Tuesday, June 18, 2019

America's Suicide Epidemic















It’s Hitting Trump’s Base Hard 




We hear a lot about suicide when celebrities like Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade die by their own hand. Otherwise, it seldom makes the headlines. That’s odd given the magnitude of the problem.

In 2017, 47,173 Americans killed themselves. In that single year, in other words, the suicide count was nearly seven times greater than the number of American soldiers killed in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars between 2001 and 2018.

A suicide occurs in the United States roughly once every 12 minutes. What’s more, after decades of decline, the rate of self-inflicted deaths per 100,000 people annually -- the suicide rate -- has been increasing sharply since the late 1990s. Suicides now claim two-and-a-half times as many lives in this country as do homicides, even though the murder rate gets so much more attention.

In other words, we’re talking about a national epidemic of self-inflicted deaths.

Worrisome Numbers

Anyone who has lost a close relative or friend to suicide or has worked on a suicide hotline (as I have) knows that statistics transform the individual, the personal, and indeed the mysterious aspects of that violent act -- Why this person?  Why now? Why in this manner? -- into depersonalized abstractions. Still, to grasp how serious the suicide epidemic has become, numbers are a necessity.

According to a 2018 Centers for Disease Control study, between 1999 and 2016, the suicide rate increased in every state in the union except Nevada, which already had a remarkably high rate.  In 30 states, it jumped by 25% or more; in 17, by at least a third.  Nationally, it increased 33%.  In some states the upsurge was far higher: North Dakota (57.6%), New Hampshire (48.3%), Kansas (45%), Idaho (43%).

Alas, the news only gets grimmer.

Since 2008, suicide has ranked 10th among the causes of death in this country. For Americans between the ages of 10 and 34, however, it comes in second; for those between 35 and 45, fourth.  The United States also has the ninth-highest rate in the 38-country Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. Globally, it ranks 27th.

More importantly, the trend in the United States doesn’t align with what’s happening elsewhere in the developed world. The World Health Organization, for instance, reports that Great Britain, Canada, and China all have notably lower suicide rates than the U.S., as do all but six countries in the European Union. (Japan’s is only slightly lower.)

World Bank statistics show that, worldwide, the suicide rate fell from 12.8 per 100,000 in 2000 to 10.6 in 2016.  It’s been falling in ChinaJapan (where it has declined steadily for nearly a decade and is at its lowest point in 37 years), most of Europe, and even countries like South Korea and Russia that have a significantly higher suicide rate than the United States. In Russia, for instance, it has dropped by nearly 26% from a high point of 42 per 100,000 in 1994 to 31 in 2019.

We know a fair amount about the patterns of suicide in the United States.  In 2017, the rate was highest for men between the ages of 45 and 64 (30 per 100,000) and those 75 and older (39.7 per 100,000).

The rates in rural counties are almost double those in the most urbanized ones, which is why states like Idaho, Kansas, New Hampshire, and North Dakota sit atop the suicide list. Furthermore, a far higher percentage of people in rural states own guns than in cities and suburbs, leading to a higher rate of suicide involving firearms, the means used in half of all such acts in this country.

There are gender-based differences as well. From 1999 to 2017, the rate for men was substantially higher than for women -- almost four-and-a-half times higher in the first of those years, slightly more than three-and-a-half times in the last.

Education is also a factor.  The suicide rate is lowest among individuals with college degrees. Those who, at best, completed high school are, by comparison, twice as likely to kill themselves.  Suicide rates also tend to be lower among people in higher-income brackets. 

The Economics of Stress

This surge in the suicide rate has taken place in years during which the working class has experienced greater economic hardship and psychological stress.  Increased competition from abroad and outsourcing, the results of globalization, have contributed to job loss, particularly in economic sectors like manufacturing, steel, and mining that had long been mainstays of employment for such workers. The jobs still available often paid less and provided fewer benefits.

Technological change, including computerization, robotics, and the coming of artificial intelligence, has similarly begun to displace labor in significant ways, leaving Americans without college degrees, especially those 50 and older, in far more difficult straits when it comes to finding new jobs that pay well. The lack of anything resembling an industrial policy of a sort that exists in Europe has made these dislocations even more painful for American workers, while a sharp decline in private-sector union membership -- downfrom nearly 17% in 1983 to 6.4% today -- has reduced their ability to press for higher wages through collective bargaining.

Furthermore, the inflation-adjusted median wage has barely budged over the last four decades (even as CEO salaries have soared).  And a decline in worker productivity doesn’t explain it: between 1973 and 2017 productivity increased by 77%, while a worker’s average hourly wage only rose by 12.4%. Wage stagnation has made it harder for working-class Americans to get by, let alone have a lifestyle comparable to that of their parents or grandparents.

The gap in earnings between those at the top and bottom of American society has also increased -- a lot. Since 1979, the wages of Americans in the 10th percentile increased by a pitiful 1.2%. Those in the 50th percentile did a bit better, making a gain of 6%.  By contrast, those in the 90th percentile increased by 34.3% and those near the peak of the wage pyramid -- the top 1% and especially the rarefied 0.1% -- made far more substantial gains.  

