, Dougherty told me, he found some land for sale outside the inundation zone, and proposed building a new K-12 campus there. Four years later, to foot the hundred- and-twenty-eight-million-dollar bill, the district put up a bond measure. The tax increase for residents amounted to two dollars and sixteen cents per thousand dollars of property value. The measure failed by sixty-two per cent. Dougherty tried seeking help from

Oregon’s congressional delegation but came up empty. The state makes money available for seismic upgrades, but buildings within the inundation zone cannot apply. At present, all Dougherty can do is make sure that his students know how to evacuate.

Some of them, however, will not be able to do so. At an elementary school in the community of Gearhart, the children will be trapped. “They can’t make it out from that school,” Dougherty said. “They have no place to go.” On one side lies the ocean; on the other, a wide, roadless bog. When the tsunami comes, the only place to go in Gearhart is a small ridge just behind the school. At its tallest, it is forty-five feet high—lower than the expected wave in a full-margin earthquake. For now, the route to the ridge is marked by signs that say “Temporary Tsunami Assembly Area.” I asked Dougherty about the state’s long-range plan. “There is no long-range plan,” he said.

Dougherty’s office is deep inside the inundation zone, a few blocks from the beach. All day long, just out of sight, the ocean rises up and collapses, spilling foamy overlapping ovals onto the shore. Eighty miles farther out, ten thousand feet below the surface of the sea, the hand of a geological clock is somewhere in its slow sweep. All across the region, seismologists are looking at their watches, wondering how long we have, and what we will do, before geological time catches up to our own. ♦

* (#correctionasterisk)An earlier version of this article misstated the location of the area of impact.

Watch: A radioactive site in Queens that may become New York City’s next Superfund site.

Kathryn Schulz joined The New Yorker as a staff writer in 2015.

__MACOSX/._Schulz The Earthquake That Will Devastate the Pacific Northwest - The New Yorker (2).pdf

Sofge Can Robots Be Trusted.pdf

__MACOSX/._Sofge Can Robots Be Trusted.pdf

Veldman Reading.pdf

ETHICS & THE ENVIRONMENT, 17(1) 2012 ISSN: 1085-6633 ©Indiana University Press All rights of reproduction in any form reserved. Direct all correspondence to: Journals Manager, Indiana University Press, 601 N. Morton St., Bloomington, IN 47404 USA [email protected]

NaRRaTINg THE ENVIRONMENTal apOCalypSE How ImagInIng tHe end FacIlItates moral reasonIng among envIronmental actIvIsts

RObIN glObuS VEldMaN

Often assumed to induce fatalism, empirical evidence shows that envi- ronmental apocalypticism is frequently associated with activism. I sug- gest this is the case because the notion of imminent catastrophe reveals a moral to the environmental story, and in so doing furnishes a point of view from which people can determine what constitutes environmentally ethical behavior. Insofar as it guides behavior, this apocalyptic moral rea- soning can be usefully understood as a folk version of consequentialism. Further research on how people put environmental ethics into practice would complement the significant advances environmental ethicists have made in the areas of normative and meta-ethics over the past several decades.

As a number of observers have noted, the apocalypse is a recurrent theme in environmental discourse (Buell 2003; Barkun 1983; Killings- worth and Palmer 1996). Yet while no one debates that it successfully draws attention to environmental issues, both environmentalists and their opponents have criticized its use. Within the movement, many argue that

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apocalypticism hinders activism, whether by encouraging fatalism or skepticism, risking self-fulfilling prophecies or by alienating moderates. For example, in their widely read report The Death of Environmental- ism, Michael Shellenberger and Ted Nordhaus contended that the move- ment needed a more positive vision, moving away from “apocalyptic global warming scenarios that tend to create feelings of helplessness and isolation among would-be supporters” (2004, 30; see also Feinberg and Willer 2011; Lewis 1999; and Meadows 1999). For critics external to the movement, environmentalists’ apocalyptic-sounding pronouncements help prove that environmentalism is a religious rather than science-based movement, and therefore that its claims should not be taken seriously. According to the environmental skeptic Julian Simon, for example, envi- ronmentalists are motivated by “religious excitement” rather than a desire for scientific rigor, and therefore “simply shut their eyes to long-run trend evidence, all of which contradicts their prophecies…. [Environmental] prophets refuse to engage in true scientific discussion of the validity of their forecasts” (1995, 20–21). Since prophets have been predicting the end of the world since time immemorial, the logic goes, reasonable people need not take the latest apocalyptic predictions seriously. In the public sphere, such logic has been mobilized to counter environmentalists’ ar- guments from the movement’s early days of concern over pesticides and overpopulation to more recent concern over climate change (see Buell 2003; Bendle 2009; Crichton 2003; Dunn 2007; and Resisting the Green Dragon 2010).

While it may be true that environmentally apocalyptic rhetoric turns some people away from the movement, or that it superficially resembles apocalypticism based on Biblical prophecies, this is not all it does. In fact, there is ample evidence that environmentally apocalyptic views are often associated with activism. Yet while it is not surprising that those who believe the environmental situation is dire tend to want to do something about it, this “positive” (in an environmental sense) function has barely been recognized or explored as dependent on or deriving from an apoca- lyptic worldview. Instead, apart from a few important exceptions (e.g. Barkun 1983; Killingsworth and Palmer 1996; Taylor 1991 and 1994; Thompson 2009), discussions about apocalypticism in the environmental movement have been dominated largely by critics of it. What these critics have missed is that a fair amount of environmental activism occurs not

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despite apocalypticism but because of it. In this paper I argue that this may be so because the notion of imminent apocalypse provides a moral to the environmental story—that humans must fundamentally alter their relationship with the natural world—and in so doing furnishes a point of view from which people can determine what constitutes environmentally ethical behavior. I further suggest that the apocalyptic narrative functions as a folk version of consequentialism.

By examining environmental apocalypticism from this perspective, I aim to recast its persistence not as cause for concern, but as cause for more judicious reflection upon, and perhaps even appreciation of, apocalypti- cism’s function within the environmental community. Through this case study I also hope to encourage further work in descriptive environmental ethics. This empirical work would complement the significant advances environmental ethicists have made in the areas of normative and meta- ethics over the past several decades.

The environmenTal apocalypse

The term apocalypse literally means to uncover or disclose, and origi- nally referred to divine revelations of any nature. Over time, it has come to mean revelations or prophecies specifically of end-times, the end of history, or divine overhaul of the world order (Stewart and Harding 1999, 286). Although the word is genealogically linked to the Christian tradi- tion, in the twentieth century scholars began to apply it more broadly to a number of other movements both religious and secular. The environmen- tal movement has been an obvious target for this extension beyond the religious sphere, for, as Michael Barkun noted, it shares with the Christian millennial tradition “the belief that the accepted texture of reality is about to undergo a staggering transformation, in which long-established institu- tions and ways of life will be destroyed” (1983, 258). Barkun argued that the two types were significantly different, however, in that the new secu- lar apocalypticism eschewed prophecy as means of divining the future, instead relying on “a naturalistic world view, indebted to science and to social criticism rather than to theology” (ibid.). He was certainly correct to highlight the secular origins of the new environmental apocalypticism, for this helps distinguish it from its Christian counterparts. Yet it is also important to note that the use of science has not precluded religiosity entirely, particularly among radical environmentalists, New Age practi-

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tioners, Neopagans, and Wiccans. While drawing heavily on science, and usually affirming human agency, environmental apocalypticism is thus best conceived not as a purely secular phenomenon, but as a syncretic tradition that combines both religious and secular elements to varying degrees.1

As with other forms of apocalypticism in the history of religion, envi- ronmental apocalypticism is characterized by certain shared beliefs about the past, present and future. Given that it is dispersed throughout the environmental community, the details of this worldview vary, but a basic storyline can easily be distilled from movement literature. Others have provided in-depth accounts of this narrative elsewhere, so I will only give its general form here.2

