The Marshall Review

When argument has nothing to stand on

Some years back I was awarded a DPhil for work I had published two decades earlier, work that was judged to make an original contribution to knowledge. The first revealed a structure for presenting a defence of nurses accused of wrongdoing. It explored how to advance an argument inside a recognised hierarchy with actors who largely behaved with integrity. The second revealed a structure for engaging public sector workers in discussion. It examined how people could draw on their own experience and develop their opinions about a major shift in government policy that would affect both their work and their representation.

In both pieces of work the environments carried a particular character. A kind of liberal consensus that was so familiar at the time that we barely noticed it. In the tribunal cases the hierarchy itself provided the frame. Everyone in the room recognised the authority of the structure. Everyone understood the rules and the evidential standards. Everyone behaved broadly with enough integrity for argument to matter. It was possible to advance a defence because the structure could hold the weight of disagreement. Power was present of course. It always is. But it was channelled and contained. Given form by the procedures that governed the room. Argument belonged there because the environment itself supported the activity of argument.

The second situation shared the same assumptions though expressed differently. These were not formal hearings but part of a national conversation involving more than 650,000 public sector workers attempting to make sense of a significant policy shift. There was no hierarchy and no tribunal procedure. There was however mutual recognition. Despite the scale of the undertaking people listened because they recognised their own concerns in those of others. They were willing to explore and revise their views because the structure we built together made that possible. Their opinions shifted not because one person persuaded them but because they persuaded each other. Consensus emerged because the conditions allowed it. Shared experience. Trust in the process. A sense that everyone was participating in good faith.

Power was present here too but moderated by familiarity and reciprocity. Both environments rested on the same quiet assumptions. That argument is meaningful. That persuasion is possible. That norms are broadly shared. That the structures we inhabit can contain the power within them. These were not abstract ideals. They were the material conditions that made argument possible. They shaped the liberal imagination of the time and they shaped my own understanding of how people reason together. They convinced me that though we may differ in our wants needs and desires there is often a path to resolution if we place in our way the machinery through which disagreement can be managed. The participation of everyone involved is not incidental to that process. It is one of its essential ingredients.

At the same time as those two pieces of work and for some years afterwards I was engaged in a programme I titled Tackling Racism. That work took me into closed rooms where regard for others was not shared in the way it had been in tribunals or workplace discussions. The assumptions that had quietly underpinned those earlier environments were simply absent. The expectation that people would listen. The expectation that they would recognise each other. The expectation that they would accept the legitimacy of the process itself. In those rooms the role of some participants emerged very quickly. A desire to bully. To intimidate. To dominate.

These were not the anti-racism workshops familiar in workplaces and trade union halls where we were often dealing with prejudice born of distance or unfamiliarity. Misunderstandings that could sometimes be worked through. These meetings were different. For some participants they became opportunities for larger scale bullying and repression. The same behaviours that had already shown themselves in abuse directed at individuals on the shop floor in corridors in car parks and on the street. The structure could not contain it.

Sometimes a realisation arrives in an instant. Sometimes it comes slowly as if the mind is adjusting itself grain by grain. This one arrived neither way. It was prolonged. And it was punishing. I denied it. I fought it. I kept returning to the belief that there had to be a way. That if I could only find the right structure the right approach the right moment then the same regard for others that had shaped my earlier work would re-emerge. I had seen people change their minds. I had seen consensus form. I had seen argument work. Surely it could work here too.

But the more I failed the more I felt the realisation rising. Not as an idea but as a physical sensation. Something welling up from the pit of my stomach. The assumptions I had carried from those earlier environments simply did not apply. The quiet respect for others. The willingness to listen. The expectation of integrity. The belief that everyone in the room was engaged in the same activity. None of these could be assumed.

What confronted me was not a breakdown in argument. It was the absence of the conditions that make argument possible.

I had spent years believing that good structures could enable disagreement to become something productive. That if people could be brought into the same space then understanding could emerge. That persuasion remained possible.

What I discovered was the limit of that belief. Argument is not a universal tool. It depends upon conditions that cannot be assumed. It depends upon structures capable of holding power. It depends upon shared norms however imperfect. It depends upon a willingness to recognise others not merely as opponents but as participants in a common endeavour. Remove those conditions and argument does not fail.

It ceases to exist.

David Marshall Sna Sceirí