And mind you, we’re just talking about wages, not other forms of income like large stock dividends, expensive homes, or eyepopping inheritances.  The share of net national wealth held by the richest 0.1% increased from 10% in the 1980s to 20% in 2016.  By contrast, the share of the bottom 90% shrank in those same decades from about 35% to 20%.  As for the top 1%, by 2016 its share had increased to almost 39%.

The precise relationship between economic inequality and suicide rates remains unclear, and suicide certainly can’t simply be reduced to wealth disparities or financial stress. Still, strikingly, in contrast to the United States, suicide rates are noticeably lower and have been declining in Western European countries where income inequalities are far less pronounced, publicly funded healthcare is regarded as a right (not demonized as a pathway to serfdom), social safety nets far more extensive, and apprenticeships and worker retraining programs more widespread.

Evidence from the United StatesBrazilJapan, and Sweden does indicate that, as income inequality increases, so does the suicide rate. If so, the good news is that progressive economic policies -- should Democrats ever retake the White House and the Senate -- could make a positive difference.  A study based on state-by-state variations in the U.S. found that simply boosting the minimum wage and Earned Income Tax Credit by 10% appreciably reduces the suicide rate among people without college degrees.

The Race Enigma

One aspect of the suicide epidemic is puzzling.  Though whites have fared far better economically (and in many other ways) than African Americans, their suicide rate is significantly higher.  It increased from 11.3 per 100,000 in 2000 to 15.85 per 100,000 in 2017; for African Americans in those years the rates were 5.52 per 100,000 and 6.61 per 100,000. Black men are 10 times more likely to be homicide victims than white men, but the latter are two-and-half times more likely to kill themselves.

The higher suicide rate among whites as well as among people with only a high school diploma highlights suicide’s disproportionate effect on working-class whites. This segment of the population also accounts for a disproportionate share of what economists Anne Case and Angus Deaton have labeled “deaths of despair” -- those caused by suicides plus opioid overdoses and liver diseases linked to alcohol abuse. Though it’s hard to offer a complete explanation for this, economic hardship and its ripple effects do appear to matter.

According to a study by the St. Louis Federal Reserve, the white working class accounted for 45% of all income earned in the United States in 1990, but only 27% in 2016.  In those same years, its share of national wealth plummeted, from 45% to 22%.  And as inflation-adjusted wages have decreased for men without college degrees, many white workers seem to have lost hope of success of any sort.  Paradoxically, the sense of failure and the accompanying stress may be greater for white workers precisely because they traditionally were much better off economically than their African American and Hispanic counterparts.

In addition, the fraying of communities knit together by employment in once-robust factories and mines has increased social isolation among them, and the evidence that it -- along with opioid addiction and alcohol abuse -- increases the risk of suicide is strong. On top of that, a significantly higher proportion of whites than blacks and Hispanics own firearms, and suicide rates are markedly higher in states where gun ownership is more widespread.

Trump’s Faux Populism

The large increase in suicide within the white working class began a couple of decades before Donald Trump’s election. Still, it’s reasonable to ask what he’s tried to do about it, particularly since votes from these Americans helped propel him to the White House. In 2016, he received 64% of the votes of whites without college degrees; Hillary Clinton, only 28%.  Nationwide, he beat Clinton in counties where deaths of despair rose significantly between 2000 and 2015.

White workers will remain crucial to Trump’s chances of winning in 2020.  Yet while he has spoken about, and initiated steps aimed at reducing, the high suicide rate among veterans, his speeches and tweets have never highlighted the national suicide epidemic or its inordinate impact on white workers. More importantly, to the extent that economic despair contributes to their high suicide rate, his policies will only make matters worse.

The real benefits from the December 2017 Tax Cuts and Jobs Act championed by the president and congressional Republicans flowed to those on the top steps of the economic ladder.  By 2027, when the Act’s provisions will run out, the wealthiest Americans are expected to have captured 81.8%of the gains.  And that’s not counting the windfall they received from recent changes in taxes on inheritances. Trump and the GOP doubled the annual amount exempt from estate taxes -- wealth bequeathed to heirs -- through 2025 from $5.6 million per individual to $11.2 million (or $22.4 million per couple). And who benefits most from this act of generosity?  Not workers, that’s for sure, but every household with an estate worth $22 million or more will.

As for job retraining provided by the Workforce Innovation and Opportunity Act, the president proposed cutting that program by 40% in his 2019 budget, later settling for keeping it at 2017 levels. Future cuts seem in the cards as long as Trump is in the White House. The Congressional Budget Office projects that his tax cuts alone will produce even bigger budget deficits in the years to come. (The shortfall last year was $779 billion and it is expected to reach $1 trillion by 2020.) Inevitably, the president and congressional Republicans will then demand additional reductions in spending for social programs.

This is all the more likely because Trump and those Republicans also slashedcorporate taxes from 35% to 21% -- an estimated $1.4 trillion in savings for corporations over the next decade. And unlike the income tax cut, the corporate tax has no end date. The president assured his base that the big bucks those companies had stashed abroad would start flowing home and produce a wave of job creation -- all without adding to the deficit. As it happens, however, most of that repatriated cash has been used for corporate stock buy-backs, which totaled more than $800 billion last year.  That, in turn, boosted share prices, but didn’t exactly rain money down on workers. No surprise, of course, since the wealthiest 10% of Americans own at least 84% of all stocks and the bottom 60% have less than 2% of them. 

