Islam: A New History from Muhammad to The Present. John Tolan. Princeton University Press. 2025.

Islam’s beginnings and evolution 

What are the roots of Islam, and how has it been interpreted and practiced in different ways across time and place since its inception? Islam: A New History from Muhammad to the Present by John Tolan, surveys a wide range of defining historical episodes and movements from the time of the Prophet Muhammad in the 6^th century through to today. Tolan’s historicising approach focuses not only on events, but highlights the diverse contributions of caliphs, travellers, Sufi saints, merchants, and Islamic reformers in shaping Islamic societies across regions and eras.  

From the spiritual legacy of Rabia al-Adawiyya, the 8th-century Muslim saint, to contemporary interpretations of Islam, the tradition has continually transformed, adapted, and evolved since its inception. During the life of the Prophet Muhammad, Islam remained unified under his direct guidance and the presence of his companions. However, the significant doctrinal and political developments emerged following his death in 632 CE. The first caliph was chosen by Abu Bakr al-Siddiq (632-634) and unifying the Arabian Peninsula and combating early waves of apostasy. The question of succession – specifically who would lead the Ummah (believers of Islam) – marked a decisive moment in Islamic history and led to the emergence of sectarianism such as Sunni and Shi’a. 

Tolan reveals how early political rivalries were transformed into lasting sectarian cleavages within the Islamic tradition.

Tolan draws attention to Nana Asmau, Uthman ibn Fodio’s daughter, a distinguished scholar, poet, Sufi, and reformer, who exercised significant intellectual and political influence during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. In the modern period, figures such as African American Imam Amina Wadud – who converted from Christianity to Islam – have continued this tradition of reinterpretation. In her work Qur’an and Woman (1999), Wadud argues that each generation of Muslims must retain the freedom to reread and reinterpret the Quran, underscoring Islam’s dynamic and evolving engagement with history, and society. Further, Tolan highlights how Muslim scholars, organisations, and leaders have politically mobilised Muslim communities across the world and their contribution of proliferations of Islam especially in the Middle East, the USA and Europe. He discusses figures from an Egyptian author Gamal al-Banna to the brother of Hassan al-Banna and from Malcolm X to Mahmud Muhammad Taha and Bilali Muhammad.  

The Quran and sectarianism

Tolan  episodic historical approach zones in on key events in Islam, particularly those surrounding the compilation of the Quran and the struggle for political authority after the Prophet Muhammad’s death. The Quran was first full text compiled in written form during the caliph of Uthman ibn Affan, a process that later became a source of sectarian controversy. Certain Shi’a scholars such as Ibn Abil Hadid and Yasir al-Habib have argued that portions of the original revelation were concealed, alleging that Ali ibn Abi Talib as the rightful successor were omitted, and that some Quranic materials were destroyed during the standardisation of the text. 

Tolan further situates these theological disputes within the larger political conflicts between emerging Sunni authorities and Shi’a factions during the Umayyad period, followed by the Abbasid era, when competing claims to the caliphate continued to shape Islamic governance. He demonstrates how the institution of the caliphate became a source of deep and enduring division within Islam. For instance, Tolan discusses accusations directed at Ali in relation to the assassination of Caliph Umar, including claims that Ali protected and facilitated the escape of the assassin, Piruz Nahavandi – a Persian captive taken during the Battle of Al-Qadisiyya (25). Through these episodes, Tolan reveals how early political rivalries were transformed into lasting sectarian cleavages within the Islamic tradition. 

Islam’s spread and divisions 

Initially, Islam expanded its dominance from Damascus (634 CE) to Antioch (637 CE) and Jerusalem (638 CE). By the time of Caliph Umar’s death in 644 CE, the Islamic empire spanned from Libya to Afghanistan and from Azerbaijan to Yemen. Later, Tolan briefly discusses the rise of Islam most continents of the world through battles, merchants, and Sufi’s spirituality. Tolan notes that how the first Fitna or civil war stated in the 7^th century in Islam which gave to rise new sectarian divisions such as Sunnis, Shi’a, and Kharijites. These sects started to practice Islam in their own ways. For instance, Shi’a believed that Ali was first Caliph of Umma and Sunnis believed Abu-Bakr, and some Muslim rulers imposed a Jizya (tax) on Christians, Jews, Jains, Buddhists and Hindus. 

Movements including Deobandi, Wahhabi, Ahmadiyya and Faraizi emerged that created identity-based segregation and emphasised strict adherence to the Quran and Hadith, rejecting some traditional practices among Muslims

Tolan highlights the significance of Ibn Battuta’s Rihla (1959) in understanding the global spread and lived diversity of Islam. Battuta’s travels from Mecca to Mali, India, Mauritius, and China – illustrate how Islam adapted cultures across regions. Serving as a qadi (a Muslim judge) in India under Muhammad bin Tughlaq and later as an envoy to China, Battuta offers detailed observations on governance, economy, and international relations. His vivid, experiential narrative enriches Islamic history, particularly through contributions such as his writing of hadith (corpus of sayings or traditions of the Prophet Muhammad) in Arabic at the request of Muhammad ben Aydin, Sultan of Birki (Birkin) (125). 

Colonial influence and modern Islam 

In the chapter “Colonization and Its Discontents, 1798-1918,” Tolan traces the history of European colonisation in Muslim societies from the late 18th to the early 20th century. He examines how India came under the control of European powers such as the East India Company, the Portuguese, and the Dutch, who established colonial regimes across different regions. Tolan highlights how the Dutch East India Company (DEIC) employed Muslims to codify Islamic law in matters of inheritance, marriage, and divorce, at Masulipatnam (Andhra Pradesh), Malabar Coast (Kerala) Gujarat, and some part of Bengal, while the British East India Company similarly institutionalised Islamic (Sharia) law for Muslims in Bengal, Madras, Bombay presidencies and later all over India as part of its colonial governance strategy (168).  

Movements including Deobandi, Wahhabi, Ahmadiyya and Faraizi emerged that created identity-based segregation and emphasised strict adherence to the Quran and Hadith, rejecting some traditional practices among Muslims. For instance, the Deobandi Movement founded in 1866, went against modern western education and promoted traditional studies (Quran, Hadith, Fiqh). Contrastingly, Sir Syed Ahmad founded Muhammadan Anglo-Oriental College in 1875, to modernise education with Islamic values. Later, these movements spread not only across the Indian subcontinent but also to the Middle East, South Asia and Europe.   

Overall, Tolan’s book is a comprehensive account of key Islamic events and historical developments; however, some of his arguments are insufficiently substantiated. For instance, the claim that Shi’a Muslims believed that Ayesha (wife of Muhammad) concealed Quranic verses proving Ali’s rightful succession is presented with limited evidentiary support. The book also overlooks the significant role of Sufi traditions in the spread of Islam in the Indian subcontinent, particularly the contributions of key figures. Nonetheless, Tolan’s work offers a broad historical perspective on Islam’s evolution, transformation, and the emergence of diverse sects across regions. The book focuses primarily on political events in Islamic history and their role in the making and unmaking of Islam. In so doing, it makes a meaningful contribution for Islamic scholars, academicians and individuals to understand the evolution of Islam from Muhammad to present.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

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From Subordination to Revolution: A Gramscian Theory of Popular Mobilisation. John Chalcraft. University of California Press. 2025.

John Chalcraft’s From Subordination to Revolution offers a compelling case for a new theorisation of popular mobilisation, which Chalcraft defines loosely as the dynamics through which subordinated groups overcome social domination. His theory is grounded in the writings of Italian philosopher and revolutionary advocate Antonio Gramsci. The book, while building on the living Gramscian tradition, situates a Gramscian theory of popular mobilisation within the dominant discourse of mobilisation scholarship.

Chalcraft taps into the unease of the current global political and social climate, drawing on examples from diverse struggles and instances of groups mobilising across the world to develop a new approach to understanding popular mobilisation. This approach examines dominant critiques of liberalism, conservatism, and Marxist traditions within contemporary scholarship. Throughout, Chalcraft analyses in detail the critical phases of popular mobilisations: where they falter, succeed, or are co-opted by dominating forces while providing insight into how popular mobilisation can resist authoritarianism. At a time when social movements and instances of resistance are profuse but often inadequate, Chalcraft’s work offers critical lessons for those engaged with these struggles. 