The narrative, which recounts humanity’s fall from ecological grace, can be divided into three acts. The first two are concerned with history, while the last act concerns the future. In Act I, humans are depicted as living in idyllic harmony with nature, and in many accounts, viewing it as alive and sacred. This time is often located prior to the invention of ag- riculture or domestication (i.e. Oelschlaeger 1991; Quinn 1995; Shepard 1998), though others argue that it occurred prior to the invention of writ- ing or other forms of symbolic communication (i.e. Abram 1996; Zerzan [1988] 1999). Act II tells the story of how humans began to turn against the natural world. Through ignorance, greed, hubris, the belief that hu- mans are fundamentally separate from (or superior to) “nature,” the de- sire to subjugate the “feminine” natural world, or in general to attain mastery over it, humans began to mould nature according to their own purposes without regard for other creatures (i.e. Merchant 1980; Evern- den 1992). Intoxicated with power, they sought to subdue and dominate the earth, penetrating her secret depths with mines and ploughs, blight- ing her surface with dams and cities, and even, in the twentieth century, tinkering with her very essence through genetic engineering. As Rachel Carson wrote, those under the sway of this arrogant ideology, “supposed that nature exists for the convenience of man” ([1962] 2002, 297). Act III opens in the twentieth century, as humanity begins to reap the misfortune it has sewn in the forms of pollution, loss of biodiversity, overpopula- tion, deforestation, climate change and other environmental ills. Taken together, these changes are depicted as precipitating an ecological crisis of apocalyptic proportions, the “end the world as we know it.” Environ-

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mental writers sometimes imply that catastrophe is imminent via vivid descriptions of decline. At other times, they refer to it more directly, as when Anita Gordon and David Suzuki urged readers of their book It’s A Matter of Survival to realize that “we have fewer than 10 years to turn things around or ‘civilization as we know it will cease to exist.’ The simple truth is that we are the last generation on Earth that can save the planet” (1991, 3). Act III typically closes with one of two endings. In the fatalistic mode, there is nothing humans can do to avert catastrophe, and the most realistic course of action is to start preparing now for a post-apocalyptic world. According to James Lovelock, for example, “The great party of the twentieth century is coming to an end, and unless we now start preparing our survival kit we will soon be just another species eking out an existence in the few remaining habitable regions” (2006, xiv). Alternatively, in what could be called the avertive mode (see Wojcik 2011), the story concludes by warning that humans can prevent catastrophe, but only if they act soon, and decisively. While the apocalypse looms in both versions of the drama, the lesson it is intended to impart differs in the two versions. In this paper I focus primarily on the avertive version, although in practice people often switch between the two (Lovelock’s The Revenge of Gaia is a good example of this).

While the apocalyptic narrative is not the only one to be found within environmental discourse, it is one that has recurred frequently since the movement’s inception. Moreover, as we shall see, it has appeared not only on paper, but in people’s hearts and minds as well.

environmenTal apocalypTicism and acTivism

As we saw in the introduction, critics often argue that apocalyptic rhetoric induces feelings of hopelessness or fatalism. While it certainly does for some people, in this section I will present evidence that apocalyp- ticism also often goes hand in hand with activism.

Some of the strongest evidence of a connection between environ- mental apocalypticism and activism comes from a national survey that examined whether Americans perceived climate change to be dangerous. As part of his analysis, Anthony Leiserowitz identified several “interpre- tive communities,” which had consistent demographic characteristics but varied in their levels of risk perception. The group who perceived the risk to be the greatest, which he labeled “alarmists,” described climate change

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using apocalyptic language, such as “Bad…bad…bad…like after nuclear war…no vegetation,” “Heat waves, it’s gonna kill the world,” and “Death of the planet” (2005, 1440). Given such language, this would seem to be a reasonable way to operationalize environmental apocalypticism. If such apocalypticism encouraged fatalism, we would expect alarmists to be less likely to have engaged in environmental behavior compared to groups with moderate or low levels of concern. To the contrary, however, Leise- rowitz found that alarmists “were significantly more likely to have taken personal action to reduce greenhouse gas emissions” (ibid.) than respond- ents who perceived climate change to pose less of a threat. Interestingly, while one might expect such radical views to appeal only to a tiny minor- ity, Leiserowitz found that a respectable eleven percent of Americans fell into this group (ibid).

Further supporting Leiserowitz’s findings, in a separate national sur- vey conducted in 2008, Maibach, Roser-Renouf, and Leiserowitz found that a group they labeled “the Alarmed” (again, due to their high levels of concern about climate change) “are the segment most engaged in the issue of global warming. They are very convinced it is happening, human- caused, and a serious and urgent threat. The Alarmed are already making changes in their own lives and support an aggressive national response” (2009, 3, emphasis added). This group was far more likely than people with lower levels of concern over climate change to have engaged in con- sumer activism (by rewarding companies that support action to reduce global warming with their business, for example) or to have contacted elected officials to express their concern. Additionally, the authors found that “[w]hen asked which reason for action was most important to them personally, the Alarmed were most likely to select preventing the destruc- tion of most life on the planet (31%)” (2009, 31)—a finding suggesting that for many in this group it is specifically the desire to avert catastro- phe, rather than some other motivation, that encourages pro-environmen- tal behavior. Taken together, these and other studies (cf. Semenza et al. 2008 and DerKarabetia, Stephenson, and Poggi 1996) provide important evidence that many of those who think environmental problems pose a severe threat practice some form of activism, rather than giving way to fatalistic resignation.

National surveys give a good overview of the association between apocalypticism and activism among the general public, but they do not

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provide sufficient ethnographic detail. To complement this broader pic- ture I now turn to case studies, which provide greater insight into how adherents themselves understand what motivates their environmental behavior.

When seeking a subset of environmentalists with apocalyptic beliefs, the radical wing is an obvious place to look. For example, many Earth First!ers believe that the collapse of industrial society is inevitable (Taylor 1994). At the same time, the majority are actively committed to prevent- ing ecological disaster. As Earth First! co-founder Howie Wolke acknowl- edged, the two are directly connected: “As ecological calamity unravels the living fabric of the Earth, environmental radicalism has become both common and necessary” (1989, 29).3 This logic underlies efforts to pre- serve wilderness areas, which many radical environmentalists believe will serve as reservoirs of genetic diversity, helping to restore the planet after industrial society collapses (Taylor 1994). In addition to encouraging ac- tivism to preserve wilderness, apocalyptic beliefs also motivate practices such as “monkeywrenching,” or ecological sabotage, civil disobedience, and the more conventional “paper monkeywrenching” (lobbying, engag- ing in public information campaigns to shift legislative priorities, or using lawsuits when these tactics fail). Ultimately, while there are disagree- ments over what strategies will best achieve their desired goals, for most radical environmentalists, apocalypticism and activism are bound closely together.

The connection between belief in impending disaster and environ- mental activism holds true for Wiccans as well. During fieldwork in the southeastern United States, for example, Shawn Arthur reported meeting “dozens of Wiccans who professed their apocalyptic millenarian beliefs to anyone who expressed interest, yet many others only quietly agreed with them without any further elaboration” (2008, 201). For this group, the coming disaster was understood as divine retribution, the result of an angry Earth Goddess preparing to punish humans for squandering her ecological gifts (Arthur 2008, 203). In light of Gaia’s impending revenge, Arthur found that Wiccans advocated both spiritual and material forms of activism. For example, practices such as Goddess worship, the use of herbal remedies for healing, and awareness of the body and its energies were considered important for initiating a more harmonious relationship with the earth (Arthur 2008, 207). As for material activism, Arthur notes

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that the notion of environmental apocalypse played a key role in encour- aging pro-environmental behavior:

images of immanent [sic] ecological crisis and apocalyptic change often were utilized as motivating factors for developing an envi- ronmentally and ecologically conscious worldview; for stressing the importance of working for the Earth through a variety of practices, including environmental activism, garbage collecting, recycling, com- posting, and religious rituals; for learning sustainable living skills; and for developing a special relationship with the world as a divine entity. (2008, 212)

What these studies and my own experiences in the environmentalist milieu4 suggest is that people who make a serious commitment to engag- ing in environmentally friendly behavior, people who move beyond mak- ing superficial changes to making substantial and permanent ones, are quite likely to subscribe to some form of the apocalyptic narrative.

