Norway's gentler criminal system uses something called "restorative justice," which appears to be potentially better at reducing crime than our own, but at a real cost.
Anders Breivik waits in his Oslo courtroom. (AP)
As an American, or maybe just as a moral human being, it's hard not to feel appalled, even outraged, that Norwegian far-right monster Anders Breivik only received 21 years in prison for his attacks last year, including a bombing in Oslo and a cold-blooded shooting spree, which claimed 77 lives. That's just under 100 days per murder. The decision, reached by the court's five-member panel, was unanimous. He will serve out his years (which can be extended) in a three-room cell with a TV, exercise room, and "Ikea-style furniture." The New York Timesquoted a handful of survivors and victims' relatives expressing relief and satisfaction at the verdict. It's not a scientific survey, but it's still jarring to see Norwegians welcoming this light sentence.
Norway's criminal justice system is, obviously, quite distinct from that of, say, the U.S.; 21 years is the maximum sentence for anything less severe than war crimes or genocide. Still, it's more than that: the entire philosophy underpinning their system is radically different. I don't have an answer for which is better. I doubt anyone does. But Americans' shocked response to the Breivik sentence hints at not just how different the two systems are, but how deeply we may have come to internalize our understanding of justice, which, whatever its merits, doesn't seem to be as universally applied as we might think.
The American justice system, like most of those in at least the Western world, is built on an idea called retributive justice. In very simplified terms (sorry, I'm not a legal scholar), it defines justice as appropriately punishing someone for an act that's harmful to society. Our system does include other ideas: incapacitating a criminal from committing other crimes, rehabilitating criminals to rejoin society, and deterring other potential criminals. At its foundation, though, retributive justice is about enforcing both rule of law and more abstract ideas of fairness and morality. Crimes are measured by their damage to society, and it's society that, working through the court system, metes out in-turn punishment. Justice is treated as valuable and important in itself, not just for its deterrence or incapacitative effects. In a retributive system, the punishment fits the crime, and 21 years in a three-room cell doesn't come close to fitting Breivik's 77 premeditated murders.
Norway doesn't work that way. Although Breivik will likely be in prison permanently -- his sentence can be extended -- 21 years really is the norm even for very violent crimes. The much-studied Norwegian system is built on something called restorative justice. Proponents of this system might argue that it emphasizes healing: for the victims, for the society, and, yes, for the criminal him or herself. Sounds straightforward enough, but you might notice that there's nothing in there about necessarily punishing the criminal, and in fact even takes his or her needs into account.
"Restorative justice thus begins with a concern for victims and how to meet their needs, for repairing the harm as much as possible, both concretely and symbolically," explains a 1997 academic article, by a scholar of restorative justice named Howard Zehr, extolling the systems' virtues. In the Breivik trial, this meant giving every victim (survivors as well as the families of those killed) a direct voice. Victims were individually represented by 174 court-appointed lawyers. The court heard 77 autopsy reports, 77 descriptions of how Breivik had killed them, and 77 minute-long biographies "voicing his or her unfulfilled ambitions and dreams." In an American-style retributive system, the trial is primarily about hearing and evaluating the case against the criminal. Norway does this too, but it also includes this restorative tool of giving space to victims, not as evidence, but to make the trial a forum for those victims to heal and to confront the man who'd harmed them. The trial itself is about more than just proving or disproving guilt, but about exorcising the victims' suffering.
What about the criminal? Of course, Norway is locking Breivik away in part to keep him safely cordoned off from society. Beyond that, the restorative "model encourages offenders to understand the consequences of their actions or to empathize with victims," Zehr explains. That begins with the trial, where he or she is encouraged to grapple with the wrongness of their actions; Breivik gave no sign of doing this, a remorseless, fist-pumping neo-Nazi to the very end. The process continues during the incarceration, which is treated less as a form of punishment than as a sort of state-imposed rehabilitation. It's not a categorial difference from the American model, which includes a number of rehab and therapeutic offerings, but, with Breivik about to enjoy some not insignificant creature comforts in his three-room cell, the emphasis is clearly distinct.
The pleasant-sounding experience of being in Norwegian prison isn't some sign of Scandinavian weakness or naïveté; it's precisely the point. A comfortable cell, clean and relaxing environment, and nice daily activities such as cooking classes are all meant to prepare the criminal for potentially difficult or painful internal reformation. Incarceration, in this thinking, is the treatment for whatever social or psychological disease led them to transgress. The criminals are not primarily wrongdoers to be punished, but broken people to be fixed.
In an ideal restorative trial, the criminal will not just be passively punished for his or her crime, but actively take "responsibility for making things right with victims and the community as far as possible," as Zehr puts it. This "restitution" can include "money and services, to victims and the community." But that's just an ideal, and Zehr acknowledges that "society rarely achieves justice that is fully restorative." It's hard to imagine Breivik ever getting to this point (experts expect his sentence to be extended indefinitely), though others do, and he will be joining a prison system designed for those to-be-reformed.