Understanding popular mobilisation  

The book is comprised of six core chapters, over the course of which Chalcraft develops his Gramscian theory of popular mobilisation. In the first chapter, he justifies the need for this novel approach and renewed reading of Gramsci, situating his argument within core critiques of conservatism, liberalism, rationalism, and critical approaches to mobilisation. Chalcraft defines popular mobilisation as the various ways in which subordinate groups arrange and reconfigure their relationships to overcome social domination.  

Chalcraft argues that conservative theories of popular mobilisation are largely uncritical of forms of hegemony, instead reproducing the domination of subordinate groups.

Chalcraft argues that conservative theories of popular mobilisation, such as those aligned with thinkers like Burke and Le Bon, are largely uncritical of forms of hegemony, instead reproducing the domination of subordinate groups. Within these theories, subordinated groups are divided and set against one another to preserve hegemonic dominance.  

By contrast, Chalcraft argues that liberal and rational theories of popular mobilisation, which are dominant in activist discourse and social movement scholarship, fall short in effectively conceptualising popular mobilisation. These approaches often undertheorise dynamic power struggles that produce and maintain hegemony, which limits their ability to understand how popular mobilisation might transcend it. Additionally, their movement-centric focus can remain detached from the intersectional identities and concerns of subordinate groups, allowing for their continued marginalisation or abstraction altogether.  

Finally, Chalcraft draws on critical approaches including feminism, Marxism, critical race theory, decolonial thought, and intersectionality to situate his Gramscian approach within existing scholarship surrounding mobilisation. Chalcraft does not reject these traditions; instead, he uses Gramsci to address their limited engagement with revolutionary politics and civil society. Central to this is the development of a coherent theory of praxis – the bringing together of theory and practice, enabling a concrete connection between practices of popular mobilisation and the struggles of subordinate groups to overcome social domination.  

The architecture of mobilisation 

In the remainder of the book Chalcraft details four key analytical phases of popular mobilisation: domination, autonomy, consent, and revolution. These phases are neither fixed nor linear. Instead, they can be overlapping, partial, regressive or transcendent. Starting with domination, Chalcraft argues that a central Gramscian question asks how subordinate groups can construct emancipatory projects. He employs the Gramscian notion of praxis, explaining that for subaltern groups, praxis is not a binary condition; rather, it is a process of becoming. In struggles at the margins, subordinate groups challenge the common sense that has justified their domination, engage in aspirational utopian thinking towards rebellion, and negotiate the complexity of their identity and their cause. It is here that a new ground can be laid for further action central to overcoming domination.  

In struggles at the margins, subordinate groups challenge the common sense that has justified their domination

Chalcraft also addresses the assertion of autonomy and the cultivation of consent as critical to popular mobilisation. Subordinate groups assert autonomy in the process of mobilisation through self-activity and efforts towards self-determination. While a Gramscian approach values autonomy, it rejects autonomism or an idolization of autonomy, which can lead to political isolation and impede the collaboration necessary to overcome hegemony and advance a new society.  

The search for consent is another preparatory phase for revolution. In a Gramscian sense, consent springs forth from autonomy, yet seeks to extend beyond autonomous self-activity toward a broader politics. This phase involves the practice of constructing social force necessary to challenge hegemony while avoiding regression into elitist or authoritarian tendencies. Chalcraft emphasises that this phase requires theoretical renewal while addressing questions of leadership and the expansion of collective will. He warns against both radicalisation and vanguardism, instead arguing, through Gramsci, for the creation of an organic party which retains a democratic formation while foreshadowing a new society prior to revolution. The organic party is a collective that emerges from the lived experiences and struggles of subaltern groups. Rather than being an imposed political party organised around a single leader, the organic party remains a collective force aimed at creating a new social and political formation.  

The final chapter addresses the question of revolution. Chalcraft’s Gramscian approach challenges prominent views that equate revolution with large-scale demonstrations, protests, or popular uprisings. Instead, he emphasises the importance of both the war of manoeuvre and the war of position. While the war of manoeuvre involves direct confrontation, the war of position is strategic, encompassing the previously discussed phases and cultivation of civil society. In this approach, a phase of revolution is not immediate nor solely confrontational. Instead, it builds on the groundwork laid in the assertion of autonomy and search for consent, which create counter-hegemonic forms and build counter-hegemonic forms and build the foundation for a new society.  

A Gramscian alternative

The conclusion addresses the implications of the Gramscian approach the book has developed and articulates its application to both theory and practice. Central to this approach is the plurality inherent within subordinate groups, presented as a point of synthesis for the construction of a new hegemony. Chalcraft’s emphasis on this plurality allows for engagement with diverse struggles and an examination of their relations to power, autonomous actions, and formations of social force.  

Valuable for activists, scholars, and those engaged in mobilisation and movement studies, this is a book that is more pressing than ever in the current global socio-political moment.

Chalcraft’s framework can be operationalised beyond the cases that he draws upon, though the Gramscian language may prove difficult for readers not well versed or comfortable with political theory. There are moments where the analysis or reading of Gramsci and his contemporaries can feel abstract. However, Chalcraft grounds these more abstract theoretical instances in tangible, illustrative cases that make these complex concepts more accessible and further demonstrate the applicability of his approach (i.e. the Rojava Revolution, the Indignados Movement). Additionally, the book addresses the tensions inherent in popular mobilisation, highlighting unresolved questions and limitations left open for further study.  

Though theoretically and philosophically demanding at times, From Subordination to Revolution offers a critical reading, articulating powerful ways to make use of the Gramscian tradition. The book presents an opportunity to rethink our understanding of popular mobilisation by addressing key limitations and inefficacies in current scholarship. Valuable for activists, scholars, and those engaged in mobilisation and movement studies, this is a book that is more pressing than ever in the current global socio-political moment.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

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Against Progress (2024) and Zero Point (2025). Slavoj Žižek. Bloomsbury.

Reading the prose of Isaiah Berlin was said to be like witnessing fireworks lighting up the darkened vista of the past, illuminating forgotten sites, if only for a second. By contrast, Slavoj Žižek writes with the explosive force of a firework show in broad daylight: we can already see the terrifying state of the world; he is merely bringing it to our attention with the shock we need. And just as a firework display disorients the watcher with flashes coming from all corners, so too does Žižek’s writing tend to disorient as he jerks us from Marx to magicians, from shame to social media, from Lacanian psychoanalysis to Hegelian dialectics. But for the reader prepared to persevere through the disorientation, Žižek has much to offer.  

For many political theorists, Žižek has a status something close to a rock star: he is deeply intellectually confident, highly proficient, and has an original, distinctive style. When it was announced that he would be publishing a trilogy of essays with Bloomsbury – Against Progress (AP), Zero Point (ZP), and the forthcoming Liberal Fascisms (LF) – it felt a little like an arena-headlining world tour. AP and ZP are, in many ways, a summary of Žižek’s recent interventions into politics in general and leftist politics in particular. With the trilogy incomplete, judging its overall impact is impossible, but examining the two parts we have so far feels worthwhile in its own right. 

Challenging “Progress” with a capital P

 “Against progress” (a very Žižekian phrase) seems to be a shot across the bow at progressives. But AP is built on a simple premise: progress is not inevitable, and that which seems inevitable is not always progress. As Žižek makes clear, in the opening chapter, the collection of essays is against Progress, with a capital P: “this no way implies we should abandon progress – we should rather redefine it” rather than retain a “blind commitment to an intentionally adopted idea of what ‘progress’ looks like” (AP, 3-5).  

There is no inevitable forward march of history, and in recognising that, we are called to realise the potential progress in every moment we have.

Why? Because progress is “never a linear approximation to some pre-existing goal since every step forward that deserves the name ‘progress’ implies a radical redefinition of the very notion” (AP, 8). There is no inevitable forward march of history, and in recognising that, we are called to realise the potential progress in every moment we have.   

Like the firework show we’ve come to expect, Žižek bounces from topic to topic – from psychoanalysis to quantum mechanics. At times he does this deftly, at times less so, but always with a completeness of thought that leaves the reader with the sense that while this may not be the “correct” answer, it has certainly ruled out the wrong ones. Whether that is “accelerationism” as a means to push the current paradigm to its (il)logical conclusions (AP, Ch. Three, ‘Accelerationism’), or the belief that ecological disaster can be averted that rests on “the vague faith that ‘people will act’ before it is too late” despite those very people “struggling with a cost of living crisis, bombarded by conflicting information on global warming” (AP, Ch.10, ‘From Bad to Worse’). 

