Months after launching the revolution that sparked the Arab Spring, Tunisians are finally getting a shot at democracy in Sunday's vote
Supporters of Tunisia's PDP hold up Tunisian flags during an election campaign meeting in Tunis / Reuters
This Sunday, October 23, Tunisians will go to the polls to elect a 217 person constituent assembly that will be tasked with writing a new constitution for the country within a year. Just as Tunisia led the Arab world in overthrowing its dictator, it continues to lead in moving toward a new political system. While Tunisians feel justifiably proud in their political progress, there is nevertheless considerable tension and pessimism in the lead-up to this symbolic election.
On one level, people simply feel overwhelmed by the process. With some hundred political parties and 1500 electoral lists competing for attention, voters don't know who to vote for and feel unsure of the issues. There remains a deep distrust of government. Polls show that at this late stage, half the voters are still undecided.
Recent protests also reveal the tensions between secularists and Islamists that have in many ways dominated the campaign season. Last weekend, demonstrators gathered in the town of Sousse to protest a decision by the Ministry of Education to ban students from wearing the face-covering niqab. The next day in Tunis, protesters marched on the Nessma Television offices in outrage against the showing of the animated film Persepolis, the story of a young girl coming of age against the backdrop of Iran's Islamic revolution. The film insulted Muslims across the political spectrum, not only because it features a depiction of God, but also because it portrays the main character railing against God during a crisis of faith. The film aired previously in 2007 (when it also drew attacks from Islamists), but this time it was dubbed in Arabic instead of French, and thus was watched in circles beyond the educated elite. Only one well-known party supported the screening of the film on the basis of free speech.
Recent polls show that while a coalition of center-left parties could emerge from the elections with a sizeable share of the vote, there is also strong support (between 20 and 25 percent) for the main Islamist party Al Nahda led by Rachid Ghannouchi. He has promised that his party will preserve religious freedom, and the rights of women and minorities. However, liberals in Tunisia and their supporters abroad warn that Ghannouchi is playing a double game. They contend that his "liberal makeover" is simply a tactic to appeal to moderates and gain votes. The party's apparent flip-flopping on sensitive issues, like whether they will push for making polygamy legal, underscores general uncertainty about their intentions.
Headlines in the Tunisian press reveal a great deal of concern about security at voting stations and about the legitimacy of the tabulation of results. Ghannouchi told Al Jazeera that his party was prepared to "overthrow ten governments" if the results of the election are manipulated. Voter registration efforts have been haphazard, and currently only half of potential voters are even registered. Campaigning, which started October 1, has been vigorous as the many political parties attempt to educate and then persuade voters to support their platforms. Complicating this effort is a ban on advertising that the major liberal party, the Progressive Democratic Party (PDP), claims is playing into Islamist hands as they are able to disseminate their messages in mosques and through their strong social networks.
While the Islamic character of Tunisian society will be more visible in the new constituent assembly, the country's long experience as a secular state will not disappear overnight. The appropriate role of religion in society and law will continue to be contested, and will undoubtedly emerge as a divisive issue in the writing of the new constitution. But that's politics.
This article originally appeared at CFR.org, an Atlantic partner site.
Isobel Coleman is the Senior Fellow and Director of the Civil Society, Markets, and Democracy Initiative and Director of the Women and Foreign Policy Program at Council on Foreign Relations. She writes at "Democracy in Development."
The Islamic State is no mere collection of psychopaths. It is a religious group with carefully considered beliefs, among them that it is a key agent of the coming apocalypse. Here’s what that means for its strategy—and for how to stop it.
What is the Islamic State?
Where did it come from, and what are its intentions? The simplicity of these questions can be deceiving, and few Western leaders seem to know the answers. In December, The New York Times published confidential comments by Major General Michael K. Nagata, the Special Operations commander for the United States in the Middle East, admitting that he had hardly begun figuring out the Islamic State’s appeal. “We have not defeated the idea,” he said. “We do not even understand the idea.” In the past year, President Obama has referred to the Islamic State, variously, as “not Islamic” and as al-Qaeda’s “jayvee team,” statements that reflected confusion about the group, and may have contributed to significant strategic errors.
I spent a year in Tromsø, Norway, where the “Polar Night” lasts all winter—and where rates of seasonal depression are remarkably low. Here’s what I learned about happiness and the wintertime blues.
Located over 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle, Tromsø, Norway, is home to extreme light variation between seasons. During the Polar Night, which lasts from November to January, the sun doesn’t rise at all. Then the days get progressively longer until the Midnight Sun period, from May to July, when it never sets. After the midnight sun, the days get shorter and shorter again until the Polar Night, and the yearly cycle repeats.
So, perhaps understandably, many people had a hard time relating when I told them I was moving there.
“I could never live there,” was the most common response I heard. “That winter would make me so depressed,” many added, or “I just get so tired when it’s dark out.”
But the Polar Night was what drew me to Tromsø in the first place.
A day after default, there's no deal in sight—and Greece’s defiant prime minister says Sunday's referendum will still happen.
July 1, 2015 11:01 a.m.
The referendum will go on, says Greece’s Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras. Yesterday, there was doubt about whether Sunday’s referendum—where Greeks would decide whether to accept its creditors conditions—would still happen. If Greece had managed to secure a third bailout, or an extension from the IMF, there would theoretically be no need for the referendum.
Neither of those two things happened, and Tsipras addressed the nation on Greek television an hour ago to confirm that the referendum will take place. He’s also not backing down from his original position, strongly urging Greeks to vote “no.” Tsipras has since tweeted 18 updates on his position, including this: “You're being blackmailed & urged to vote Yes to all of institutions' measures without any solution to exiting the crisis.”