And the president’s corporate tax cut hasn’t produced the tsunami of job-generating investments he predicted either. Indeed, in its aftermath, more than 80% of American companies stated that their plans for investment and hiring hadn’t changed. As a result, the monthly increase in jobs has proven unremarkable compared to President Obama’s second term, when the economic recovery that Trump largely inherited began. Yes, the economy did grow 2.3% in 2017 and 2.9% in 2018 (though not 3.1% as the president claimed). There wasn’t, however, any “unprecedented economic boom -- a boom that has rarely been seen before” as he insisted in this year’s State of the Union Address.

Anyway, what matters for workers struggling to get by is growth in real wages, and there’s nothing to celebrate on that front: between 2017 and mid-2018 they actually declined by 1.63% for white workers and 2.5% for African Americans, while they rose for Hispanics by a measly 0.37%.  And though Trump insists that his beloved tariff hikes are going to help workers, they will actually raise the prices of goods, hurting the working class and other low-income Americans the most

Then there are the obstacles those susceptible to suicide face in receiving insurance-provided mental-health care. If you’re a white worker without medical coverage or have a policy with a deductible and co-payments that are high and your income, while low, is too high to qualify for Medicaid, Trump and the GOP haven’t done anything for you. Never mind the president’s tweetproclaiming that “the Republican Party Will Become ‘The Party of Healthcare!’” 

Let me amend that: actually, they have done something. It’s just not what you’d call helpful. The percentage of uninsured adults, which fell from 18% in 2013 to 10.9% at the end of 2016, thanks in no small measure to Obamacare, had risen to 13.7% by the end of last year.

The bottom line? On a problem that literally has life-and-death significance for a pivotal portion of his base, Trump has been AWOL. In fact, to the extent that economic strain contributes to the alarming suicide rate among white workers, his policies are only likely to exacerbate what is already a national crisis of epidemic proportions.

























Philosopher Srećko Horvat on Julian Assange & Europe's Progressive Movement - DiEM25
















https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvqTdRiFGkI



















Published on Nov 30, 2018
















































Why We Need a European Green New Deal

















By Srećko Horvat, ROAR Magazine








The damage caused by air pollution is now being compared to the effects of tobacco use. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), air pollution poses the greatest environmental threat to global health in 2019, killing seven million people prematurely every year, which is around the number of deaths caused by cigarettes.

No wonder a common joke about air pollution in contemporary India says that “living in Delhi is just like smoking 50 cigarettes in a day.”

Or that a joke in China even suggests ways of dealing with the air pollution in the best Graucho Marx manner: “Individual therapy: put a mask on. Family therapy: buy health insurance. If you have money and the time: go on holiday. If you’ve no class: emigrate. National therapy: wait for the wind.”

Unfortunately, as usually with dark humor, the joke is reality. When in January 2017 China announced the first ever nationwide red level fog alarm, haze-avoidance soon became a trend and hundreds of thousands of Chinese would start traveling abroad during winter months — when pollution is critical — specifically to escape air pollution. At the same time, those who do not have the means to escape have to stay with masks and literally wait for… air.

When we hear or read about air pollution, we immediately think of India or China. Yet the death rate from air pollution in Hungary happens to be the second highest in the world, coming just behind China. As many as 10,000 people die prematurely in the country each year because of diseases linked to air pollution.

In 2018, the European Environment Agency (EEA) published a report showing that air pollution causes almost 500,000 premature deaths in Europe every year. The report warned that the toll on health was worse in Eastern European countries than China and India.

CHINESE SCIENCE FICTION, EUROPE’S REALITY?

Only a few years ago it would have sounded ludicrous to compare Europe’s present to Chinese science fiction: how could an imagination of a future coming from today’s China be telling us a story about Europe’s own destiny? Yet, to understand Europe’s current ecological catastrophe, it is useful to reach out for one of China’s best contemporary science fiction writers, Hao Jingfang and her Folding Beijing.

It depicts a future Beijing which is divided in three social classes, each of which live on a different physical surface of the city. What Folding Beijing describes is a polluted dystopia in which the main character works as a waste processing worker belonging to the third class. Sunlight is so scarce that it is rationed based on economic class. Technology and automation serve the rich who live in a First space with fresh air, while the poor literally live in and from garbage.

It is a truly disturbing depiction of a future where worlds are literally separated — even Time itself is carefully divided and parceled out to separate classes — as a sort of “parallel realities,” which are, nonetheless, interconnected and part of the structure of one and the same world serving the ones living in the First space.

As with every good science fiction, this story does not so much describe a distant future, but a world which is already unfolding below our feet. But what if Folding Beijing is not just pursuing the current social inequalities in China and its rapid development to its logical conclusion — in order to depict an inevitable future if the current trends continue? What if it might represent Europe’s current ecological catastrophe and environmental breakdown?

Over the past years we have already become accustomed to the smog photos from Beijing as one of the worst places for air quality in the world. But these days we are witnessing similar images from Serbia, Macedonia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary and other less developed European countries.

At the end of January 2019, 1.7 million inhabitants of Belgrade, the Serbian capital, woke up in the morning to find themselves in the most polluted city in the world. That day, in a city and country with continuing and growing anti-government protests, the activists of the social movement Don’t Drown Belgrade sent a gas mask to the mayor with a simple message: “Soon everyone will need a gas mask.”