Hypocrisy of the right and left 

A particularly stark moment in AP comes with Žižek tells the Left – progressive or otherwise – to stop, essentially, self-flagellating. As he writes in Chapter Six, “Worsting”, there is an irreconcilable hypocrisy in the New Right’s “four central motifs: opposition to ‘excessive’ environmental worries, immigration and LGBTQ+ rights, and advocating a passionate patriotism” – and yet resisting the “Muslim fundamentalists” that agree with them on these four motifs. But there is a hypocrisy yawning beneath the Left: and “instead of constantly worrying about being accused of ‘Eurocentrism’, the task of the Left should be to rediscover the emancipatory potential of the European tradition” (AP, 45).  

Žižek wants us to remember that there is no single definition of progress, and every vision offered (thus far) is exclusionary in some way. Instead, the constant renegotiation of the term is essential to it, and today’s progressives should not become tomorrow’s conservatives.  

Freedom and authority 

The longest chapter, and the core of the book, “Authority” (Ch. nine), weaves into the tapestry of AP a reflection on the nature of authority at a time when authority itself seems in question. A tour-de-force of Žižek’s knowledge and understanding of Lacanian psychoanalysis, Hegelian dialectics, Adornian critique and, of course, Kierkegaardian existentialism. Typical of Žižek’s writing, the most important chapter is simultaneously the most dense and complex. But throughout there is a pertinent message: in a world where “since the more we act freely the more we get enslaved into the system, we need to be ‘awakened’ from this ‘dogmatic slumber’ of fake freedom from outside, by the push of a Master figure” (AP, 83). Authority is essential, but it must be immanent and authentic.  

With a deep intake of breath, the reader moves from the tactical retreat of AP and into the base camp of Zero Point. Žižek shifts gears, in ZP, leaning into the Lacanian psychoanalytic role he is more comfortable with; diagnosing the world’s psychodramas, almost as if he is setting the entire globe down on a therapist’s couch. 

A call to regroup and retry 

While AP points out where the forays up the mountain have been follies, in ZP, Žižek takes inspiration from VI Lenin’s 1922 note ‘On Ascending a High Mountain’. Students of history will take the point with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb: Lenin’s famous New Economic Policy that replaced the exhausted war communism system saw minor concessions to capitalists, and was roundly criticised by ideological hardliners as an admission of failure, and evidence of lack of commitment to the revolution, as Alexander Barmine wrote in 1921: “We felt as though the revolution had been betrayed and it was time to quit the party.”  

If progress has led you to a position more perilous than beneficial, that progress is not sustainable. Better to retreat, regather, and retry

Yet “On Ascending” has an important lesson: if progress has led you to a position more perilous than beneficial, that progress is not sustainable. Better to retreat, regather, and retry. If the “progress” of recent decades has led to a world that is boiling alive, as far-right activists sweep populists into power, and the gap between the haves and the have-nots grows so wide they are no longer bound by the same rules, can it be called as such?  

With the re-election of Donald Trump, Žižek says, “(what remains of) the Left has reached its zero point: it will have to reinvent itself thoroughly or it will perish”. In fact, Žižek directs a fiery rebuttal to Kamala Harris’s concession speech in which she told the United States it’s going to be “okay”: “No, everything is NOT going to be OK, we should NOT trust that progress will win out and history will somehow restore balance” (ZP, 5-6). There must be a way forward for the Left, he insists, and that way forward cannot be left up to some vague notion of “progress”.  

Knowing when to speak up 

Yet as much as ZP is a diagnosis and attempted prognosis of the Left’s current strategic position, attempting to open up avenues for forward motion, the second half of the book is a combination of politico-psychoanalysis and profound personal reflection. Assembled in light of a talk Žižek was requested to give to the 75th Frankfurt Book Fair – a talk that was interrupted several times with accusations levelled at Žižek of antisemitism and asking the audience to consider the plight of Palestinians – the second half of the book is a series of dated notes with reflections on those interruptions and clarifications. The section’s title “When is the right time to speak?…” is taken from a note penned on the 24 May 2024, which goes on: “we often hear people exclaim in frustration ‘Don’t just talk, take action!’, but in this context, it is just as important if not more to name things by their right names and to tell the truth” (ZP, 97). 

Against Progress and Zero Point are essential reading for anyone interested in where the Left ought to proceed from its apparent point of no return.

This insight is nestled among these fragmentary notes strung together by a single theme: what are we talking about? That theme encapsulates Žižek’s whole attempt here – to force the Left to ask questions like, “what do we mean when we say ‘progress’?”, “are modern populists really far-right?” “Is Trump really a fascist?” Žižek may have his answers, but they are folded into a series of carefully considered statements on the complexity of the current state of the world – the Left’s zero point. 

Advancing from the point of no return 

Žižek is not without his faults. At times, he makes bold statements (“perhaps the best characterisation of Trump is that he is a kind of liberal, namely a Liberal Fascist”, ZP 6) that he then goes on to contradict (“one should be very careful when characterising Trump as a Fascist”, ZP 40). Clarity may be forthcoming in the next book Liberal Fascisms, but this feels like a gap a little too wide to ignore. Likewise, in the chapter ‘Death Cramps’, Žižek claims that the EU is “slavishly obeying American instructions even when it is clear that they run contrary to Europe’s own economic interests” (ZP, 49). But ‘the EU’ cannot be cast as a monolithic bloc and is increasingly internally divided over relations with the US. 

Nevertheless, Against Progress and Zero Point are essential reading for anyone interested in where the Left ought to proceed from its apparent point of no return. Alongside comparably daring works like Chantal Mouffe’s For a Left Populism (2018), Nancy Frazer’s The Old is Dying and the New Cannot be Born (2019) and Wendy Brown’s In the Ruins of Neoliberalism (2019), Žižek’s latest foray into the state of the politics, the world, and (what remains of) the Left is a fascinating read that prompts keen anticipation of the third instalment.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

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Radical Abundance: How to Win a Green Democratic Future. Kai Heron, Keir Milburn and Bertie Russell. Pluto Press. 2025.

In our time of polycrisis, the literature about a more equal and sustainable world grows. Among many accounts of the current state of affairs and desirable visions of the future – from Zeitgeist movement to the “alternative hedonism” – few of them deal with what is to be done here and today. Radical Abundance comes as a notable exception, offering practical steps to a post-capitalist future, 

Bullshit jobs, and everything else 

“The authors set the scene from the outset: “We live in a world of bullshit abundance. A world where we have too much of what we don’t need and too little of what we do.” Frequently using the word “bullshit”, the authors seem to be implicitly continuing David Graeber’s analysis of the nebulousness of white-collar jobs; however, this is a more extensive, materialistic analysis of both production and consumption. Radical Abundance  begins with the authors presenting capitalism as a dialectic between the abundance of bullshit and artificial scarcity. By this they mean that, on the one hand, there is too much of what is harmful – microplastics, traffic congestion, carbon emissions – as well as consumer choice. 

The mirror image of capitalism’s bullshit abundance, radial abundance names a world where everyone has what they need to live and flourish

On the other hand, there is too little of what is needed: decent job opportunities, access to a healthy diet and environment, infrastructure, even of time itself, (see Hartmut Rosa‘s detailed analysis), which harms people and nature. It is not an inevitable scarcity, but one imposed on some people for the economic benefit of others. The entire book, and especially the first of its two parts, explains the inseparability of bullshit abundance and artificial scarcity. This inseparability occurs in almost every market: “Under capitalism our lives are diminished and our access to the fruits of our collective labour restricted” (3). 

From imposed scarcity to radical abundance 

If bullshit abundance is the thesis, what is the antithesis? The “radical abundance” of the book’s title. As “the mirror image” of capitalism’s bullshit abundance, it names a world where everyone has what they need to live and flourish. “Instead of bullshit abundance of pollutants, traffic jams, and greenhouse gases, radical abundance regenerates ecosystems and pursues reparations for peoples – usually racialised, Indigenous, and working class – who have had their lands stolen, polluted, or turned into zones of extraction” (15). 

True change can never be delivered by capitalist means, the authors contend, hence their choice of the word “radical” which distinguishes the book from Abundance, written by liberal advocates of cosmetic changes to the system. Its key word is “transition”. In Chapter Two, the authors present the historical context and a theory of transition, drawing from Marxist thinkers such as the economist Michael A. Lebowitz, sociologist Marta Harnecker and philosopher István Mészáros. This theoretical context  is essential to understand why the challenge of transition, as the authors argue, partly overlooked by the Left (Green New Deal, degrowth economies, half-earth socialism, etc.). 