All this is not to say that apocalypticism directly or inevitably causes activism, or that believing catastrophe is imminent is the only reason peo- ple become activists. However, it is to say that activism and apocalyp- ticism are associated for some people, and that this association is not arbitrary, for there is something uniquely powerful and compelling about the apocalyptic narrative. Plenty of people will hear it and ignore it, or find it implausible, or simply decide that if the situation really is so dire there is nothing they can do to prevent it from continuing to deteriorate. Yet to focus only on the ability of apocalyptic rhetoric to induce apathy, indifference or reactance is to ignore the evidence that it also fuels quite the opposite—grave concern, activism, and sometimes even outrage. It is also to ignore the movement’s history. From Silent Spring (Carson [1962] 2002) to The Limits to Growth (Meadows et al 1972) to The End of Nature (McKibben 1989), apocalyptic arguments have held a prominent place within environmental literature, topping best-seller lists and spread- ing the message far and wide that protecting the environment should be a societal priority. Thus, while it is not a style of argument that will be ef- fective in convincing everyone to commit to the environmental cause (see Feinberg and Willer 2011), there does appear to be a close relationship between apocalyptic belief and activism among a certain minority. The next section explores the implications of that relationship further.

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The apocalypTic narraTive as a Framework For moral deliberaTion

In discussing how apocalypticism functions within the environmental community, it will be helpful to analyze it as a type of narrative. I do so because the domain of narrative includes both the stories that people read and write, as well as those they tell and live by. By using narratives as data, scholars can analyze experiential and textual sources simultaneously (Polkinghorne 1988; Riessman 2000).

To analyze environmental apocalypticism as a type of narrative is not to suggest that apocalyptics’ claims about the future are fictional. Rather, it is to highlight that the facts to which environmentalists appeal have been organized with particular goals in mind, goals which have necessar- ily shaped the selection and presentation of those facts. Compelling envi- ronmental writers do not simply list every known fact pertaining to the natural world, but instead select certain findings and place them within a larger interpretive framework. Alone, each fact has little meaning, but when woven into a larger narrative, a message emerges. This process of narrativization is essential if a message is to be persuasive (Killingsworth and Palmer 2000, 197), and has occurred not only in the rapidly expand- ing genre of environmental nonfiction, but in much scientific writing about the environment as well (Harré, Brockmeier, and Mühlhäusler 1999, 69).

What defines narratives as such is their beginning-middle-end struc- ture, their ability to “describe an action that begins, continues over a well- defined period of time, and finally draws to a definite close” (Cronon 1992, 1367). Here I will focus on the last of these elements, the ending, because anything we can learn about how endings function within narra- tives in general will be applicable to the apocalypse, the most final ending of all.

An ending is essential in order for a story to be complete, but there is more to it than this. Endings are also key because they establish a story’s moral, the lesson it is supposed to impart upon the reader. In other words, to know the moral of the story, auditors must know the consequences of the actions depicted therein, so there can be no moral without an ending. To take a simple example, when we hear the story of the shepherd boy who falsely claims that a wolf is attacking his flock of sheep in order to entertain himself at his community’s expense, what makes the lesson clear is that when a wolf does attack his flock, the disenchanted town members refuse to come to his aid. By clearly illustrating how telling lies can have

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unpleasant consequences for the perpetrator, the ending reveals the moral that lying is wrong. As Cronon explains, it is “[t]he difference between beginning and end [that] gives us our chance to extract a moral from the rhetorical landscape” (1992, 1370).

Endings play a similar role in environmental stories. In Al Gore’s book Earth in the Balance (1992), for example, he devotes over a third of the book’s pages to presenting scientific evidence that disaster is imminent.5 As he sums it up, “Modern industrial civilization…is colliding violently with our planet’s ecological system. The ferocity of its assault on the earth is breathtaking, and the horrific consequences are occurring so quickly as to defy our capacity to recognize them” (1992, 269). He builds this argu- ment so carefully precisely because if the ending does not seem credible, the moral he wants readers to draw from the story will not be compelling. If his readers are not convinced that the ending to this story of ecologi- cal misbehavior will be a debacle of colossal proportions, they will not become convinced that they need to dramatically alter their ecological be- havior. Thus the vision of future catastrophe that Gore presents provides a crucial vantage point from which the present environmental situation can be understood as the result of a grand moral failure, and Gore’s readers are made aware of their obligations in light of it. Gore himself appreciates the importance of this recognition, arguing that “whether we realize it or not, we are now engaged in an epic battle to right the balance of our earth, and the tide of this battle will turn only when the majority of people in the world become sufficiently aroused by a shared sense of urgent danger to join an all-out effort” (1992, 269, emphasis added). Here, as in so many other stories, the ending must be in place for the moral to become clear.

To say that endings are essential in order for stories to have morals is already to hint that stories alter behavior, that they can encourage ac- tion in the real world even as they invoke an imaginary one. This much is clear from Earth in the Balance (1992): Gore does not just want people to grasp a moral, to perceive some ethic in the abstract—he wants them change their behavior in the here and now. In constructing a narrative with this goal in mind, he is banking on the ability of powerful stories to motivate social change, to be, as Cronon puts it, “our chief moral compass in the world” (1992, 1375).

Mark Johnson’s insightful synthesis of cognitive science and philoso- phy helps explain further how this process of moral guidance occurs. For

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Johnson, narrative is fundamental to our experience of reality, “the most comprehensive means we have for constructing temporal syntheses that bind together and unify our past, present, and future into more or less meaningful patterns” (1993, 174). Narratives are also critical to our abil- ity to reason morally, an activity which Johnson asserts is fundamentally imaginative. In this view, we use stories to imagine ourselves in different scenarios, exploring and evaluating the consequences of different possible actions in order to determine the right one. Moral deliberation is thus

…an imaginative exploration of the possibilities for constructive ac- tion within a present situation. We have a problem to solve here and now (e.g., ‘What am I to do?’…. ‘How should I treat others?’), and we must try out various possible continuations of our narrative in search of the one that seems best to resolve the indeterminacy of our present situation. (1993, 180)

Put another way, what cognitive science has revealed is that from an empirical perspective the process of moral deliberation entails construct- ing narratives rooted in our unique history and circumstances, rather than applying universal principles (such as Kant’s categorical imperative) to particular cases. That we use narratives to reason morally is not a result of conscious choice but of how human cognition works. That is, insofar as we experience ourselves as temporal beings, a narrative framework is necessary to organize, explain, and ultimately justify the many individual decisions that over time become a life. Formal principles may be useful in unambiguous textbook cases, but in real life “we can almost never de- cide (reflectively) how to act without considering the ways in which we can continue our narrative construction of our situation” (Johnson 1993, 160). Empirically speaking, “our moral reasoning is situated within our narrative understanding” (Johnson 1993, 180, italics in original).

The observation that people use narratives to reason morally may help explain the association between environmental apocalypticism and activism. The function of the apocalyptic narrative may be that it helps adherents determine how to act by providing a storyline from which they can imaginatively sample, enabling them to assess the consequences of their actions. In order to answer the question, “Should I drive or walk to the store?” for example, they can reason, “If I walk, that will reduce my carbon footprint, which will help keep the ice caps from melting, saving humans and other species.” It is their access to this narrative of impend-

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ing disaster that makes such reasoning possible, for it provides a sim- ple framework within which people can consider and eventually arrive at some conclusion about their moral obligations.6 More broadly, it can guide entire lives by providing a narrative frame of reference that imbues the individual’s experiences with meaning. For example, it is the context of looming anthropogenic apocalypse which suggests that dedicating one’s life to achieving a healthier relationship with the natural world is a worthwhile endeavor. Absent the apocalypse, choices such as limiting one’s travel to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, becoming vegetarian, working in the environmental sector (often for less compensation), or growing one’s own food could seem to be meaningless sacrifices. Within this context, on the other hand, such choices become essential features of the quest to live a moral life.

The apocalyptic narrative is but one of many ways to tell the environ- mental story, yet it is one that seems particularly well-suited to encour- aging pro-environmental behavior. First, the apocalyptic ending discloses certain everyday decisions as moral decisions. Without the narrative con- text of impending disaster, decisions such as whether to drive or walk to the store would be merely matters of convenience or preference. In the context of potentially disastrous consequences for valued places, people, and organisms, by contrast, such decisions become matters of right and wrong. Second, putting information about the environment into narrative form enables apocalyptics to link complex global environmental proc- esses to their own lives, a perceptual technique Thomashow describes as “bringing the biosphere home” (2002). Developing this skill is essential because without that felt sense of connection to their own lived experi- ence, people are much less likely to become convinced that it is incumbent upon them to act (2002, 2). Finally, the sheer magnitude of the impending disaster increases the feeling of responsibility to make good on one’s moral intuitions. By locating individuals within a drama of ultimate concern, the narrative frames their choices as cosmically important, and this feeling of urgency then helps to convert moral deliberation into action.