FRESH AIR IN THE WEST, GAS MASKS IN THE EAST

And here we come from Folding Beijing to “Folding Europe.” There is a sharp divide in air quality between the West and East of Europe. Even Forbes magazine recently called it “the New Iron Curtain.” But beside naming the reasons for this air pollution, such as brown coal as the main energy source of post-communist countries, Forbes did not name the true origin of the problem.

The problem is not so much that Eastern European countries — former Yugoslavia and the Eastern Bloc states — are not “developed” enough. The problem is that the current architecture of the European Union is actually based on a deep and growing divide between the center (Western Europe) and periphery (Eastern Europe). Without the under-developed East, the West could not really go through its “green transition” — or what the Germans would call Energiewende.

If it was ever tangible that Europe is rapidly transforming itself into a dystopian “Folding Europe,” with different spaces of air quality depending on whether you belong to the center or the periphery, to the global rich or the global poor, then it was with the current Diesel ban in Germany — and its consequences for the East.

The ban itself, of course, is a development in the right direction, but it does not solve the deeper ecological and economic problem which goes beyond national borders. Even if Germany is at the moment, as one of Europe’s most developed countries, going through its “green transition,” this has devastating environmental and health consequences for the rest of the European Union.

In late January, when children in Belgium were protesting against climate change, it became clearer than ever that you cannot just “outsource” or “export” air pollution while at the same time schools were closed in Macedonia because of extremely high levels of air pollution. Already in December 2018, two cities in Macedonia — the western city of Tetovo and the capital, Skopje — were named by the European Air Quality Index as the most polluted cities in Europe.

In other words, Western Europe is literally exporting “air pollution” to the periphery of the EU. According to the German Handelsblatt, the export of German used diesel cars increased to 233,321 in 2017, up 18 percent from the year before. Although the main export is still to France, Austria and Italy, a significant number went to Eastern Europe: 11,841 cars went to Hungary, 9,439 to Slovakia and 10,899 to Romania. In 2017, the import of second-hand diesel cars from Germany to Croatia rose by 89 percent.

But once again, this time explicitly, the framing of the story was a typical dismissal of the true problem. The German newspaper carried the title “Eastern Europe’s appetite for dirty old diesels,” as if the people of Hungary, Serbia, Macedonia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Romania and Bulgaria would not be happy with an Energiewende and would not rather breathe fresh air instead of… wearing gas masks.

“THERE IS NO GREEN TRANSITION IN ONE COUNTRY”

What this reality of “Folding Europe” — less science fiction, more capitalist realism — makes more and more evident is that the solution to today’s universal problems (like climate change or environmental breakdown) cannot lie in solutions that are already distributed according to the different realities or “folders” of contemporary Europe: “green transition” for the West, Diesel for the East.

This “uneven development” is not only manifested in the stark division between the center and the periphery, becoming tangible with air pollution; it is at the same time a deep class division within societies, as became visible with the Yellow Vests protests in France, where it was — once again — the poor who were destined to pay the costs of the “green transition” through a “carbon tax.”

What is becoming more obvious when faced with the recent reports about a complete planetary environmental breakdown is that “green transition” for the rich, and ecological catastrophe for the poor, is not a solution if we want to have a liveable planet at all.
































FAST FORWARD: AN DIE NACHGEBORENEN (2049)
















In order to grasp the future, sometimes it is necessary to speak from the future itself. Not from a future as something given or destined, but from a future understood as a possibility, a potentiality, which could or could not happen, depending on what we do in the present.


Srećko Horvat








Back in the late 2010s, only 30 years ago, when walls and borders were already becoming the prevailing backdrop to Europe’s decline, a report published by the World Bank projected that 55 per cent of the developing world’s population was at risk from climate change.[1] Over 140 million people were forecasted to migrate by 2050.


The World Bank estimated that climate change would lead to crop failures, freshwater scarcity, and sea-level rises. Millions from three of the world’s major regions – Sub-Saharan Africa (from Sudan and West Africa to the Cape of Good Hope), Central and South America (from Mexico to the Strait of Magellan), and South Asia (Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Nepal, Bhutan, and Bangladesh) – were to be forced into ‘in and out’ migration.


According to the report, the year 2050 was a tipping point beyond which climate change migration would accelerate in the absence of significant cuts to greenhouse gas emissions and green investment.


“Without the right planning and support, people migrating from rural areas into cities could be facing new and even more dangerous risks,” said the report’s lead author, Kanta Kumari Rigaud. “We could see increased tensions and conflict as a result of pressure on scarce resources. But that doesn’t have to be the future. While internal climate migration is becoming a reality, it won’t be a crisis if we plan for it now.”


Back in the past, scientists were warning not only of unprecedented migration due to climate change, but also of mass extinction. As early as 2006, when the world was already facing major geopolitical re-alignment, natural disasters, heatwaves, ice melting, militarisation, migration crises, and rising populist and authoritarian regimes, a new study by an international team of ecologists and economists predicted the new date of the Apocalypse: 2048.[2] The date when the world’s oceans would be empty of fish. The cause: the disappearance of species due to overfishing, pollution, habitat loss, and climate change.