Those who have benefitted from the status quo have constructed both theory and practice of transition that ensures nothing will fundamentally change. Heron, Milburn and Russell differ, presenting concisely the theory and prerequisites for the transition, as well as the institutional form to support it. 

Necessary features of a transition 

The authors argue that overthrowing capitalism is not enough; we need to abolish capital as a relationship, as a system based on the imperative of accumulation. This, after all, is why the USSR collapsed: the failure to “outcapitalise” the capitalists, instead of devising alternative, non-capitalist relations between humans and nature. The book calls for collective democratic participation, through processes of democratic social and ecological planning. Granted, transition is difficult, uncertain and dependent on geographical, historical and social context. Nevertheless, there are “invariant” features of transition, regardless of time and space.  

Democratic participation and planning constructs popular “protagonism” – a new, powerful collective agent and the first invariant feature of transition. Popular, because it is exercised by the working/popular classes in their differentiated unity: workers in industry, services, unwaged workers, peasants, and so on. The essence here is that emancipation of the working classes must be led by the working classes themselves. This must be done by learning through acting, and by building institutional forms.  

From the idea that transition is a period in which incompatible and antagonistic social metabolisms (socio-economic formations) coexist and collide stems the second prerequisite for transition – contested reproduction. This is a democratically planned production, determined by the associated producers, which is not based on the logic of capital. The purpose is to gradually replace capital’s metabolic control with a shared metabolic system.  

The most pressing problems of our time are secular stagnation (the stubbornly low rate of economic growth) and global warming. Both stem from a pernicious relationship between the state and private capital

The authors point out the mistakes of numerous mass mobilisations after 2008. Although they were progressive (Indignados), massive (Occupy Wall Street) or even part of the political milieu (Syriza), these projects have waned, without articulating political demands and/or building transformative institutions for the development of popular protagonism and contested reproduction. They point to five examples of the “institutionalization of the revolution” – the seeds from which greater forms of resistance can develop. None of them use the same conceptual language to organise their struggles, nor are they illustrative of an already formed and cohesive global movement. Yet from Hernani Burujabe’s experiments with radical planning in the Spanish Basque Country to Venezuela’s communes, as the authors write, all of which aim to drive “a shift from a culture in which citizens beg the state to solve their problems to a culture where citizens implement, control, and manage things themselves”. They call for this to be the objective and method of 21^st century socialism. 

From public-private to public-common partnerships 

The most pressing problems of our time are secular stagnation (the stubbornly low rate of economic growth) and global warming. Both stem from a pernicious relationship between the state and private capital, where states, using taxpayers’ money, subsidise and de-risk private companies’ investments. “The derisking state”, the authors state, “is defined by the practice of enlisting ’private capital’ into achieving public policy priorities by tinkering with risk/returns on private investments in sovereign bonds, currency, social infrastructure and, most recently, green industries.

If the state can derisk private capital, it could start derisking commons, instead.

This relationship – from British laborists’ securonomics to the American democrats’ Bidenomics – takes the form of public-private partnerships. Adverse economic and institutional consequences of these partnerships have been researched by Mariana Mazzucato. But where she sees the “entrepreneurial state” as a victim of private capital, the authors point to its complicity. The real victims of such insidious practices are citizens and nature. They argue that, if the state can derisk private capital, it could start derisking commons, instead. By combining mass mobilisation and concerted strategies, workers and citizens can convince them to do that. In the book’s second part, the authors sketch an institutional strategy to achieve this called “public-common partnership” (PCP). 

The last three chapters are dedicated to areas in which different forms of PCPs (as well as Joint Enterprises and Common Associations) have managed to take root: urban development, pharmaceuticals, and agriculture. The authors emphasise that PCPs are not universal solutions and do not represent a participatory mechanism for including civilians in the management of a public enterprise. Nor are they another model of modern-day cooperatives. They are a transitional, consciously directed and expansive movement of decommodification, which aims to bring an increasing proportion of our reproductive activity within a communal mode of provision.  

Undeniably, the challenge is great, and meeting it involves all of us “exhausted of the Earth“ taking action. In overemphasising employed workers, the book makes what might be its strongest point: PCPs are primarily the expression of a struggle over production. By suggesting the forms that cannot be incorporated into workplace and trade union activities, the authors avoid the risk of supporting subcultural political practice or spaces of economic otherness incapable of confronting capital’s control. Among many things we learn from this compelling guide, the most fundamental is the knowledge that we are all in one, indivisible class struggle.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Main image: The Harvesters by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (1565), open access courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York and the Rogers Fund (1919).

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The Revolution to Come: A History of an Idea from Thucydides to Lenin. Dan Edelstein. Princeton University Press. 2025.

What do we mean when we say “revolution”? Scientists are working to bring about the “energy revolution” that will save the planet. Revolutionary venture capitalists “disrupt” the market by introducing new business models. Progressive groups promise all sorts of revolutionary palingenesis. Paraphrasing historian Keith Michael Baker, in our times “everywhere one looks, one finds the term invoked, generously and indiscriminately, to cover an ever-broader variety of changes” (204). But precisely because of the overuse of the word, as St. Augustine remarked of time, if we are asked what revolution is and try to explain, we are baffled (264). Stanford professor Dan Edelstein has come to our aid. The Revolution to Come attempts to answer the question by recovering the shifting meaning of the idea of revolution through time, from Periclean Athens to Bolshevik Moscow, and beyond. How did key thinkers in classic and modern times understand and employ the word revolution? What does this entail for the way we use the term today? Only a long-range genealogy, Edelstein suggests, can give us a clue to this riddle. 

A long view of revolution as an idea

The Revolution to Come is an expansion of his previous work, and particularly of Scripting Revolution (2015), which he edited with K. M. Baker. Its extensive timeline departs from other recent contributions to the field, particularly Enzo Traverso’s Revolution: An Intellectual History (2021). Traverso focuses on 19th and 20th century Marxism, adopting a cultural lens. In contrast, Edelstein’s “big picture” approach connects it to works in the history of ideas that deal with specific terms through vast swaths of time, such as Martin Jay’s The Virtues of Mendacity (2010), Jacob Soll’s Free Market: The History of an Idea (2022), or Darrin M. McMahon’s Equality: The History of an Elusive Idea (2023). 

The Jacobins take a new understanding of revolution to its extreme consequences […] it must keep going until heaven on earth is achieved in the fastest possible way, i.e., it must become ‘permanent.’

The book is structured in four major blocks following a chronological timeline. The first part, “Fortune’s Revolution,” explores Greek and Roman thought, but the main bulk of the book revolves around the modern period: Part II, “Constitutions and Revolutions in the British World” examines the English and American revolutions. Part III, “Modern Times,” focuses on the Enlightenment and the French Revolution and forms the axis around which the text rotates. And the fourth and final section, “Progress of Revolution” traces the global spread and transformation of revolution in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 

From cyclical to deliberate change 

Edelstein opens with Thucydides, Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero. But the main protagonist of this initial section is Polybius and his concept of anacyclosis, the natural revolution that political systems undergo through time. Much like planets rotating in their orbit, different forms of government grow, stabilise, and decline, finally falling back to their point of departure. Crisis and decay cannot be avoided, but only slowed down by adopting what Polybius sees as the best of political regimes, a mixed constitution like that of the Roman Republic. Revolution is an inescapable fact of politics, but one that should be curbed, not evoked (58). 

According to Edelstein, it is in the 16^th century that European intellectuals begin to translate anacyclosis with “revolution” (62). The sense of the term is still negative, but its hidden catalyst is now Machiavelli’s “Fortuna” (fate) rather than simply nature. This new meaning of “revolution” is later inherited by the protagonists of the Glorious Revolution in the 17^th century. They too reaffirm the Polybian ideal of mixed government against the whims of Fortune’s wheel. However, at this point, a subtle but significant semantic shift also takes place. Thinkers like Sidney and Locke begin to treat revolution as a deliberate act, albeit with a conservative aim: a return to the “ancient constitution” against the expansionist ambitions of a tyrant (86). The American Revolution follows suit, prioritising stability over change. For Edelstein, this episode belongs to a revolutionary tradition that still sought to rebalance an upended order, rather than creating a new one. 