With this conceptual overview in place, we can now examine more closely what the relationship between apocalypticism and moral reason- ing looks like in practice.

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apocalypTicism as Folk consequenTialism

While a number of philosophers and ethicists have discussed the role of narrative in environmental ethics (e.g. Cheney 1989; Gare 1998; Liszka 2003; Peterson 2001), less is known about how such narrative ethics might function in practice. Such a project falls within the domain of descriptive ethics, or ethical inquiry that seeks to understand not what the results of moral reasoning should be, but what they are. Instead of looking for abstract, decontextualized or universal principles, a descriptive approach seeks to understand how specific individuals faced with concrete situa- tions reason morally in everyday life. As Johnson writes, this approach is valuable “not because it gives laws or rules for acting (which it doesn’t), but rather because knowing oneself and knowing how human beings work can help one understand situations, examine problems, and work out constructive solutions” (1993, 189). In other words, if one wants to solve moral conundrums, it helps to have the facts straight—including the facts about the practice of solving moral conundrums.

The connection between narratives and ethics has often been de- veloped within the context of the virtue tradition (cf. MacIntyre [1981] 2007; Hauerwas 1981). Certainly there are aspects of environmental cul- ture that cohere with the idea of virtue (see Cafaro 2001). Yet when peo- ple invoke the narrative of environmental apocalypse, when they use it to evaluate their present day behaviors, I have not heard it expressed in the context of developing character toward a particular end, but of avoid- ing consequences. This suggests to me that in the case of environmental apocalypticism the reasoning process is better understood as a form of consequentialism, or more appropriately, folk consequentialism, to indi- cate that I am referring to what people do to reason morally in everyday life. A few examples from my field research among environmentalists who subscribe to an apocalyptic narrative should help to illustrate this point.

In the fall of 2007 I joined a climate change-themed discussion group that had been convened by a local environmental non-profit organiza- tion based in Gainesville, Florida. I selected this group because following Leiserowitz (2005) and Maibach, Roser-Renouf, and Leiserowitz (2009), I reasoned that people who made the effort to participate in such an ac- tivity would more likely to consider climate change to be a potentially dire threat. At the conclusion of the six week series, I conducted semi- structured interviews with four of the ten regular participants in order

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to further probe their perceptions of and feelings about the prospect of environmental disaster. While I cannot draw broad conclusions based on this small sample, I can say that among the people I spoke with there was a strong connection between a desire to heal or protect the Earth and a sense of impending catastrophe. With this focus on consequences as the primary criteria for moral decision making, their reasoning thus appears to fit within a consequentialist framework.

One way this folk consequentialism became evident was in the way people described their life trajectories being altered by the conviction that environmental disaster was imminent. One woman I interviewed, “Sarah,” had been interested in environmental issues for much of her life, but read- ing Daniel Quinn’s novel Ishmael (1995) had pushed her to dramatically alter her lifestyle so that it would be more consonant with environmental principles. In Ishmael, Quinn argues that the environmental crisis is the result of agricultural “Taker” cultures displacing hunting and gathering “Leaver” cultures worldwide. Taker cultures, which now dominate the planet, hold that the natural world exists only for human use, whereas Leaver cultures, who have been increasingly marginalized since the inven- tion of agriculture, see humans as humble members of a larger community of living beings. Whereas Taker cultures therefore feel justified in destroy- ing the planet’s biodiversity for their own benefit, Leaver cultures tend to limit themselves out of respect for other creatures. Articulating a version of the narrative of environmental apocalypse, Quinn suggests that if Taker cultures do not realize their error in time, the human species may bring about its own extinction (1995, 238–40, 263).

Sarah used Quinn’s terms to describe the threat she believed increas- ing human numbers posed, saying “Overpopulation drives depletion of resource…. So we’re, in Dan Quinn’s terms, Takers instead of Leavers. So all of that combines but the overpopulation really drives the destruction.” Later, she explained the full extent to which the book had influenced her life choices:

Sarah: [Ishmael] was such a ground-shaking book. I bought about ten copies and started handing it out…. I’ve since read all his books. And so, upon reading that, I decided I wanted to learn how to grow my own food…. and I just started ‘Food Not Lawns’ . . . I’m on a learning curve, and then you have to collect all the tools to process [the food you grow].”

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Robin: So do you can and all that?

Sarah: Yeah. Not freezing because it takes too much energy. And that actually drove our decision to move away. We sought a place where we felt it was more sustainable to begin with and where the commu- nity was more of a community…. the Pacific Northwest was a place that we knew to be more sustainable and [so] we purchased a house in [Washington state].

As she explains, it was a comprehension of the deep roots of the unfolding ecological crisis and its potentially disastrous consequences that inspired her to make a series of substantial lifestyle changes. Subsequent decisions, such as how to store food (via low energy means), were made with the goal of reducing her own contribution to dangerous climate change as much as possible. That she made her decisions with an eye to prevent- ing certain consequences appears to support the theory that she reasoned morally using a broadly consequentialist logic.

The connection between consequences and moral obligations came up during the group meetings as well. For example, as we went around the circle introducing ourselves the first night, a number of people mentioned unusual weather, as well as changes they had noted in the distribution of various plant and animal species. Rather than just presenting these facts alone, several people linked them to feelings of guilt and personal respon- sibility for the crisis. That individuals linked environmental consequences to a sense of moral obligation suggests that some form of consequen- tialism was at work. This connection between consequences and moral obligation also seemed to be at work at the group level. For example, during almost every gathering, participants discussed not only what could be done to prevent environmental disaster (given the time and resources available), but what should be done. In this sense the gatherings served as a forum for collective moral deliberation, in which various environmen- tal futures were imagined and the group’s moral obligations evaluated in light of them. This seems to further support the notion that those who have adopted the environmentally apocalyptic worldview use a conse- quentialist framework to engage in moral reasoning.

In observing that people appear to use a kind of folk consequential- ism to determine what actions are ecologically moral, I do not intend to promote consequentialism as a basis for environmental ethics, or to imply that my informants made the most ethical or environmentally sensitive

ETHICS & THE ENVIRONMENT, 17(1) 20121�

choices given their means. Rather my point is to observe that, empirically speaking, those who use the apocalyptic narrative to guide their ethical decision making appear to use a form of consequentialism to guide at least some of these choices.7 This seems especially plausible if people do use narratives to engage in moral reasoning, for narratives are typically time-oriented (Johnson 1993, 174), and therefore generally compatible with the action–consequences framework that also underpins consequen- tialism. The reasoning process involved in folk consequentialism may be semi-ad hoc, containing contradictions or leaving some conundrums un- resolved, but it nevertheless does appear to provide people with a working framework for deciding what behavior is morally justifiable. Moreover, it is compelling enough to get people to act on their decisions. What it lacks in philosophical rigor, it makes up in applicability.

The apocalypTic communiTy

A final function of the narrative of environmental apocalypse re- mains to be discussed—its social function. As Anna Peterson points out, narrative entails “a social view of self” (2001, 22), communal ways of interpreting and approaching perceived problems. In the environmental community as well, the narrative of apocalypse gives people the sense that they are one of many participants in a collective quest. “I’m not sure what I envisioned,” wrote one environmentalist who had since moved away from an apocalyptic worldview. “[I]t was hard to see exact details of the social order across the general chaos that would come…. I just knew that whatever happened…. my future would be assured…. I belonged to a new tribe, and the tribe would care for me” (Zencey 1988, 55).8 The importance of community was also clear in Sarah’s desire for like-minded neighbors, and the discussion group’s practice of collective moral reason- ing. As in other apocalyptic cosmologies, the narrative of environmental apocalypse thus seems to “[establish] a group ethos through a vision of shared origin and destiny,” while also “[offering] propositions both de- scriptive and normative, intended to depict and explain the universe as it is and to orient human beings toward right action” (O’Leary 1994, 25). This social function, which binds individuals together into a community of believers, is surely part of what accounts for its seeming power to trans- late values into practices.