And here we are, it is 2049. While the sea-level rises devastate and empty vast territories of the world, forcing hundreds of millions to flee to Europe, we who are the Nachgeborenen (the ‘born-after’, German poet and playwright Bertolt Brecht’s beautiful term from his Svendborger Gedichtecollection, written in his Danish exile in 1939, about those who will follow after the disaster of the Second World War) sit and have dinner, although there are no fish at the table any more.


The food we eat is already polluted by microplastics, found everywhere from the high Swiss mountains to the Antarctic. As a result of tremendous climate change, with devastating consequences not only for humans but the whole ecosystem, the response of governments – which in 2019 were convincing their populations that the only solution to the world’s crisis was to build walls from Mexico to Hungary, from Brazil to Morocco – was a desperate and inhuman response from the past.


Instead of opening itself to planetary thinking, instead of seizing the future by using the latest technological advances and the historical opportunity of humanity to transform itself into a truly global community, the political and business elites of 2019 were leading the world straight towards its worst dystopian predictions.


We were not sleepwalking into this abyss, we were walking into it with all the facts in front of us. Mass extinction. Rising sea levels. Migration. Wars and planetary devastation.


While most of Europe was on the brink of occupation and stuck in a totalitarian nightmare, Brecht asked in Die Nachgeborenen back in 1939 whether, in such circumstances, we can have “conversations about trees”, and how we can eat and drink when others starve and those who are thirsty do not have our glass of water? And yet we eat and drink. “He who laughs,” writes Brecht, “has not yet received the terrible news.”


In 2019, we were drinking and eating, while having a conversation about trees was once again becoming a crime because so many were being cut down and so many desperate refugees were hiding in the woods. We the Nachgeborenen, the ones born after the atrocities of the First and Second World Wars, were, again, eating and drinking while historical and planetary events were leading humanity – and this time, the planet itself – into an abyss, a point of no return.


To escape the current of “the slow cancellation of the future”,[3] we need what the French engineer and philosopher Jean-Pierre Dupuy, best known for his work on catastrophism, calls “enlightened doomsaying”.[4] Dupuy argues that what might seem impossible – a global-scale ecological catastrophe, for instance, or an Armageddon-inducing nuclear war – is nonetheless, based on our present knowledge, inevitable. Assuming that one of these catastrophes is our destiny (the dystopian Year 2049), there is something we can do. We can retroactively change the conditions of possibility out of which this destiny will come. 







[1] Kanta Kumari Rigaud et al. (2018). Groundswell: Preparing for Internal Climate Migration. Washington, DC: World Bank. Available at .

[2] Daniel DeNoon (3 November 2006). Salt-Water Fish Extinction Seen By 2048. CBS News. Available at

[3] Franco Berardi (2011). After the Future. Chicago: AK Press.


[4] Jean-Pierre Dupuy (2004). Pour un catastrophisme éclairé: quand l’impossible est certain. Paris: Seuil.


































John Pilger: Extradition Process a 'Very Long Uphill Road' for Assange















https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPqStZKC3f4





























































Bernie Sanders Makes Both Parties Nervous














https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6bK-YMd52I































































Monday, June 17, 2019

Srećko Horvat: ‘The current system is more violent than any revolution’


















Sun 21 Apr 2019 
04.00 EDT








Up until the collapse of Yugoslavia in 1991, foreigners were not allowed to visit the beautiful Dalmatian island of Vis, then home to a major naval base. Two years ago it was the location for Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, doubling as the fictional Greek island of Kalokairi.

One way of looking at the transformation from military redoubt to Hollywood idyll is as a triumph of freedom of movement over draconian restrictions. But that’s not how the Croatian philosopher Srećko Horvat sees the resulting media attention, rising real estate prices and what he calls the “tourist occupation” of Vis, where he now lives, when he’s not travelling and organising.

“Where once there was a sustainable local community,” he writes in his new book, Poetry from the Future, “there are weekending easyJet tourists; where fishermen’s boats once rode at anchor, now luxury yachts are moored.”

You probably haven’t heard of Horvat, though you will have heard of plenty of people who have. He’s friends with the former Greek finance minister Yanis Varoufakis, with whom he set up the Democracy in Europe Movement 2025 (DiEM25). He was a regular visitor to Julian Assange, before he was extracted from the Ecuadorian embassy. He’s also in close contact with Assange’s friend, the former Baywatch star Pamela Anderson.

He is a staunch friend of Slavoj Å½ižek, the maverick Slovenian celebrity academic (they co-wrote a book in 2013 entitled What Does Europe Want?), as well as being on good terms with one of Žižek’s most vituperative critics, the renowned American academic Noam Chomsky. He also hangs out with the celebrated Mexican film-maker Alfonso Cuarón.

But at 36, Horvat is far from being some kind of right-on hanger-on. In fact he’s one of the busiest leftwing political activists in Europe. Aside from DiEM25, which campaigns to reform the EU into a “realm of shared prosperity, peace and solidarity”, and for whom he’s standing in the European elections, he is a founder of the Subversive festival, an annual jamboree in Zagreb of radical thought that has featured the likes of Oliver Stone and Antonio Negri, he set up the Philosophical theatre in the same city, whose contributors have included Adam Curtis, Vanessa Redgrave and Thomas Piketty. And he has been involved in everything from Occupy Wall Street to the World Social Forum and protests about the 2017 G20 Hamburg summit.