Towards a better future 

Although 1789 is the first instance of a revolution with a “future-facing identity,” 1793 marks the point at which the term undergoes its final redefinition (180). The Jacobins take a new understanding of revolution to its extreme consequences. In the wake of the philosophies of Condorcet and Voltaire, this new conception of the word has become inextricably wedded to the idea of progress. Revolution is no longer a painful but necessary means to reestablish a lost political harmony. On the contrary, it is a positive and sought-after occurrence that accelerates the march towards a better future. It follows that revolution must keep going until heaven on earth is achieved in the fastest possible way, i.e., it must become “permanent.” According to Edelstein, with Robespierre and Saint-Just the authority and legitimacy of revolution stops resting on popular will. It now stands on its own, and the path of blood that it leaves behind is justified by the promise of final and complete human redemption – what Edelstein calls the logic of “prospective retrospection” (235).  

The final part of The Revolution to Come follows the trail of this new understanding of revolution across two different strands. On the one hand, Napoleon uses it to reconfigure and spread modern liberalism by combining individual rights with limited popular sovereignty and a strong government. On the other, Marx, and later Lenin, emphasise radical transformation and the dictatorship of the proletariat. In both, democratic mechanisms are sidelined in favour of top-down, centralised control. However, while the communist dispensation has now exhausted its strength, Edelstein seems to suggest that liberalism continues to harbour a problematic compatibility with authoritarian governance (209). 

Understanding history in context 

The Revolution to Come impressively blends erudition and breadth of vision with readability. By combining historical method with literary criticism and political theory, Edelstein manages to convey a central insight, namely that if we really want the past alive, we need to understand what words and concepts meant in their own time and context, and to what effect they were used. Without this type of effort, history remains a sealed book.  

Edelstein seems to suggest that liberalism continues to harbour a problematic compatibility with authoritarian governance

Edelstein does not meddle too much with questions of methodology, staying away from the theoretically heavy approach common to many intellectual historians, especially in the so-called “Cambridge School” spearheaded by Quentin Skinner and JGA Pocock, or Rheinhardt Kosellek’s Begriffsgeschichte approach, which focused on mapping concepts over time. This certainly makes for an easier read and will hopefully attract a broader audience outside of academia. But it also leaves certain questions open, especially around how ideas get transmitted across time and what ultimately shapes them – material conditions or intellectual efforts. Are we supposed to derive a normative lesson from the book? Certain sections, particularly the one on liberalism, and parts of the conclusion seem to hint at that, but leave the final answer suspended. 

All in all, this is a necessary read and not just for those interested in intellectual history. Edelstein puts some order around an overused and often misunderstood concept, providing both a solid basis for more in-depth research and a more nuanced understanding of our language.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Main image: NaughtyNut on Shutterstock.

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City of Equals. Jonathan Wolff and Avner de Shalit. Oxford University Press. 2023.

Jonathan Wolff and Avner de-Shalit’s recent collaboration, City of Equals, is a love letter to the city. The city has long been an unloved creature, its dwellers depicted as alienated and rootless. City of Equals rebuts this tale of woe by exploring the forms of egalitarian rootedness and place-making that can flourish within the city. Combining analytic philosophy with qualitative research methods, and drawing on urban studies, sociology, and political geography, it will be of interest to scholars working across disciplines, urban planners and policymakers, and those who call cities home. While there are works that examine justice within the city and the injustices that are specific to cities, Wolff and de-Shalit have produced a novel account of egalitarianism for the city.

What makes a “city of equals”?

Wolff and de-Shalit set out to discover what it means for a city to embody the egalitarian spirit – what constitutes a “city of equals.” Material equality is one obvious answer; but, Wolff and de-Shalit note, cities with significant income inequality, such as Berkeley, California can nevertheless qualify as egalitarian in spirit. There must be, they surmise, something more to egalitarianism than the distribution of resources. Instead, the authors are moved by relational accounts of equality, “less interested in making sure that everyone has the same amount of anything that ca n be distributed among them, but rather that each person has good reason to regard each other as an equal, and be regarded as an equal by them” (13).

What does it mean to have the sense that you are being treated as an equal? Wolff and de-Shalit turn to 182 semi-structured interviews conducted between 2015 and 2019 by stopping “city-zens” – those who reside within the city boundaries (15) – in Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Berlin, Hamburg, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, London, Oxford, New York City, and Rio de Janeiro. They do not explain the choice of cities other than to note that these cities range in size, significance, dominant religion, and national political context (20). The authors concede this is not a representative sample, locally or globally; however, they treat interviews as a trampoline that “enables you to gain an elevated viewpoint, thus freeing yourself from the solid ground of your position,” (18) and providing sight of questions and ideas not visible from the ground. The interviews therefore expand the authors’ point of view even when they do not provide an expansive or representative perspective (18).

Securing a sense of place

Wolff and de-Shalit provide an account of a “city of equals” which, at heart, is a city that “offer[s] each individual a secure sense of place.” The concept of a “sense of place” emerges from attachments to a particular setting or place, which can arise from one’s direct personal and family biography, or be mediated through collective narratives that imbue a place with meaning, for example, for cultural, religious or ethnic identities. We have a sense of place for a particular location, then, because it is where we fell in and out of love, where a religious figure was martyred, or where an ancient battle was lost. This sense may be shared or communicable, but it need not be universal; it is a changing set of relations with the artefacts, facilities, and people in a particular location. A component of one’s identity, a sense of place contributes to one’s wellbeing, and enables other components of wellbeing, including the capacity to be tolerant of others and thereby enable their sense of place.

Cities are home to most of the world’s population, are responsible for nearly 80 per cent of states’ GDPs, and increasingly dictate national politics

Wolff and de-Shalit identify four core values that engender a sense of place: 1: access to municipal services is not marketised; 2: there is equal opportunity to achieve a sense of a meaningful life; 3: diversity and social mixing in the absence of a monolithic culture; and 4: inclusion that does not rely on deference or submissiveness, but instead is enjoyed as a matter of right. They conclude by proposing that these core values be used to form an index for cities to use as a self-audit: they can help a city to “understand its own trajectory, looking back over the months and years, and to consider what it needs to do in order to come closer to a city of equals” (171).

A “city of equals” in an unequal nation

City of Equals is a much-needed enquiry into egalitarianism in the city informed by interdisciplinary perspectives and innovative mixed methods. Wolff and de-Shalit do not see it as the final word so much as a starting point that establishes the city as its own site of enquiry. At its heart lies the belief that egalitarians should care about equality at the level of the city, and that equality at this level is a distinct enterprise. One reason to care about equality in cities is their sheer size and significance: as Wolff and de-Shalit note, cities are home to most of the world’s population, are responsible for nearly 80 per cent of states’ GDPs, and increasingly dictate national politics (5).

But that is not to say urban equality can represent equality more generally. Wolff and de-Shalit insist that the city is a different sort of political institution from the state, with different political functions and hence a different understanding of equality. Fair enough. However, if cities increasingly determine economic and political life at the national and global level, what equality means in the city may inevitably inform practices and conceptions of equality at the national level. For example, a “sense of place,” which is amorphous and varied, might be more apt for immigrants than the existing paradigm of national integration. This is not only because most immigrants move to cities; it is also because the integration paradigm presupposes a “community of value” that is often exclusionary, on grounds of race, religion, and class, for immigrants and citizens alike. A “sense of place” provides an alternative way of belonging and living together – one that also contributes to one’s wellbeing and identity, but without requiring conformity with a national culture or set of values. Equality in the city might therefore bleed into equality in the state in ways that are generative and inclusive.

Many Arabs in the east of Jerusalem feel that they live under occupation and that Jews and Arabs in Jerusalem experience the city in very different, and unequal, ways

In turn, inequality at the national level might infect the city. More than a third of Wolff and de-Shalit’s interviews are conducted in Israel, which Israeli and international organisations have since concluded maintains an apartheid regime, including in East Jerusalem. The authors describe how these inequalities impinge on the egalitarian possibilities there: they note that many Arabs in the east of Jerusalem “feel that they live under occupation” and that “Jews and Arabs in Jerusalem experience the city in very different, and unequal, ways” (86). But this raises some politically urgent questions: How do city-zens retain an egalitarian ethos amid pervasive inequalities? And how do egalitarians in the city protect everyone’s sense of a place against the inequities imposed from above?

As Wolff and de-Shalit note, cities are often politically progressive and can be engines of change in national and global politics. But this may require that city-zens, from cities embedded in deeply unequal states, to the “sanctuary cities” targeted by the Trump administration, to the cities with mounting unhoused populations, not be complacent about their egalitarian credentials. It may be that a “city of equals” can only exist in a nation of equals, and that it falls to city-zens, with a secure sense of place and a willingness to look one another in the eye, to realise both.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Main image: William Perugini on Shutterstock.