This power should not be conceived just in terms of socialization, but

robIn globus veldman THE ENVIRONMENTal apOCalypSE 1�

also in terms of tradition. That is, the narrative of environmental apoca- lypse is effective not only because many share it today but because many have shared it over time. It is what Alasdair MacIntyre might have re- ferred to as a living tradition, an “historically extended, socially embodied argument” ([1981] 2007, 222) concerning what constitutes the good.9

Some might argue that environmental apocalypticism is not really old enough to constitute a moral tradition, since it began only in 1962 with the publication of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. In fact however, the antecedents of this tradition can be traced much further back in his- tory. As early as the sixteenth century, cultural critics warned that human domination of nature could lead to the decay and death of the natural world (Lewis 1992). Such critiques were generally overshadowed by the burgeoning optimism that accompanied the Age of Enlightenment and eventually the Industrial Revolution, but they never died out completely, resurfacing with the Romantic movement of the eighteenth century, and finally capturing a more mainstream audience beginning in the 1960s.10 The narrative is no recent invention, then, but in fact represents genera- tions of environmental interpretation and moral reflection. With both the weight of tradition and the power to bind people together, the narrative of environmental apocalypse is thus a potent source for motivating envi- ronmentally ethical behavior.

Toward descripTive environmenTal eThics

Outside of human minds exist billions of interacting events and proc- esses—atoms, humans, animals, plants, microbes, and so on—whose ulti- mate trajectory is uncertain, if not in many cases impossible to predict. I have suggested that the apocalyptic ending is one solution to the problem of how to convert this impersonal complexity into a meaningful story that draws and holds peoples’ attention for long enough to influence their actions. It does so through a story that simply and succinctly tells listen- ers that there is a problem, that it may have disastrous consequences, and that certain kinds of actions therefore must taken in order to avoid them. And while it is always in this space between the tangible present and the imagined future that the opportunity for moral engagement with the world arises, I argue that it is especially when the connection between the two feels tenuous that such an opportunity comes to be experienced as an obligation.

ETHICS & THE ENVIRONMENT, 17(1) 20121�

Certainly the apocalyptic mode has its shadow side. Paranoia, self- righteousness, and feverish hope skirt the edge of disappointment, leading many both within and outside of the environmental movement to view it with suspicion. Indeed, many environmentalists would do well to heed Catherine Keller’s call for a more self-critical discourse of “counter-apoca- lypse” (1996), rather than falling prey to the temptation to demonize the anti-environmental other. But this should not prevent scholars from at- tending to the important role apocalypticism plays within the movement. As much as some in the movement try to disclaim such discourse, it is clear that many adherents draw inspiration from it. So much so that they are moving to distant communities where they believe they will be able to live more ecologically sensitive lives; they are teaching their neighbors to grow their own food because transporting it from other parts of the country has too large of a carbon footprint; and they are “paper monkey- wrenching” in Washington, D.C. and in courtrooms around the country in order to ensure that the environment is legally protected to the great- est extent possible. They are putting environmental values into practice, and many are doing so because they seriously believe that if they do not, disaster will follow. Even if observers of the movement disagree with their conclusions about what constitutes ethical behavior or worthwhile activ- ism, this demonstrated willingness to make substantial sacrifices seems to make the project of understanding their motivations worthwhile.

With the environmental and sustainability movements in full swing, further empirical research examining how people determine what is right and wrong behavior with regard to the environment could serve as an important complement to the work already completed in meta- and nor- mative environmental ethics during the past several decades. Such work would be of vital interest to anyone concerned with the real world im- plications of ethical theories, potentially yielding insights about what constraints and limitations humans face as they attempt to draw moral meaning from the environmental situation. What further insights might be gleaned from the study of how ethics are practiced in tandem with the study of how ethics should be practiced? With the present study serving as an example, I would submit that exploring how people negotiate, re- formulate, and resist making ethical choices relating to the environment in their everyday lives can yield valuable insights about the important question of how environmental values become environmentally valuable

robIn globus veldman THE ENVIRONMENTal apOCalypSE 1�

practices. In the end, it is possible that such work will be valuable not only for scholars, but for the Earth.

acknowledgemenTs

I thank Joseph Witt and Anna Peterson for introducing me to the literature on narrative and environmental ethics. Thanks also to partici- pants in Ohio Northern University’s 2009 “Recreate, Replace, Restore” conference for making me think this idea was worth pursuing further. As this paper matured it benefited substantially from close readings by Lucas Johnston, Richard Bohannon, Ronnie Hawkins, Gordon Globus and an anonymous reviewer. Finally, my adviser Bron Taylor helped me directly and indirectly in numerous ways.

noTes

1 For accounts that further explore the combination of the secular and the reli- gious in environmental apocalypticism, see Giner and Tábara (1999), Globus and Taylor (2011) and Lewis (1992).

2 See Barkun (1983), Killingsworth and Palmer (1996), Lewis (1992), and Murphy (2003).

3 This quotation is drawn from primary materials made available in Bron Tay- lor’s “Radical Environmentalism (Spring 2007)” course syllabus, available at www.religionandnature.com/bron/courses.htm [Accessed 15 March 2008].

4 I borrow this term from Taylor (2010). 5 This is a common tactic in environmental literature. Carson ([1962] 2002),

Catton (1982), Odum and Odum (2001), and Ophuls (1977) are but a few examples.

6 Importantly, to say this is not to evaluate the ethical content of their deci- sions, but rather to suggest how their process of moral reasoning occurs. My approach is descriptive, not normative.

7 People may use other folk frameworks in situations where the moral problem structure is different (e.g. in cases involving animal rights, where there is the possibility of dealing directly with sentient beings who can feel pain).

8 Zencey’s description of his former apocalyptic beliefs using the first person plural further demonstrates the communal quality of the narrative: “While we knew that in the short run resource scarcity and a declining standard of living would probably prompt our country into imperial aggression and do- mestic repression, we also knew that ultimately this course depended on both a rapacious use of resources and a companion faith in [technology]. The earth is finite and we knew that there had to be limits…. As we approached those limits the lesson would become obvious” (1988, 55, emphasis added).

9 In Whose Justice? Which Rationality?, MacIntyre defined tradition as:

ETHICS & THE ENVIRONMENT, 17(1) 2012�0

“…an argument extended through time in which certain funda- mental agreements are defined and redefined in terms of two kinds of conflict: those with critics and enemies external to the tradition . . . and those internal, interpretive debates through which the mean- ing and rationale of fundamental agreements come to be expressed and by whose progress a tradition is constituted.” (1988, 12).

The environment movement seems to cohere with this schema, since there have been fundamental agreements (e.g. the environment is in grave peril due to human actions), which have been subjected to both internal interpretive debates (e.g. Shellenberger and Nordhaus 2004) and external critiques (e.g. Simon 1995).

10. See Lewis (1992), Merchant (1980 and 2003), and Oelschlaeger (1991) for extended versions of this history.

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American Apocalypse. By: Walker, Jesse, Reason, 00486906, Jan2013, Vol. 44, Issue 8

Contents

1. Never-ending predictions that the world is about to end

Never-ending predictions that the world is about to end

IN HIS 1702 opus Magnalia Christi Americana, the prominent Puritan Cotton Mather related a story about Francis Higginson, the first minister to serve the citizens of Salem, Massachusetts. Before Higginson sailed to New England in 1629, Mather wrote, he preached one last sermon to his old congregation in Leicester. The Lord, it seemed, was preparing a punishment for England. A war was coming, and Leicester in particular was going to suffer. So Higginson was heading across the sea to seek shelter in a place where God's people could build a more holy commonwealth, a place safe from the destruction to come. The colonists, he concluded, were following the advice of Christ: "When you see Jerusalem compassed with armies, then flee to the mountains."

Mather wrote those words long after the English civil war that saw Leicester besieged and sacked. Skeptics might suspect him of inventing or exaggerating a story that made a fellow Puritan look prophetic. But the idea that America could serve as refuge from an Old World apocalypse was not limited to the perhaps-apocryphal story of Higginson's final preachment.

John Winthrop, an early governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, declared that "God hath provided this place to be a refuge for many whome he meanes to save out of the generall callamity." William Bradford, an early governor of Plymouth, cited "the divine proverb, that a wise man seeth the plague when it cometh, and hideth himself." After that civil war did break out in England, the Puritan poet and minister Michael Wigglesworth described the New World as a "hiding place, which thou / Jehovah, didst provide� When th' overflowing scourge did pass / Through Europe, like a flood." City upon a hill, schmitty upon a bill: America was a fallout shelter.