Yet in leftist circles in the UK Horvat remains unknown. When I mentioned his name to several leading young British anticapitalists, I received blank expressions. His publishers are hoping that will change with the publication of his new book, Poetry from the Future: Why a Global Liberation Movement Is Our Civilisation’s Last Chance.

Despite the apocalyptic subtitle, the book is a series of discursive essays in the continental tradition: all ideas, epigrams and lyrical flourishes. Unafraid to mention Mamma Mia! and The X-Files along with erudite references to Walter Benjamin and Michel Foucault, Horvat is the kind of free-ranging thinker who reminds you of Sartre’s observation on Nietzsche: “A poet who had the bad luck to be mistaken for a philosopher.”

All the same, tourist occupation? Isn’t that a little melodramatic in relation to an island that was literally occupied, and by Italian fascists, in the second world war?

And then there’s the tone of mournful despair. “Today,” he writes, “we are living in a long winter of melancholy, not only in Europe but across the world.” Or this: “The past is forgotten, and the future is without hope. Dystopia has become a reality.”

What’s the good news?

As my bus pulled into Komiža, the more remote of Vis’s two coastal villages, I wondered if I was going to be meeting some gloomily earnest revolutionary, bristling with disgust for western decadence and aching with the misery of it all. But the moment I was greeted by Horvat’s beaming countenance, I was not just disarmed, but practically ready to take up arms by his side.

A passionate yet playful character with a patchy beard and high forehead that seems to forewarn of his formidable intellect, he bears a sparkling-eyed resemblance to a young Billy Crystal – if you can imagine the American comedian mastering the vocabulary of critical theory.

Horvat may lack Žižek’s gift for comic provocation or Varoufakis’s charismatic air of danger, but in person he more than makes up for it with an instantly infectious warmth and unaffected enthusiasm. As he leads me to the hotel he recommended I stay in, he sings its proletarian praises.

The Bisevo, he tells me, is an unreconstructed socialist-era hotel that represents a slice of the former Yugoslavia he fears has almost disappeared.

“This is the kind of place that all workers could come to each year for a holiday by the sea,” he says, ushering me into the large crepuscular reception.

The near-empty building, with its long silent corridors, feels not just out of season, but out of time – a strange throwback to the dream of universal provision, when the concept of service culture was all but a crime of bourgeois deviationism. It may lack a few mod cons, but it’s clean and quiet and yards from the gently lapping sea.

I drop my bag off and Horvat whisks me away to his friend’s restaurant where we discuss how he came to adopt and develop his ideas. His book is a rallying cry for resistance to the rapacious forces of capitalism, an emotive argument against the complacent acceptance of “Tina” – the idea that “there is no alternative”.

He takes as his inspiration the Partisans, the Yugoslav resistance fighters who made their base on Vis during the war and ousted the Italian forces.

“What the period of fascist occupation of Vis shows,” he says, “is that resistance can acquire many forms and even a small number of determined people on a remote island can defeat a numerically and technologically superior army.”

Their achievements were indeed impressive, gaining the respect of British military officers and ultimately Winston Churchill. But Marshal Tito, the head of the Partisans, was to preside for decades over the authoritarian and increasingly sclerotic communist regime that ruled Yugoslavia until its demise.

Horvat’s father was an opponent of that regime, a liberal who sought asylum in Germany with his family shortly after Horvat was born. The family didn’t return until Horvat was eight, when the Yugoslav civil war started in 1991. In Germany he had been perceived as a Yugoslav; back in Croatia he was made to feel like a German. Because he was an outsider he turned to books, reading everything he could get his hands on. At that time, the new nationalist Croatian regime was busy getting rid of any books it deemed connected to Marxism, which included any books connected to Russia.

“Like Dostoevsky,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a big scandal but I have most of these books at home, because I saved them.”

Yet given that his father was a dissident, and had only returned because communism had come to an ignominious end, why was Horvat drawn to the Marxist end of the political spectrum, from which communist Yugoslavia had emerged?

“In the 90s,” he says between sips of beer, “it was either nationalism or this dream of the end of history, in the sense that capitalism will solve all our problems and finally we can buy all this stuff we couldn’t buy with communism. Those were the two alternatives.”

He rejected both and found an outlet for his disaffection in hardcore punk music, travelling with his band around the different states of the former Yugoslavia, where he met like-minded teenagers. This anarchic scene spawned a lively fanzine culture, which took to publishing renowned revolutionaries.

“I translated Kropotkin at 16,” Horvat says, a boast that I’m confident Sid Vicious was never able to make.

Of course, it’s all very well denouncing the system when you’re a teenager, and it’s fine to celebrate the courage and commitment of the Partisans, but isn’t the great lesson of socialist revolutions that they start out full of heroism and righteous conviction and descend into state repression and paranoid social control?

Horvat was just six when the Berlin Wall came down. It’s a moment in history to him rather than a memory of long-awaited freedom. He’s from a generation for whom opposition to capitalism, and even celebration of communist revolutionaries (Lenin and Che Guevara both receive favourable mention in his books), has little to do with the real-world communist regimes that immiserated hundreds of millions across the globe.