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A Mouse in a Cage: Rethinking Humanitarianism and the Rights of Lab Animals. Carrie Friese. NYU Press. 2025.

Carrie Friese’s A Mouse in a Cage: Rethinking Humanitarianism and the Rights of Lab Animals confronts one of the most persistent ethical dilemmas in contemporary science: how to reconcile the undeniable benefits of animal research with growing recognition of animal rights and autonomy. This compelling work challenges conventional approaches to laboratory animal ethics whilst proposing a radical reconceptualisation of humanitarian practice in scientific contexts. 

Friese, Associate Professor of Sociology at the London School of Economics, brings formidable expertise in medical sociology and science and technology studies to bear on this complex terrain. Her previous work on reproductive technologies and interspecies relations positions her to navigate the intricate relationships between humans, animals, and scientific institutions that define contemporary biomedical research. 

More-than-human humanitarianism 

The book’s central argument revolves around what Friese terms “more-than-human humanitarianism” – a framework that exposes the contradictory practices of care and killing, compassion and sacrifice that characterise laboratory animal research. Drawing on extensive ethnographic research conducted in animal facilities across the UK, the author demonstrates how traditional humanitarian approaches, predicated on the notion of caring for a “distant other,” perpetuate problematic forms of paternalism that obscure the agency and interconnectedness of all species involved. 

The empirical foundation of this work is based on her ethnographic immersion in British laboratory facilities that provides intimate access to the daily practices of animal technicians, researchers, and caregivers who simultaneously nurture and terminate the lives of laboratory mice and rats. These detailed observations reveal the profound emotional and ethical complexities faced by those who work most closely with laboratory animals, challenging simplistic narratives about scientific detachment and institutional indifference. 

Friese’s theoretical contribution extends beyond critique to offer substantive alternatives. Her concept of “more-than-human humanitarianism” draws on recent developments in multispecies studies and posthumanist theory while remaining grounded in the material realities of laboratory practice. This approach recognises that genuine ethical progress requires acknowledging the interconnectedness of all species and the ways human actions impact broader ecological and social systems. 

The evolution of animal welfare 

The chronological scope of the analysis encompasses the historical development of animal welfare regulations in the UK, particularly the evolution from the 1986 Animals (Scientific Procedures) Act to contemporary governance frameworks. The author traces how the famous “3Rs” principle – Replacement, Reduction, and Refinement – whilst representing genuine progress in animal welfare thinking, nonetheless preserves fundamental assumptions about human-animal hierarchies that limit their transformative potential. 

Friese examines how regulatory frameworks, professional cultures, and economic pressures combine to create what she describes as “cultures of care”. These simultaneously express genuine concern for animal welfare whilst maintaining practices that subordinate animal interests to human scientific goals. This analysis avoids both naive celebration of incremental reforms and wholesale condemnation of scientific practice. Instead, Friese identifies specific mechanisms through which ethical contradictions are sustained and reproduced. 

Complex relations with lab animals 

One of the work’s most significant contributions lies in her attention to the experiences of animal care workers themselves. Far from depicting these individuals as merely implementing institutional policies, the author reveals how they develop complex emotional relationships with laboratory animals, create informal practices of care that exceed regulatory requirements, and struggle with the ethical implications of their work. These insights humanise debates about animal research whilst highlighting how current institutional arrangements create moral injury for humans as well as animals. 

The implications of Friese’s analysis extend well beyond the laboratory. Her critique of traditional humanitarianism resonates with broader discussions about paternalism in development aid, conservation efforts, and other contexts where privileged actors claim to act on behalf of vulnerable others. The “more-than-human” framework she proposes offers valuable insights for rethinking ethical relationships across species boundaries in diverse contexts, from factory farming to wildlife conservation. 

Friese weaves together theoretical analysis, ethnographic observation, and policy critique in ways that illuminate rather than obscure the fundamental issues at stake.

The book also engages productively with existing literature on animal ethics while drawing on more recent work in critical animal studies and multispecies ethnography. The author’s synthesis of these diverse theoretical traditions creates a sophisticated analytical framework that avoids the limitations of purely philosophical approaches by remaining attentive to empirical complexities and institutional constraints. 

The writing throughout maintains scholarly rigour whilst remaining accessible to readers beyond academic specialisms. Friese weaves together theoretical analysis, ethnographic observation, and policy critique in ways that illuminate rather than obscure the fundamental issues at stake. The use of specific vignettes and case studies brings abstract ethical principles into dialogue with lived experience, creating a compelling narrative that engages both intellectual and emotional responses. 

Balancing enquiry and ethics 

The book’s concluding vision of transformed relationships between humans and laboratory animals may strike some readers as utopian, but Friese grounds her proposals in concrete examples of alternative practices already emerging within research institutions. Her ethnographic study of “the Institute,” a UK research facility notable for the extended lifespans of its experimental mice, exemplifies this grounded approach to reform. Here, Friese observed how laboratory workers navigated the fundamental tension of developing genuine care relationships with animals they must ultimately sacrifice for scientific purposes, creating “more-than-human humanitarianism.”  

The Institute’s practices – which appeared to include enrichment activities, individualized attention, and protocols that honored animal agency even within experimental constraints – demonstrate how acknowledging animal subjectivity need not abandon scientific rigor but rather can deepen human responsibility through more sophisticated emotional and practical caregiving strategies. Her emphasis on recognising animal agency whilst acknowledging human responsibility offers a nuanced alternative to both uncritical anthropomorphism and mechanistic reductionism, showing how laboratory staff can develop meaningful relationships with research animals while maintaining their commitment to biomedical advancement. 

In an era of increasing awareness about animal consciousness and environmental interconnectedness, this work offers crucial guidance for reimagining the foundations of biomedical research in ways that honour both scientific enquiry and ethical obligation.

A Mouse in a Cage is essential reading for anyone grappling with the ethics of animal research, from laboratory workers and regulatory officials to philosophers and policy makers. The book’s interdisciplinary approach makes it valuable for scholars in medical sociology, science and technology studies, animal studies, and environmental ethics. More broadly, it contributes to urgent contemporary debates about how societies should navigate the complex relationships between scientific progress, technological capability, and ethical responsibility. 

Friese’s achievement lies not merely in documenting existing contradictions but in providing conceptual tools and practical insights that point toward more ethically coherent approaches to human-animal relationships in scientific contexts. In an era of increasing awareness about animal consciousness and environmental interconnectedness, this work offers crucial guidance for reimagining the foundations of biomedical research in ways that honour both scientific enquiry and ethical obligation.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Carrie Friese will speak about the event at an LSE Research Showcase event, A mouse in a cage: how relations with laboratory animals can inform understandings of care at 11am on Tuesday 21 October. Find out more and register to attend.

Main image: Gorodenkoff on Shutterstock.

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The Ethics of Humanitarian Intervention: An Introduction. Jonathan Parry. Routledge. 2025.

What warrants humanitarian intervention?

Jonathan Parry kicks off this slim but surprisingly demanding book with a scene most of us remember: Libya, March 2011, a burning tank column outside Misrata, kids cheering as French fighter jets roar overhead. For a moment, it feels simple: bad guys stopped, civilians rescued. But Parry doesn’t let that simplicity sit for long. He shifts the focus forward to when the municipal buildings lie in ruins and rival militias carve up the power vacuum. That jolt from adrenaline to uncertainty frames the moral knot he untangles across these 180 pages. When a government turns on its own people, outside force can seem not only justified, but necessary. But as Parry reminds us, rescue never arrives without its own blast radius, political fallout, and lingering after-effects. 

Parry outlines four thresholds for possible intervention: genocide, ethnic cleansing, systematic war crimes and large-scale repression. But he makes clear that size alone doesn’t settle the case.

Parry does most of that hard thinking in what feels like a crowded but calm intellectual workshop. He brings in familiar voices: Michael Walzer’s defence of community self-determination in Just and Unjust Wars (1977),  Fabre’s view that individuals, not states, carry the real moral weight in Cosmopolitan War (2012), and Alex Bellamy’s account of how the UN’s Responsibility to Protect (2013) took shape. But Parry doesn’t take sides. Instead, he lets them argue with one another. Walzer reminds us why outsiders should hesitate before intervening. Fabre objects when hesitation becomes an excuse for doing nothing, and Bellamy steps in when theory runs into the reality of institutions and international rules. Instead of handing over a finished theory, Parry provides a set of tools for examining this issue and leaves the space open for readers to grapple with the ideas themselves. 