It wasn't long before the settlers started spotting signs of Armageddon on this side of the Adantic too. Wigglesworth described America as a place with "no enemyes" and with "such peace/As none enjoyd before," but for Mather it was "a World in every Nook whereof, the devil is encamped." When the Puritans weren't fighting actual wars with French Catholic settlers and Native Americans, they were imagining conspiracies of Catholics, Indians, and invisible spirits all around them. Sometimes those alleged plots combined into a single cabal. At "their Cheef Witch-meetings," Mather warned, "there has been present some French Canadians, and some Indian Sagamores, to concert the methods of ruining New England." Such anxieties would prove durable.

In Heaven on Earth, the Boston University historian Richard Landes presents a cross-cultural survey of millennialism -- the conviction that we're approaching either the end of the world or a sudden, radical global transformation. One theme of the book is the experience of "apocalyptic time," that moment when men and women become convinced that the change they have anticipated is about to arrive. "Many things come to people who believe themselves in the midst of apocalyptic time; many things become possible," Landes writes. "Such people bring us saintly men wandering through Europe preaching peace, and warriors with crosses wading in blood up to their horses' bridles, both believing that this was the Day our Lord promised, to rejoice therein."

The closer you look at  American history, the more it seems that someone somewhere is always in apocalyptic time. Sometimes the whole country seems to plunge in together, as in such convulsive periods as the  American Revolution, the Civil War, and the aftermath of 9/11. Other times a distinct subculture detects an eschaton invisible to everyone else. On October 22,1844, the followers of William Miller abandoned their homes and fields and gathered to greet the end of the world; to quote Mark Twain's account, they "put on their ascension robes, took a tearful leave of their friends, and made ready to fly up to heaven at the first blast of the trumpet. But the angel did not blow it."

The Millerites came and went without hurting much more than the believers' pride. But other millennial movements attracted a reputation for violence, for taking up arms to hasten or weather the oncoming collapse.

In the 1980s, for example, a far-right sect called the Covenant, the Sword, and the Arm of the Lord convinced itself that the last days were at hand. "It will get so bad that parents will eat their children," church leader James Ellison predicted. "Death in the major cities will cause rampant diseases and plagues. Maggot-infested bodies will lie everywhere. Earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanoes, and other natural disasters will grow to gigantic proportions. Witches and satanic Jews will offer people up as sacrifices to their gods, openly and proudly; blacks will rape and kill white women and will torture and kill white men; homosexuals will sodomize whoever they can. Our new government will be a part of the one-world Zionist Communist government. All but the elect will have the mark of the Beast." Ellison's followers started conducting military maneuvers and plotting terrorist attacks. Their career concluded in a 1985 standoff with the feds, a siege that lasted for four days before the militants surrendered.

Sometimes the story is inverted: A millennial movement inspires apocalyptic fears in the mainstream, and believers become the targets of violence rather than its perpetrators. The classic example is the Ghost Dance, a 19th-century messianic movement centered around a Northern Paiute Indian called Wovoka. There would come a day, Wovoka preached, when the familiar world would end and a new age would begin, when the living would become immortal and the ghosts of the dead would return. To hasten this day, Indians must set aside their differences, give up guns and alcohol and idleness, dance the Ghost Dance, and spread the good news.

The faith was transmitted orally, so it mutated and adapted rapidly, absorbing different attributes in different places as different tribes encountered it. Among the recently defeated Sioux, licking their wounds in the Dakotas, the religion took on a militant flavor, introducing the ideas that the white race would be wiped out and that special shirts would make their wearers impervious to bullets. Even in this form, the Ghost Dance was an explicitly nonviolent religion. If anything, it may have tamped down the impulse to attack whites, since it allowed angry Indians to believe that the intruders would soon be removed by supernatural means.

Nonetheless, when the Hunkpapa Sioux leader Sitting Bull endorsed the Ghost Dance in 1890, he broke a peace pipe in public and announced that he was ready to fight and die for the faith. That was enough for Maj. James McLaughlin, Washington's representative in its interactions with the local Indians, to fire off a letter to the federal commissioner of Indian affairs. Sitting Bull, he warned, was "an adept in influencing his ignorant henchmen and followers, and there is no knowing what he may direct them to attempt."

The McLaughlin letter leaked to the newspapers. The Chicago Daily Tribune published it under the headline "TO WIPE OUT THE WHITES: What the Indians Expect of the Coming Messiah."The Philadelphia Telegraph fretted that "Army officers may be perfectly well informed of Sitting Bull's intrigues, but they can do nothing until he deliberately perfects his rascally plans and gets ready to start his young bucks on a raid." The New York Times announced that "the redskins are dancing in circles," then quoted a "half-breed" courier as to what such symbolism must mean: "The Sioux never dance that dance except for one purpose, and that is for war." At one point the Tribune reported that a battle with the Indians had already left 60 dead or wounded. In fact the clash had never occurred.

Nervous whites begged the government for greater protection. On December 15,1890, a botched attempt to arrest Sitting Bull at the Standing Rock reservation ended in violence: The police killed Sitting Bull and some of his supporters, and his supporters killed several arresting officers. Fearing retaliation, hundreds of the Hunkpapa fled their homes, hoping to seek shelter with the Indians at Cheyenne River, but the Seventh Cavalry caught up with them and brought them to Wounded Knee Creek on December 28.

What followed was one of the most notorious massacres in  American history. Government troops ended up killing between 170 and 190 of the Indians, including at least 18 children. More than two dozen whites died too, largely from friendly fire. Fearing an  apocalypse, the soldiers inflicted one instead.

There has been no shortage of millennial movements and moments since then, from the saucer cults that started to mushroom after World War II to Christian sects convinced that Christ's return was close. The 1960s and '70s saw a general fear of an onrushing cataclysm, an anxiety circulating in secular as well as religious circles. The environmentalists of the era were often prone to mistaking ecological problems for imminent planetary doom. (In 1969, Ramparts magazine warned on its cover that the oceans could be dead in just a decade.) In Christian America, Hal Lindsey, co-author with Carole Carlsson of the immensely popular The Late Great Planet Earth, interpreted world events through the lens of Biblical prophecy and argued that armageddon was nigh. This was no fringe phenomenon: Since its release in 1970, Lindsey and Carlsson's book has sold more than 35 million copies.

Meanwhile, the rise of nuclear weaponry made the sudden destruction of the United States an actual possibility. And if the end of the Cold War diminished that particular anxiety, the September 11 attacks thrust the country into something even more intense: the possibility not that someone far away will fire a missile, but that anything around you might be a sign of a new terror plot. When people enter an apocalyptic frame of mind, Landes writes, "everything quickens, enlightens, coheres. They become semiotically aroused -- everything has meaning, patterns." In the months following 9/11, that mentality was almost inescapable.

And then there is what may be the most persistent source of  American apocalyptic fear: the country's physical terrain. Every natural disaster enacts the endtimes in miniature. As Hurricane Katrina crushed the Gulf Coast in 2005, there were enough signs of the last days to fill a thousand folk ballads: a drowning city, death and starvation, martial law, rumors of barbaric behavior. "It was kind of like the end of the world," one survivor told a reporter from KTRK-TV.

But 9/11 and Katrina also remind us that the last days never quite seem to arrive. We exit apocalyptic time. A city starts to rebuild. Normal life resumes. Many people's worlds come to an end, but the world itself persists.

And then the next disaster strikes from above, or the next millennial fever surges up from below. The end-times never really end. It's always Armageddon somewhere.