He duly distances his ideas from such regimes in Poetry from the Future, and insists he’s “not a nostalgic for Yugoslavia”. But we decide to save the nitty gritty of politics to the following day. In the meantime Horvat wants to take me to ŽŽ, his friend ÄŒedo’s bar, or konoba, which is tucked down a narrow side lane leading to the sea. Horvat describes it as a “cross between an atelier and a social centre”, with room for about 10 people to sit. Apparently it’s packed with tourists in summer.

Now in the off-season there are just a few old hands – the regulars are stonemasons, fisherman, painters – drinking rakia, the local hard liquor of choice, rolling joints, sharing jokes and lamenting the direction of the world. In common with many millennial revolutionaries, central to Horvat’s political outlook is the belief that climate change is humanity’s greatest existential threat since the last ice age.

It’s a jolly scene, full of high spirits and low expectations. The talk, a little incongruously, is of rising sea levels, growing nationalism and racism, like a shebeen for Corbynistas, though more entertaining than that sounds.

Despite a steady flow of drinks and snacks, no money is exchanged that I can see, and my offers to contribute are met with implacable dismissals. Later I ask Horvat how it works. “Most of it functions as exchange,” he says, “on the principles of – using Lyotard’s term – libidinal economy. Or the micro-politics of desire.”

I’m not sure what that means but if this is what a post-capitalist economy looks like, I can’t complain.

At the end of the night, I stumble back to the Bisevo, ready to volunteer for the cause, even if I can’t remember what it is.

The following day Horvat is keen to show me the island’s sights. There’s Tito’s cave, in which the Partisan hero was said to have hidden – Evelyn Waugh, on an army mission, actually flew out to meet him. There’s also an abandoned network of military bunkers and tunnels, and a secret submarine shelter. Before we see these delights we sit down for an interview.

I’m intrigued at how and why the shadow of 20th-century communism seems to leave so little mark on the anticapitalists of today, especially those living in former communist countries. For despite his reservations about Yugoslavia, Horvat doesn’t want its strengths to be forgotten. He speaks glowingly of a recent exhibition at MoMA in New York entitled Toward a Concrete Utopia, “which showed that Yugoslavia had a modernisation project that was also connected to arts, culture, architecture”. And, he continues, Yugoslavia “had economic democracy, which came immediately after the break with Stalin [in 1948 Tito established independence from Moscow]. It was called self-management. Of course it had many problems. The biggest problem was that in practice it didn’t really function.”

He speaks in such an ecstatic rush of eloquent English that sometimes it’s hard to work out whether or not he’s making a joke. But he’s serious when he suggests that the standard of living enjoyed by Yugoslavs was higher than that of Croatians today. Statistics don’t bear this out, but Horvat bases his comparison on the experiences of his family and friends.

“Just the ability to go to the sea for vacation. In Yugoslav times almost everyone had this as a fundamental right. This architecture,” he says, gesturing to the Bisevo behind us. “Hotels were built for workers – in that sense the living standard was higher. There was more equality of course but today healthcare and higher education are gradually being privatised and there is huge emigration from Croatia. There are no shipyards any more. Once we had the strongest shipyards in Europe.”

What Croatia does have is tourism, which Horvat says accounts for a higher percentage of its GDP (18%) than any other European nation. Any economy that is reliant on such a large foreign presence will inevitably breed resentments. But as much as Horvat wants to preserve the livelihoods and lifestyles that have been subordinated to the tourist industry, he is also a fierce proponent of an open borders policy.

He rightly attacks the xenophobia that is growing in Hungary, Poland, Austria and Italy – not to mention elsewhere – and believes Europe must prepare for hundreds of millions of refugees. But how can a culture like Vis hope to contend with potentially vast numbers of migrants if its culture is so vulnerable to a much smaller number of tourists?

 “First,” he says, “I’m not a naive leftist who advocates open borders and what happens happens. The policy of letting in people who are fleeing wars or, in the future, climate change is the only correct policy – in the way Germany welcomed me when we came from Yugoslavia. But that’s not enough. We are advocating a Green New Deal that’s connected to migration policy.”

This deal amounts to a massive investment in infrastructure which, he says, will guarantee jobs and therefore remove the perceived threat of migrants undercutting native workers.

Perhaps, I say, but it’s not just an economic question. There seems to be a growing anxiety about identity right across the political spectrum. In his book he talks about the importance of “shared values”. That’s the kind of language, employed with a different meaning, that’s used by his political opponents to describe what makes up people’s collective identities. Right or wrong, it’s the thing that many people fear losing.

“They’re not losing their identities because of migration but because of global capitalism. And this migration is also happening because of global capitalism,” he says.

Horvat rejects categories like communist or Marxist as self-descriptions, but he can certainly sound like one when he wants.

“The only identity that’s worth fighting for,” he concludes, “is one that comes out of the struggle and class solidarity.”

Interestingly, he barely touches on identity politics in his book. The whole fashionable discourse of intersectionality doesn’t get a mention. Perhaps it’s something to do with coming from a country that collapsed and reverted to religious identities – Catholic, Orthodox, Muslim – that were largely buried for half a century.