For centuries, experts have predicted that machines would make workers obsolete. That moment may finally be arriving. Could that be a good thing?
1. Youngstown, U.S.A.
The end of work is still just a futuristic concept for most of the United States, but it is something like a moment in history for Youngstown, Ohio, one its residents can cite with precision: September 19, 1977.
For much of the 20th century, Youngstown’s steel mills delivered such great prosperity that the city was a model of the American dream, boasting a median income and a homeownership rate that were among the nation’s highest. But as manufacturing shifted abroad after World War II, Youngstown steel suffered, and on that gray September afternoon in 1977, Youngstown Sheet and Tube announced the shuttering of its Campbell Works mill. Within five years, the city lost 50,000 jobs and $1.3 billion in manufacturing wages. The effect was so severe that a term was coined to describe the fallout: regional depression.
The social network learns more about its users than they might realize.
Facebook, you may have noticed, turned into a rainbow-drenched spectacle following the Supreme Court’s decision Friday that same-sex marriage is a Constitutional right.
By overlaying their profile photos with a rainbow filter, Facebook users began celebrating in a way we haven't seen since March 2013, when 3 million peoplechanged their profile images to a red equals sign—the logo of the Human Rights Campaign—as a way to support marriage equality. This time, Facebook provided a simple way to turn profile photos rainbow-colored. More than 1 million people changed their profile in the first few hours, according to the Facebook spokesperson William Nevius, and the number continues to grow.
“This is probably a Facebook experiment!” joked the MIT network scientist Cesar Hidalgo on Facebook yesterday. “This is one Facebook study I want to be included in!” wrote Stacy Blasiola, a communications Ph.D. candidate at the University of Illinois, when she changed her profile.
People labeled “smart” at a young age don’t deal well with being wrong. Life grows stagnant.
At whatever agesmart people develop the idea that they are smart, they also tend to develop vulnerability around relinquishing that label. So the difference between telling a kid “You did a great job” and “You are smart” isn’t subtle. That is, at least, according to one growing movement in education and parenting that advocates for retirement of “the S word.”
The idea is that when we praise kids for being smart, those kids think: Oh good, I'm smart. And then later, when those kids mess up, which they will, they think: Oh no, I'm not smart after all. People will think I’m not smart after all. And that’s the worst. That’s a risk to avoid, they learn.“Smart” kids stand to become especially averse to making mistakes, which are critical to learning and succeeding.
In 1908, photographer Lewis Hine traveled across the U.S. to document child laborers and their workplaces. His portraits were used by reformers to drive legislation that would protect young workers or prohibit their employment.
At the start of the 20th century, labor in America was in short supply, and laws concerning the employment of children were rarely enforced or nonexistent. While Americans at the time supported the role of children working on family farms, there was little awareness of the other forms of labor being undertaken by young hands. In 1908, photographer Lewis Hine was employed by the newly-founded National Child Labor Committee (NCLC) to document child laborers and their workplaces nationwide. His well-made portraits of young miners, mill workers, cotton pickers, cigar rollers, newsboys, pin boys, oyster shuckers, and factory workers put faces on the issue, and were used by reformers to raise awareness and drive legislation that would protect young workers or prohibit their employment. After several stalled attempts in congress, the NCLC-backed Fair Labor Standards Act passed in 1938 with child labor provisions that remain the law of the land today, barring the employment of anyone under the age of 16.
The untold story of the improbable campaign that finally tipped the U.S. Supreme Court.
On May 18, 1970, Jack Baker and Michael McConnell walked into a courthouse in Minneapolis, paid $10, and applied for a marriage license. The county clerk, Gerald Nelson, refused to give it to them. Obviously, he told them, marriage was for people of the opposite sex; it was silly to think otherwise.
Baker, a law student, didn’t agree. He and McConnell, a librarian, had met at a Halloween party in Oklahoma in 1966, shortly after Baker was pushed out of the Air Force for his sexuality. From the beginning, the men were committed to one another. In 1967, Baker proposed that they move in together. McConnell replied that he wanted to get married—really, legally married. The idea struck even Baker as odd at first, but he promised to find a way and decided to go to law school to figure it out.
The question is at the center of the Greek crisis.
In 1961, the economist Robert Mundell published a paper laying out, per the title, “A Theory of Optimum Currency Areas.” In it, he inquired about the appropriate geographic extent of a shared unit of money. Was it the world? A country? Part of a country? A border-spanning region of, say, the western parts of the United States and Canada, with a separate currency circulating in the eastern parts of the two countries?
“It might seem at first that the question is purely academic,” he wrote, “since it hardly seems within the realm of political feasibility that national currencies would ever be abandoned in favor of any other arrangement.” But it was worth considering anyway, in part because “certain parts of the world are undergoing processes of economic integration and disintegration,” and an idea of what an “optimum currency area” would look like could help “clarify the meaning of these experiments.”
Was the Concorde a triumph of modern engineering, a metaphor for misplaced 20th-century values, or both?
The box sat untouched in his bottom desk drawer. For weeks we discussed opening it, and one January morning he was ready. I set the box on his white bedsheets and removed the stack of passports, which could have belonged to a family with dual citizenship. But all nine—from 1956 to a valid update issued in 2014—belong to my 89-year-old grandfather.
Lying in bed, he unfolded a stamp-covered page like an accordion and held it open above his chest. “Oh my,” he kept repeating. He paused, and pointed.
London. March 22, 1976. My then-50-year-old grandfather, Raymond Pearlson, the inventor ofSyncrolift, was traveling the world selling his shiplift system. Concorde had launched commercially that January. He knew exactly what this stamp represented: Washington Dulles to London Heathrow in 3.5 hours—the first of at least 150 supersonic flights he took on the legendary aircraft.