The book’s structure mirrors how intervention often unfolds in real life, from the first sense of urgency to the complicated aftermath. Each chapter closes with questions prompting reflection rather than conclusions, inviting readers to sit with the arguments instead of reach for definitive answers. The opening chapters explore questions of sovereignty and self-determination   and the problem of consent, asking whether it matters if approval for intervention comes from governments, rebels or ordinary people. The heart of the book lies in chapters Four and Five, which look at what really counts as a just cause for intervention, and whether these efforts work in practice. After that, Parry takes up the alternatives in more detail from the risks of backing rebel groups (Chapter Six), the use of sanctions (Chapter Seven) and the often-overlooked strategies of providing aid and offering refuge (Chapter Eight).  In his concluding chapter, Parry then circles back to the bigger question of whether intervention is ever not just allowed but morally required. 

Sovereignty and its limits 

Parry’s discussion of sovereignty is where his teaching style really shows. He acknowledges that collective self-government has value, drawing on Anna Stilz’s argument that political membership gives people basic freedom to shape their choices. But for Parry, that value depends on how a state treats its people. When a regime turns on its citizens and commits mass violence, it is the regime, not the population that loses its claim to immunity. The idea feels intuitive, but Parry lays out clearly and convincingly why sovereignty only holds when it serves the interests of real people. His next chapter on consent follows the same thread. Genuine popular backing can give intervention legitimacy, but staged referendums or invitations from embattled juntas only add farce to tragedy. The Liberia 2003 case, where West African troops finally intervened after pleas from civilians in Monrovia, gives the argument something solid to hold onto and pulls it out of abstraction. 

Thresholds for intervention 

The most striking section comes in the middle of the book where Parry explores just cause, proportionality, and effectiveness. He outlines four thresholds for possible intervention: genocide, ethnic cleansing, systematic war crimes and large-scale repression. But he makes clear that size alone doesn’t settle the case; we must look at patterns, intentions, and what is likely to come next, he argues. The genocide in Bosnia (1992 to 1995) qualifies but shows how late action still leaves moral costs. Rwanda (1994) shows how speed, not just legal clarity, might have saved lives. Darfur (2003 to 2005) warns what happens when bold statements aren’t backed by capacity. These examples probe whether moral theory can stand up to what history throws at it. 

While quantitative data can guide us, it is limited, and no chart can account for the weight of making moral choices when lives are at stake.

Parry treats effectiveness not as something we judge after the action, but as something we must consider before it begins. Using case studies from Libya, Iraq and the former Yugoslavia, he explains that airstrikes carried out from a distance often lead to more civilian deaths than missions that also include on-the-ground peacekeeping and rebuilding efforts. But while quantitative data can guide us, it is limited, and no chart can account for the weight of making moral choices when lives are at stake. Helping rebel groups can shift the balance but may also make wars last longer. Parry uses examples such as Libya and the former Yugoslavia to show that outside support to rebel factions resulted in escalated violence and drawn-out wars, sometimes worsening conditions for civilians rather than ending them quickly. 

Sanctions might pressure governments, but they often hurt ordinary people the most. Sanctions on Iraq (1990s) led to devastating humanitarian consequences for civilians, contributing to malnutrition, lack of medicine, and increased mortality. Recent sanctions against regimes like Iran, North Korea, and Russia have demonstrated that leaders can bypass restrictions, but ordinary citizens pay the highest personal price in reduced living standards and access to essentials. As case studies from Bosnia and Syria show, safe zones and aid routes can save lives, but sometimes leave countries emptied of the people they need to recover. 

Centring human lives 

Parry’s writing succeeds in centring human lives throughout. He uses technical terms sparingly, and when a phrase like “reasonable prospect of success” does show up, it’s quickly grounded in real-life examples instead of abstract language. At times, there’s even a flicker of humour, though Parry is careful never to make light of the suffering. At one point, he compares states with unclear motives for intervention to gangsters who save someone to boost their own image The reflection questions at the end of the chapters push readers to examine the core ideas rather than just absorb them. 

The book does have certain key absences. African Union missions are mentioned only briefly, and private military contractors stay mostly outside the discussion. Those looking for detailed proposals like Security Council reform or international courts won’t find them here. Even something as practical as a note on casualty data is missing, and the growing link between climate disasters and state responsibility is touched on only lightly. But these omissions seem deliberate. The Ethics of Humanitarian Intervention doesn’t hand down verdicts, but opens space for careful moral argument to take shape. Philosophy and political theory students will find it a solid starting point, and researchers in ethics, international relations, or conflict studies will see how its questions stretch into deeper work. For policymakers, it outlines the moral stakes behind decisions usually framed in technical language. What lingers most is its insistence on patience and on balancing moral urgency with thoughtful comparison before action begins. I left the book with more questions than I expected: Who is accountable when humanitarian coalitions fail to deliver? What remains when the cameras leave? Parry offers no final answers, but he makes it harder to ignore the questions that matter.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Main image: Mosul, Iraq, March 2006. Source: Picryl.com

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Moral Ambition: Stop Wasting Your Talent and Start Making a Difference. Rutger Bregman. Bloomsbury. 2025.

The world is plagued with existential problems, and yet the brightest minds of our generation are not working to solve them, claims acclaimed Dutch historian Rutger Bregman. Instead, argues the author of Humankind (2019) and Utopia for Realists (2014), they are stuck in “mind-numbing, pointless, or just plain harmful jobs” (3). They are either building personal wealth through pointless corporate careers or solving problems that no one knew we had (like a subscription service for electric toothbrush heads). Bregman is very explicit about the book’s target audience: talented young people in careers that do not address the major challenges faced by our world, be it climate change or the next pandemic. He wants people to feel uncomfortable for choosing these “bullshit jobs” that are neither ambitious nor idealistic.  

Action over words

“Moral ambition”, according to the author, is “a will to make the world a wildly better place” (3). Bregman spends most of the book setting out practical ways to increase one’s “moral ambition” and lower the threshold for taking action. He begins by considering what makes people do altruistic or self-sacrificial acts. Turns out, it has less to do with being a good person and more to do with “who you can become” (39). We become good people by doing good things.  

His understanding of impact at times remains individualistic, dismissing the vast array of jobs that are either necessary or help to create the type of society that we want to live in.

Bregman critiques ineffective efforts that do not lead to attaining change. Winning, he claims, should be a moral duty of any changemaker. His critique of good intentions and “awareness raising” is perhaps the most interesting and conceptually strongest moment in the book. Awareness doesn’t change anything, claims Bregman, and we’d be better off spending our time helping others. While words we use to describe the world matter, says the author, “going viral isn’t the same as winning a majority in the legislature” (13). 

Here he also critiques progressive activists for failing to build movements due to moral purism. He argues that such unwillingness to include differing perspectives often leads to factionalism, and siloed factions then fail to gain popular momentum. They excuse themselves from responsibility to attain real change by blaming “the system”. Other ambitious people, he notes, fall into a belief-behaviour gap: they know that something is harmful (eg, eating meat) but do it anyway. Politics for these types is a “part-time” activity: political hobbyism with no impact (68). 

An individualistic approach to change

Bregman is critical of small change that lacks ambition, “as if achieving little is somewhat a virtue” (12). While he recognises that change is a team sport, his understanding of impact at times remains individualistic, dismissing the vast array of jobs that are either necessary or help to create the type of society that we want to live in. This perspective risks warping our understanding of “doing good” and of ethics itself by focusing on global high-impact careers only, such as scientists developing vaccines or lawyers campaigning for the legislative change. His argument overlooks essential roles that, while not solving major global threats, are vital to hold societies together, such as carers, policemen, nurses, and so on. The indirect implication of Bregman’s argument is that those professions may lack ambition or idealism and thus are not as impactful. 

For instance, the crumbling adult social care system is one of the major risks on UK’s National Risk Register, partly due to staffing and remuneration issues. The breakdown of the system could lead not only to massive suffering, but also wider disintegration of society. Taking up a role in the sector to attain systemic transformation can be as morally ambitious as any “high-impact” job, even if it doesn’t solve one of the existential problems, such as the climate crisis or an unfair tax system. And a talented manager in a care home, through experience, can become an effective advocate for legislative change.