Here's the tough thing about restorative justice: it works, as long as you don't consider retribution to be its own inherent good. Despite the lighter sentences, restorative justice systems seem to reduce crime, reduce the cost of imprisoning criminals, and reduce recidivism. There's no comparative data on which system better satisfies victims, but survivors and family members at the Breivik trial, at least, spent days of court time listening to, crying over, and applauding one another's stories. And this approach isn't just for well-off Scandinavian societies; Saudi Arabia has claimed considerable success applying the restorative models to terrorists and violent extremists.
But, even if we accept all of the data suggesting that society as a whole is better off under a Norwegian-style restorative model, those numbers don't account for the more abstract, difficult-to-define sense of justice as its own inherent good. Whatever you feel when you read about a criminal going free, see a wrongdoer get away with it, or hear that a mass murderer got sentenced to only 21 years, those emotions might be rooted in a basic human need for justice and fairness. A 2003 Princeton psychological study, for example, isolated a feeling of "moral outrage felt by those who witness transgressions." A German study from last year found that people who believe they've witnessed injustice become less happy, as if living in a just society were an intrinsic emotional need.
Norwegian-style restorative justice subverts those human desires for justice and fairness, which does seem to have found success in reducing crime's cost to society. Proponents, such as University of Oslo professor Thomas Mathiesen, say it's better for society overall because it isn't about "revenge, but sober, dignified treatment." But is the retributive-style need for justice and fairness really only about "revenge," or is it something more important than that? The retributive approach absolutely has its pitfalls -- the American system's heavy emphasis on punishment has a history of leading it to horrific excess and abuse -- but at least it's meant to be just. I don't know how you balance that against the overall social good, which Norway's gentler system seems to have found success in promoting, but the vastly different philosophies undergirding the two systems are a reminder that, even if right and wrong are universal, how society treats them is not.
Outrage over the vice president's approach to marriage reveals how deeply gender divides American culture.
The Washington Post ran a profile of Karen Pence, the wife of Vice President Mike Pence, on Wednesday. The piece talks about the closeness of the Pences’ relationship, and cites something Pence told The Hill in 2002: Unless his wife is there, he never eats alone with another woman or attends an event where alcohol is being served. (It’s unclear whether, 15 years later, this remains Pence’s practice.) It’s not in the Post piece, but here’s the original quote from 2002: “‘If there's alcohol being served and people are being loose, I want to have the best-looking brunette in the room standing next to me,’ Pence said.”
Some folks—mostly journalists and entertainers on Twitter—have reacted with surprise, anger, and sarcasm to the Pence family rule. Socially liberal or non-religious people may see Pence’s practice as misogynistic or bizarre. For a lot of conservative religious people, though, this set-up probably sounds normal, or even wise. The dust-up shows how radically notions of gender divide American culture.
The vice president—and other powerful men—regularly avoid one-on-one meetings with women in the name of protecting their families. In the end, what suffers is women’s progress.
In a recent, in-depth Washington Post profile of Karen Pence, Vice President Mike Pence’s wife, a small detail is drawing most of the attention: “In 2002, Mike Pence told The Hill that he never eats alone with a woman other than his wife and that he won’t attend events featuring alcohol without her by his side, either.”
In context, this choice is not especially surprising. The Pences are evangelical Christians, and their faith animates both their policy views and how they express devotion to one another. Eight months into their courtship, the Post reporter Ashley Parker writes, “Karen engraved a small gold cross with the word ‘Yes’ and slipped it into her purse to give him when he popped the question.”
A new report says that Devin Nunes’s bombshell claim of spying on the Trump team came from the Trump administration itself.
For more than a week, House Intelligence Committee Chairman Devin Nunes has provided the hottest topic for speculation in Washington: Where did he receive mysterious reports that suggested intelligence surveillance of Trump transition team officials?
Now, there appears to be an answer, courtesy of The New York Times: a pair of officials in the Trump White House. The paper reports:
Several current American officials identified the White House officials as Ezra Cohen-Watnick, the senior director for intelligence at the National Security Council, and Michael Ellis, a lawyer who works on national security issues at the White House Counsel’s Office and formerly worked on the staff of the House Intelligence Committee.
On Thursday, the president appeared to suggest that members of the conservative hardline group in Congress should face primary challenges if they defy him.
Donald Trump is escalating his attacks on hardline conservatives in Congress in for a fight that could deepen the rifts within the Republican Party that already threaten to hobble the president’s agenda.
On Thursday, Trump tweeted: “The Freedom Caucus will hurt the entire Republican agenda if they don’t get on the team, & fast.” He added: “We must fight them, & Dems, in 2018!”
It is highly unusual for a president to publicly call for a fight against members of his own party. The president has not yet said he would support any primary challenges to members of the House Freedom Caucus in the upcoming midterm elections. But if nothing else, the incident signals that the so-called GOP “civil war” is far from over, even if Trump’s election did hand the Republican Party control of Congress and the White House.
Republican voters elected legislators on the basis of their refusal to compromise and a president who promised to cut deals. It’s no wonder they’re having trouble governing.