At one point the Chicago Daily Tribune reported that a battle with the Indians had already left 60 dead or wounded. In fact the clash had never occurred.

~~~~~~~~

By Jesse Walker

Senior Editor Jesse Walker ([email protected]) is the author of The United States of Paranoia, forthcoming next year from HarperCollins.

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Walsh, B. (2013). The Plight of the Honeybee. Time, 182(8), 24.

Mass deaths in bee colonies may mean disaster for farmers--and your favorite foods

You can thank the Apis Mellifera, better known as the Western honeybee, for 1 in every 3 mouthfuls of food you'll eat today. From the almond orchards of central California--where each spring billions of honeybees from across the U.S. arrive to pollinate a multibillion-dollar crop--to the blueberry bogs of Maine, the bees are the unsung, unpaid laborers of the American agricultural system, adding more than $15 billion in value to farming each year. In June, a Whole Foods store in Rhode Island, as part of a campaign to highlight the importance of honeybees, temporarily removed from its produce section all the food that depended on pollinators. Of 453 items, 237 vanished, including apples, lemons and zucchini and other squashes. Honeybees "are the glue that holds our agricultural system together," wrote journalist Hannah Nordhaus in her 2011 book, The Beekeeper's Lament.

And now that glue is failing. Around 2006, commercial beekeepers began noticing something disturbing: their honeybees were disappearing. Beekeepers would open their hives and find them full of honeycomb, wax, even honey--but devoid of actual bees. As reports from worried beekeepers rolled in, scientists coined an appropriately apocalyptic term for the mystery malady: colony-collapse disorder (CCD). Suddenly beekeepers found themselves in the media spotlight, the public captivated by the horror-movie mystery of CCD. Seven years later, honeybees are still dying on a scale rarely seen before, and the reasons remain mysterious. One-third of U.S. honeybee colonies died or disappeared during the past winter, a 42% increase over the year before and well above the 10% to 15% losses beekeepers used to experience in normal winters.

Though beekeepers can replenish dead hives over time, the high rates of colony loss are putting intense pressure on the industry and on agriculture. There were just barely enough viable honeybees in the U.S. to service this spring's vital almond pollination in California, putting a product worth nearly $4 billion at risk. Almonds are a big deal--they're the Golden State's most valuable agricultural export, worth more than twice as much as its iconic wine grapes. And almonds, totally dependent on honeybees, are a bellwether of the larger problem. For fruits and vegetables as diverse as cantaloupes, cranberries and cucumbers, pollination can be a farmer's only chance to increase maximum yield. Eliminate the honeybee and agriculture would be permanently diminished. "The take-home message is that we are very close to the edge," says Jeff Pettis, the research leader at the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Bee Research Laboratory. "It's a roll of the dice now."

That's why scientists like Pettis are working hard to figure out what's bugging the bees. Agricultural pesticides were an obvious suspect--specifically a popular new class of chemicals known as neonicotinoids, which seem to affect bees and other insects even at what should be safe doses. Other researchers focused on bee-killing pests like the accurately named Varroa destructor, a parasitic mite that has ravaged honeybee colonies since it was accidentally introduced into the U.S. in the 1980s. Others still have looked at bacterial and viral diseases. The lack of a clear culprit only deepened the mystery and the fear, heralding what some greens call a "second silent spring," a reference to Rachel Carson's breakthrough 1962 book, which is widely credited with helping launch the environmental movement. A quote that's often attributed to Albert Einstein became a slogan: "If the bee disappears from the surface of the globe, man would have no more than four years to live."

One problem: experts doubt that Einstein ever said those words, but the misattribution is characteristic of the confusion that surrounds the disappearance of the bees, the sense that we're inadvertently killing a species that we've tended and depended on for thousands of years. The loss of the honeybees would leave the planet poorer and hungrier, but what's really scary is the fear that bees may be a sign of what's to come, a symbol that something is deeply wrong with the world around us. "If we don't make some changes soon, we're going to see disaster," says Tom Theobald, a beekeeper in Colorado. "The bees are just the beginning."

Sublethal Effects

If the honeybee is a victim of natural menaces like viruses and unnatural ones like pesticides, it's worth remembering that the bee itself is not a natural resident of the continent. It was imported to North America in the 17th century, and it thrived until recently because it found a perfect niche in a food system that demands crops at ever cheaper prices and in ever greater quantities. That's a man-made, mercantile ecosystem that not only has been good for the bees and beekeepers but also has meant steady business and big revenue for supermarkets and grocery stores.

Jim Doan has been keeping bees since the age of 5, but the apiary genes in his family go back even further. Doan's father paid his way to college with the proceeds of his part-time beekeeping, and in 1973 he left the bond business to tend bees full time. Bees are even in the Doan family's English coat of arms. Although Jim went to college with the aim of becoming an agriculture teacher, the pull of the beekeeping business was too great.

For a long time, that business was very good. The family built up its operation in the town of Hamlin, in western New York, making money from honey and from pollination contracts with farmers. At the peak of his business, Doan estimates he was responsible for pollinating 1 out of 10 apples grown in New York, running nearly 6,000 hives, one of the biggest such operations in the state. He didn't mind the inevitable stings--"you have to be willing to be punished"--and he could endure the early hours. "We made a lot of honey, and we made a lot of money," he says.

All that ended in 2006, the year CCD hit the mainstream, and Doan's hives weren't spared. That winter, when he popped the covers to check on his bees--tipped off by a fellow beekeeper who experienced one of the first documented cases of CCD--Doan found nothing. "There were hundreds of hives in the backyard and no bees in them," he says. In the years since, he has experienced repeated losses, his bees growing sick and dying. To replace lost hives, Doan needs to buy new queens and split his remaining colonies, which reduces honey production and puts more pressure on his few remaining healthy bees. Eventually it all became unsustainable. In 2013, after decades in the business, Doan gave up. He sold the 112 acres (45 hectares) he owns--land he had been saving to sell after his retirement--and plans to sell his beekeeping equipment as well, provided he can find someone to buy it. Doan is still keeping some bees in the meantime, maintaining a revenue stream while considering his options. Those options include a job at Walmart.

Doan and I walk through his backyard, which is piled high with bee boxes that would resemble filing cabinets, if filing cabinets hummed and vibrated. Doan lends me a protective jacket and a bee veil that covers my face. He walks slowly among the boxes--partly because he's a big guy and partly because bees don't appreciate fast moves--and he spreads smoke in advance, which masks the bees' alarm pheromones and keeps them calm. He opens each box and removes a few frames--the narrowly spaced scaffolds on which the bees build their honeycombs--checking to see how a new population he imported from Florida is doing. Some frames are choked with crawling bees, flowing honey and healthy brood cells, each of which contains an infant bee. But other frames seem abandoned, even the wax in the honeycomb crumbling. Doan lays these boxes--known as dead-outs--on their side.

He used to love checking on his bees. "Now it's gotten to the point where I look at the bees every few weeks, and it scares me," he says. "Will it be a good day, will they be alive, or will I just find a whole lot of junk? It depresses the hell out of me."

Doan's not alone in walking away from such unhappy work. The number of commercial beekeepers has dropped by some three-quarters over the past 15 years, and while all of them may agree that the struggle is just not worth it anymore, they differ on which of the possible causes is most to blame. Doan has settled on the neonicotinoid pesticides--and there's a strong case to be made against them.

The chemicals are used on more than 140 different crops as well as in home gardens, meaning endless chances of exposure for any insect that alights on the treated plants. Doan shows me studies of pollen samples taken from his hives that indicate the presence of dozens of chemicals, including the neonicotinoids. He has testified before Congress about the danger the chemicals pose and is involved in a lawsuit with other beekeepers and with green groups that calls on the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to suspend a pair of pesticides in the neonicotinoid class. "The impacts [from the pesticides] are not marginal, and they're not academic," says Peter Jenkins, a lawyer for the Center for Food Safety and a lead counsel in the suit. "They pose real threats to the viability of pollinators."

American farmers have been dousing their fields with pesticides for decades, meaning that honeybees--which can fly as far as 5 miles (8 km) in search of forage--have been exposed to toxins since well before the dawn of CCD. But neonicotinoids, which were introduced in the mid-1990s and became widespread in the years that followed, are different. The chemicals are known as systematics, which means that seeds are soaked in them before they're planted. Traces of the chemicals are eventually passed on to every part of the mature plant--including the pollen and nectar a bee might come into contact with--and can remain for much longer than other pesticides do. There's really no way to prevent bees from being exposed to some level of neonicotinoids if the pesticides have been used nearby. "We have growing evidence that neonicotinoids can have dangerous effects, especially in conjunction with other pathogens," says Peter Neumann, head of the Institute of Bee Health at the University of Bern in Switzerland.