North-South imbalances and effective altruism

In other cases, joining a new cause as a former banker or a management consultant from the Global North is not politically neutral. Bregman mentions humility as one of five components of moral ambition, yet he makes no further note of the power dynamics that young, privileged people introduce by joining sectors that have long colonial legacies. For instance, the international development and charity sectors in the UK and US are already full of middle-class staff led by white saviourism. Calls to decolonise and initiatives such as Charity So White highlight the political economy of the sector: we need more funding for locally led solutions, not more ambitious people from the Global North. While being an outsider can help notice new and unconventional strategies to attain change, they also risk reproducing unproductive postcolonial power dynamics that the international development sector hopes to shed.

Conceptually, Bregman’s argument is close to one made by theorists aligned with the effective altruism (EA) movement, such as Toby Ord or William MacAskill. Bregman is ambivalent about the EA movement: on one hand, he “already lost interest” (158) due to its obsession with quantification, and “moral greed”, guilt of not doing enough. Yet he is more positive about the enthusiasm of the movement’s members, and openness to self-criticism, qualities he sees as necessary to having “moral ambition”. 

The movement that Bregman is creating recognises how closely the question of doing good is linked to the question of who has power.

So how does “moral ambition” compare to the EA movement? It is not entirely clear from the text, though Bregman does not position his movement in direct competition with EA. Arguably, the movement that Bregman is creating recognises how closely the question of doing good is linked to the question of who has power. Bregman is more focused on addressing socio-economic inequalities as a root issue of many existential problems. He also acknowledges that life is not only about maximising impact or creating legacy, but also about living, learning, and seeking. 

Productive discomfort

Rutger admits that: this book is supposed to be uncomfortable, to cause friction, not unlike his provocations in Davos or the well-heeled streets in the City of London, where he directly confronts the rich and powerful. Bregman pragmatically asks readers to use the book “to whip yourself into shape” (224) rather than as a weapon to attack him or others. Even if his argument is imperfect, it adds to efforts to achieve generational change. And the search for moral purity – in life or in this book – is counterproductive and does not lead to “winning”.  

[Provoking the] discomfort that leads to action was Bregman’s goal, and it worked.

As someone who owns a supposedly ethical electric toothbrush (the same toothbrush that gets mentioned twice in the book as a false measure of “doing good”) and holds a PhD in international ethics, the book made me take an honest look at the real impact I make. Academic careers can advance fields of knowledge, but they can also create a false sense of impact. Standing at a distance from the EA movement due to some of its methodologies and value commitments, I have been reluctant to quantify the impact I make through my career. I have also been reluctant to face the uncomfortable reality that I could, indeed, do more. This discomfort that leads to action was Bregman’s goal, and it worked. I hope it does for other readers too.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Main Image Credit: I. Noyan Yilmaz on Shutterstock.

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On Truth in Politics: Why Democracy Demands It. Michael Patrick Lynch. Princeton University Press. 2025.

What is truth? Is it a fixed idea of knowledge available to all individuals? Is truth objective, or is it socially constructed? Is it necessary to democratic politics? In the recent monograph On Truth in Politics: Why Democracy Demands It (2025), American philosopher Michael Patrick Lynch considers these lofty questions and attempts to define and rehabilitate the concept of truth in modern political philosophy. 

The book arrives at a critical juncture in modern American history. Since the election of a convicted felon for a second term in office, President Trump has exploited the power of the presidency to extinguish truth for the purpose of expanding executive power in a bid to replace the republic with an authoritarian regime by deceitfully casting the 6 January 2021 insurrectionists as victims of state power rather than violent insurrectionists with the aim of overturning the 2020 presidential election, smearing judges who rule against the administration as “crooked” or “radical left lunatic(s)”, perniciously depicting all undocumented immigrants as criminals and fabricating the existence of a riot in Los Angeles to stifle dissent with heavy-handed Immigration and Custom Enforcement (ICE) raids on immigrants in the city. 

Dewey’s pragmatism versus today’s partisanship 

The author begins by lauding the eminent American philosopher John Dewey as the founding champion of truth in politics and endorses his philosophical paradigm of “pragmatism” – whereby humanistic, scientific and creative education…should be the central goal of any democracy” (xii, 14). An “epistemic infrastructure” in which stated political premises and judgements receive a thorough vetting for accuracy and cogency now seems remote and even quaint. Today, political partisans project views on social media in line with their respective political tribes or, quite often, take views in opposition to another political faction, with little regard for truth or accuracy. According to Lynch, “Twitbookians” neither “speak truth to power” nor “exercise their epistemic agency” (16-17). Rather than considering all ascertainable facts and perspectives, Twitbookians viscerally bolster their causes without accountability to facts or the often-subtle complexities of truth.  

Making sensationalist and unnuanced political judgments that demonise political opponents to win influence and followers through social media has become the norm.

In Chapter Two “The Many Uses of Political Judgment” and Chapter Three “Can Truth Be a Democratic Value”, Lynch defines political truth as “a constitutive norm of belief” and posits that “only beliefs are governed by truth” (37, 41). Yet, making sensationalist and unnuanced political judgments that demonise political opponents to win influence and followers through social media has become the norm. When politics devolves to a base level guided by passion, resentment and false dichotomies, democracy wanes. Where, then, is truth, and can or should it have a functional role in politics? 

Plato, Rawls and Arendt on the meaning of truth 

After briefly discussing and dismissing the ancient Greek view of Plato that “’ those who know should rule,’” Lynch resurrects the oft-debated, somewhat opaque writings of twentieth-century political philosopher John Rawls (especially his 1971 volume A Theory of Justice). For Rawls, a standard of “reasonableness” of thought and judgment should guide politics rather than truth per se. Yet, is acknowledging truth not a constitutive element of “reasonableness”? Lynch argues that it is, and he also rejects the dichotomy of factual and rational truth as espoused by Hannah Arendt – the author of seminal study The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951). Under the subheading “Truth as a Democratic Value”, the author frames the question as being “whether societies engaging in democratic politics have a reason…to encourage and promote believing what’s true as such” (66-78). 

Theories of truth from Habermas to Rorty 

In response to the “consensus theory of truth” developed by German social theorist Jurgen Habermas, Lynch questions the relationship of consensus to both truth and politics and again endorses the philosophical pragmatist approach by quoting Charles Sanders Peirce (1839-1914) in his assertion “The point is that true opinions are those that would survive the fires of experience.” (112-119). Hence, measurable realities eclipse theory in defining and ultimately arriving at truth.  

 How can a democratic society prevent one party from wilfully denying or suppressing truth to take and maintain power?

In Chapter Five “Truth as Normative: From Quietism to Pluralism” and Chapter Six “Political Truth as Concordance,” Lynch refutes the notion that truth neither possesses a functional value nor a role in political theory – as maintained by pragmatist philosopher Richard Rorty and metaphysical “deflationists” and “quietists” by asserting that truth significantly factors into both norms and beliefs. In engaging in critical thought to arrive at a correct belief or a “good” for society, truth cannot be absent in any political, intellectual equation. (129-140). For a political proposition to achieve validity, it should be expected to attain “supercoherence” and ultimately “concordance” with related logical ideas, experiences and evidence both inside and outside the realm of politics. By comparison to the often non-cogent diatribes of Twitbookians, democratic politics requires a structured, measurable and rational discourse with rigorous standards (170-184). Ultimately, Lynch condemns “intellectual arrogance,” asks for a return to humility to thwart/end “epistemic corruption” and to consider the merits of his truth-infused pragmatism as a model for democratic politics (203-208). 

Defending the case for truth in democracy 

As the US now straddles the line between democracy and autocracy (as argued by former President Barack Obama), Lynch has provided a timely and thoughtful re-examination of the role of truth as a vital component in democratic practice. Hopefully, it will spark a debate on overdue repairs to the intellectual architecture of American politics. His admirable study, however, seems to raise an even larger question. How can a democratic society prevent one party from wilfully denying or suppressing truth to take and maintain power? And if a political faction can wilfully dissolve truth, should this not also reignite debate on the instrumental role of ethics in government? 

In his landmark work After Virtue (1981), the late Scottish-American philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre decried the emergence of “value neutrality” and moral relativism devoid of a shared vision of “the good” – and declared a “new dark ages [were] already upon us.” As many of the core ethical and political principles of democratic society (from tolerance of dissent to government accountability) are flagrantly flouted under Trump’s presidency, history appears to have proved MacIntyre right, and the survival of both truth and democracy in the US now hangs in the balance.

Note: This review gives the views of the author and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Main Image Credit: SvetaZi on Shutterstock.

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