Do populist Republicans want a federal government where politicians stand on principle and refuse to compromise? Or do they want a pragmatist to make fabulous deals?
The intra-Republican conflict highlighted by last week’s failure to repeal or replace Obamacare is usefully understood as a consequence of confusion on those questions. Elected officials associated with the Tea Party, or the House Freedom Caucus, believe that they were sent to Washington, D.C., to replace sell-outs who compromised themselves by seeking earmarks for their constituents, buckling to establishment whips, or horse-trading with the Democrats.
Yet many populist entertainers, like Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity, who fancied themselves champions of the Tea Party’s no-compromise ethos, morphed, during Election 2016, into cheerleaders for a different kind of populist—Donald Trump—who pointedly declared that he was seeking the nomination of the Republican Party, not the conservative party, and regularly boasted during the campaign that he should be elected in large part because of his prowess as a dealmaker. Forget principle—the art of the deal was the way to make America great again.
Under the right circumstances, choosing to spend time alone can be a huge psychological boon.
In the ’80s, the Italian journalist and author Tiziano Terzani, after many years of reporting across Asia, holed himself up in a cabin in Ibaraki Prefecture, Japan. “For a month I had no one to talk to except my dog Baoli,” he wrote in his travelogue A Fortune Teller Told Me. Terzani passed the time with books, observing nature, “listening to the winds in the trees, watching butterflies, enjoying silence.” For the first time in a long while he felt free from the incessant anxieties of daily life: “At last I had time to have time.”
But Terzani’s embrace of seclusion was relatively unusual: Humans have long stigmatized solitude. It has been considered an inconvenience, something to avoid, a punishment, a realm of loners. Science has often aligned it with negative outcomes. Freud, who linked solitude with anxiety, noted that, “in children the first phobias relating to situations are those of darkness and solitude.” John Cacioppo, a modern social neuroscientist who has extensively studied loneliness—what he calls “chronic perceived isolation”—contends that, beyond damaging our thinking powers, isolation can even harm our physical health. But increasingly scientists are approaching solitude as something that, when pursued by choice, can prove therapeutic.
If Republicans want to confirm President Trump’s nominee to the Supreme Court, they’ll likely have to change the rules and invoke the Senate’s “nuclear option.”
There’s an easy way and a hard way for the Senate to confirm Judge Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court, and it appears Democrats are going to make Republicans do it the hard way.
That Gorsuch would ultimately take the late Justice Antonin Scalia’s seat on the high court has scarcely been in doubt in the weeks since President Trump nominated him 11 days after he took office. A well-regarded judge on the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals in Colorado, Gorsuch has a legal resumé tailor-made for the Supreme Court, he’s won nearly universal praise from conservatives, and he emerged from his confirmation hearings with his reputation largely intact.
The only question has been whether Gorsuch would win the eight Democratic votes necessary to reach 60 and defeat a filibuster, or whether Democratic resistance would force Republicans to change Senate rules, invoke what’s known in Washington as “the nuclear option,” and confirm Gorsuch with a simple majority of 51 votes. Statements of opposition haveflooded in from Democrats this week, making the answer clearer every day: Gorsuch is likely to fall short of 60 votes, and Republicans will have to jam his nomination through the Senate on their own.
The Trump administration may be accelerating "Easternization," argues Gideon Rachman.
Next week, Chinese President Xi Jinping will travel to the United States to meet Donald Trump for the first time. But according to Gideon Rachman, the chief foreign affairs commentator for the Financial Times, power is flowing in the opposite direction. Rachman is far from the first analyst to argue that China and other Asian nations are rising while the Western world declines, nor is he the first to cite the now-familiar statistics about China’s ballooning economy and unparalleled manufacturing might. His contribution is to help explain some of the most confounding developments of the day—from the Middle East’s descent into anarchy to the ascent of populist politicians in the West to the emergence of nostalgia as a political force—through his theory of the “Easternization” of international affairs.
Think about a venomous fang, and you’ll probably conjure up an image of a snake or spider. But perhaps you should also spare a thought for group of unassuming reef fish that are appropriately called fangblennies. They are finger-sized, colorful, and rather cute—that is, until they open their mouths. Their lower jaws bear two upsettingly large canine teeth, capable of delivering a deep bite. And the evolution of those teeth, according to a new study by Nicholas Casewell at the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine, took the fangblennies down a path of subterfuge, double-crossing, and chemical warfare.
Of the 33,000 or so species of fish, some 2,500 are venomous—far more than the number of venomous snakes. A surprising number of deep-sea sharks (including many that glow-in-the dark) have venomous spines at the base on their fins. Stingrays deliver venom with their ostentatious tail spikes, stonefish inject toxins with spines on their backs, lionfish use their flamboyant fins, and tangs deploy scalpel-like spines at the base of their tails. (So, yes, Dory is venomous.) But among this toxic underwater menagerie, only two groups have venomous bites—an obscure group of deep-sea eels, and the fangblennies.