“I’m very critical of so-called cultural Marxism and identity politics,” he says. “I don’t think the solution to today’s problems is just to advocate more of your identity whether you are gay or vegetarian or whatever. I think we need something much deeper. The Greek worker and German worker have to realise they’re in the same shit even if the German worker has a better salary and lives in a more functional country.”

Is it better, I ask hypothetically, to have greater equality but a lower standard of living or to raise the base standard of living even if there are greater inequalities? He gives a long, thoughtful reply that doesn’t answer my question, finishing with an attack on simple redistribution: “Rutger Bregman and Thomas Piketty constantly talk about taxation, taxation as if the true solution of inequality lies in taking more from the rich and redistributing it. I think we have to radically transform society so that it would be impossible that Warren Buffett or Jeff Bezos can be the richest person in the world. I think taxation is not enough.”

At the time of my visit, Assange is still in the Ecuadoran embassy, where Horvat believes he is effectively held “prisoner”. I ask him what he thinks about the WikiLeaks founder, particularly in the light of the allegations, currently dropped or suspended, of rape in Sweden, his links with people like Nigel Farage and his preference for Donald Trump over Hillary Clinton.

“Julian is my friend,” he says. “We often agree, and we often disagree. One of our disagreements was Brexit. He advocated the Leave option while me and Yanis campaigned for the Remain option. But I really think there is a character assassination going on.”

He is sympathetic to Assange’s claim that the Swedish investigation was part of an attempt to frame him so that he could be extradited to America. But if the allegations haven’t been put to legal test (because Assange avoided going to Sweden), what of the suggestion, explicit in Andrew O’Hagan’s long LRB profile, that Assange had a “sleazy” attitude towards women.

“I never experienced that. And most of the collaborators at WikiLeaks were women. I know he’s a controversial, divisive figure. But many important historical figures are like that. WikiLeaks should be appreciated.”

A couple of weeks later, in London, with Assange now in custody, and many MPs suggesting that he should be extradited to Sweden to face the original allegations, I go back to Horvat and ask him where he now stands.

“Whether you like him or not,” he replies, “we should be opposed to his extradition to the US, on the basis of protecting the freedom of the press. And if he is extradited to Sweden, Sweden should guarantee he won’t be extradited to the US. I’ve been to the embassy plenty of times and can assure you that all these stories about his hygiene, or his cat spying, are lies constructed in order to further discredit someone who has suffered enough. The UK shouldn’t be a puppet in the hands of Trump but a sovereign state protecting whistleblowers and publishers, and the basis of liberal democracy.”

Back in Vis, it’s time to go on our tour. We meet Horvat’s girlfriend, SaÅ¡a, and her friend Jelena, who are both originally from Novi Sad in Serbia. Horvat met Sasa at a political festival. She works for an NGO and, although she seems to share his ideological world view, she’s clearly an independent spirit.

Horvat’s previous book was called The Radicality of Love, in which, paraphrasing the French far-left philosopher Alain Badiou, he wrote: “Love is communism for two. But love is as difficult as communism, and can often end up as tragic as communism. Like revolution, true love is the creation of a new world.”

I can’t say if Srećko and SaÅ¡a amount to communism for two. But they seem quite happy together.

Tito’s cave is rather underwhelming. It is just a small cave high in the mountains with an inconspicuous commemorative plaque. But Horvat is energised by the thought of resistance fighters hiding up here from the planes overhead, as though he can visualise their plight. We drive on to see the submarine base, a huge hole in the cliff that drops into the sea. I say that it looks like something from a James Bond film.

“Yes!” he exclaims indignantly. “We’re not a Mamma Mia! island! We’re a James Bond island!”

Later that night, Horvat attempts to persuade me to stay on in Vis. I want to, despite work commitments, because it’s a truly lovely place. Indeed, it’s such a paradise that I find it hard to imagine how Horvat can remember that the world is such a nightmare.

“I think it’s paradise but I’m nostalgic for things that will disappear,” he says. “I see things that are already disappearing and changing. The local population feels it even better than me. We need to be mad prophets who might turn out wrong. We need to shock the people with the dystopian facts. No sea fish, only plastics, no air.”

In many respects, of course, he’s not wrong. We do need to be aware of the dangers of climate change and environmental despoliation. And the inequalities he rails against are real and growing and require urgent attention. But Horvat writes in revolutionary terms and revolutions have a habit of quickly betraying their ideals. He seems to me the most gentle and benign of characters, the kind of person who would probably not thrive in the ruthless power struggles of dramatic sociopolitical upheaval.

He confides that he’s ambivalent about the prospect of becoming an MEP. A big part of him just wants to stay on Vis and write. But while I’m there, his phone keeps ringing – often it’s Varoufakis – and he’s dragged into the tiresome business of political management and internal conflict resolution.

Back in London, I write to ask him if he thinks the radical change he’s calling for can take place without the use or threat of large-scale violence.

“I believe that the current system,” he replies, “with its never-ending war against the majority of people, other species and nature, is already more violent than any revolution. That said, I don’t like violence of any sort. But a revolution is not a dinner party or writing an essay. Although it often starts like that.”

I disagree, because revolutions can be and certainly have been more violent than the current system, for all its injustices. But at the same time, Srećko Horvat is the kind of guy you’d never be disappointed to see at a dinner party.




• Poetry from the Future by Srećko Horvat is published by Penguin (£16.99). To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £15, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99