Ironically, neonicotinoids are actually safer for farmworkers because they can be applied more precisely than older classes of pesticides, which disperse into the air. Bees, however, seem uniquely sensitive to the chemicals. Studies have shown that neonicotinoids attack their nervous system, interfering with their flying and navigation abilities without killing them immediately. "The scientific literature is exploding now with work on sublethal impacts on bees," says James Frazier, an entomologist at Penn State University. The delayed but cumulative effects of repeated exposure might explain why colonies keep dying off year after year despite beekeepers' best efforts. It's as if the bees were being poisoned very slowly.

It's undeniably attractive to blame the honeybee crisis on neonicotinoids. The widespread adoption of these pesticides roughly corresponds to the spike in colony loss, and neonicotinoids are, after all, meant to kill insects. Chemicals are ubiquitous--a recent study found that honeybee pollen was contaminated, on average, with nine different pesticides and fungicides. Best of all, if the problem is neonicotinoids, the solution is simple: ban them. That's what the European Commission decided to do this year, putting a two-year restriction on the use of some neonicotinoids. But while the EPA is planning to review neonicotinoids, a European-style ban is unlikely--in part because the evidence is still unclear. Beekeepers in Australia have been largely spared from CCD even though neonicotinoids are used there, while France has continued to suffer bee losses despite restricting the use of the pesticides since 1999. Pesticide makers argue that actual levels of neonicotinoid exposure in the field are too low to be the main culprit in colony loss. "We've dealt with insecticides for a long time," says Randy Oliver, a beekeeper who has done independent research on CCD. "I'm not thoroughly convinced this is a major issue."

Hostile Terrain

Even if pesticides are a big part of the bee-death mystery, there are other suspects. Beekeepers have always had to protect their charges from dangers such as the American foulbrood--a bacterial disease that kills developing bees--and the small hive beetle, a pest that can infiltrate and contaminate colonies. Bloodiest of all is the multidecade war against the Varroa destructor, a microscopic mite that burrows into the brood cells that host baby bees. The mites are equipped with a sharp, two-pronged tongue that can pierce a bee's exoskeleton and suck its hemolymph--the fluid that serves as blood in bees. And since the Varroa can also spread a number of other diseases--they're the bee equivalent of a dirty hypodermic needle--an uncontrolled mite infestation can quickly lead to a dying hive.

The Varroa first surfaced in the U.S. in 1987--likely from infected bees imported from South America--and it has killed billions of bees since. Countermeasures used by beekeepers, including chemical miticides, have proved only partly effective. "When the Varroa mite made its way in, it changed what we had to do," says Jerry Hayes, who heads Monsanto's commercial bee work. "It's not easy to try to kill a little bug on a big bug."

Other researchers have pointed a finger at fungal infections like the parasite Nosema ceranae, possibly in league with a pathogen like the invertebrate iridescent virus. But again, the evidence isn't conclusive: some CCD-afflicted hives show evidence of fungi or mites or viruses, and others don't. Some beekeepers are skeptical that there's an underlying problem at all, preferring to blame CCD on what they call PPB--piss-poor beekeeping, a failure of beekeepers to stay on top of colony health. But while not every major beekeeper has suffered catastrophic loss, colony failures have been widespread for long enough that it seems perverse to blame the human victims. "I've been keeping bees for decades," says Doan. "It's not like I suddenly forgot how to do it in 2006."

There's also the simple fact that beekeepers live in a country that is becoming inhospitable to honeybees. To survive, bees need forage, which means flowers and wild spaces. Our industrialized agricultural system has conspired against that, transforming the countryside into vast stretches of crop monocultures--factory fields of corn or soybeans that are little more than a desert for honeybees starved of pollen and nectar. Under the Conservation Reserve Program (CRP), the government rents land from farmers and sets it aside, taking it out of production to conserve soil and preserve wildlife. But as prices of commodity crops like corn and soybeans have skyrocketed, farmers have found that they can make much more money planting on even marginal land than they can from the CRP rentals. This year, just 25.3 million acres (10.2 million hectares) will be held in the CRP, down by one-third from the peak in 2007 and the smallest area in reserve since 1988.

Lonely Spring

For all the enemies that are massing against honeybees, a bee-pocalypse isn't quite upon us yet. Even with the high rates of annual loss, the number of managed honeybee colonies in the U.S. has stayed stable over the past 15 years, at about 2.5 million. That's still significantly down from the 5.8 million colonies that were kept in 1946, but that shift had more to do with competition from cheap imported honey and the general rural depopulation of the U.S. over the past half-century. (The number of farms in the U.S. fell from a peak of 6.8 million in 1935 to just 2.2 million today, even as food production has ballooned.) Honeybees have a remarkable ability to regenerate, and year after year the beekeepers who remain have been able to regrow their stocks after a bad loss. But the burden on beekeepers is becoming unbearable. Since 2006 an estimated 10 million beehives have been lost, at a cost of some $2 billion. "We can replace the bees, but we can't replace beekeepers with 40 years of experience," says Tim Tucker, the vice president of the American Beekeeping Federation.

As valuable as honeybees are, the food system wouldn't collapse without them. The backbone of the world's diet--grains like corn, wheat and rice--is self-pollinating. But our dinner plates would be far less colorful, not to mention far less nutritious, without blueberries, cherries, watermelons, lettuce and the scores of other plants that would be challenging to raise commercially without honeybee pollination. There could be replacements. In southwest China, where wild bees have all but died out thanks to massive pesticide use, farmers laboriously hand-pollinate pear and apple trees with brushes. Scientists at Harvard are experimenting with tiny robobees that might one day be able to pollinate autonomously. But right now, neither solution is technically or economically feasible. The government could do its part by placing tighter regulations on the use of all pesticides, especially during planting season. There needs to be more support for the CRP too to break up the crop monocultures that are suffocating honeybees. One way we can all help is by planting bee-friendly flowers in backyard gardens and keeping them free of pesticides. The country, says Dennis vanEngelsdorp, a research scientist at the University of Maryland who has studied CCD since it first emerged, is suffering from a "nature deficit disorder"--and the bees are paying the price.

But the reality is that barring a major change in the way the U.S. grows food, the pressure on honeybees won't subside. There are more than 1,200 pesticides currently registered for use in the U.S.; nobody pretends that number will be coming down by a lot. Instead, the honeybee and its various pests are more likely to be changed to fit into the existing agricultural system. Monsanto is working on an RNA-interference technology that can kill the Varroa mite by disrupting the way its genes are expressed. The result would be a species-specific self-destruct mechanism--a much better alternative than the toxic and often ineffective miticides beekeepers have been forced to use. Meanwhile, researchers at Washington State University are developing what will probably be the world's smallest sperm bank--a bee-genome repository that will be used to crossbreed a more resilient honeybee from the 28 recognized subspecies of the insect around the world.

Already, commercial beekeepers have adjusted to the threats facing their charges by spending more to provide supplemental feed to their colonies. Supplemental feed raises costs, and some scientists worry that replacing honey with sugar or corn syrup can leave bees less capable of fighting off infections. But beekeepers living adrift in a nutritional wasteland have little choice. The beekeeping business may well begin to resemble the industrial farming industry it works with: fewer beekeepers running larger operations that produce enough revenue to pay for the equipment and technologies needed to stay ahead of an increasingly hostile environment. "Bees may end up managed like cattle, pigs and chicken, where we put them in confinement and bring the food to them," says Oliver, the beekeeper and independent researcher. "You could do feedlot beekeeping."

That's something no one in the beekeeping world wants to see. But it may be the only way to keep honeybees going. And as long as there are almonds, apples, apricots and scores of other fruits and vegetables that need pollinating--and farmers willing to pay for the service--beekeepers will find a way.

So if the honeybee survives, it likely won't resemble what we've known for centuries. But it could be worse. For all the recent attention on the commercial honeybee, wild bees are in far worse shape. In June, after a landscaping company sprayed insecticide on trees, 50,000 wild bumblebees in Oregon were killed--the largest such mass poisoning on record. Unlike the honeybee, the bumblebee has no human caretakers. Globally, up to 100,000 animal species die off each year--nearly every one of them without fanfare or notice. This is what happens when one species--that would be us--becomes so widespread and so dominant that it crowds out almost everything else. It won't be a second silent spring that dawns; we'll still have the buzz of the feedlot honeybee in our ears. But humans and our handful of preferred species may find that all of our seasons have become lonelier ones.

THE IMPACT ON THE FARM

Although many crops are only partially dependent on bee pollination, others, like the almond, cannot get by without it. According to the USDA, one-third of the food in our diet relies to some extent on bee pollination.

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By Bryan Walsh

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