If a Goldfish Could Remember

During my final teenage years I held and could not shake the idea that goldfish were a supremely lucky species. Goldfish lived, forgot, kept on living and forgot again, their memories famously said to last just three seconds. We humans are destined to remember forever: an indiscretion lasts a lifetime. We are, in other words, goldfish that can remember.

Not that my indiscretions were great, or that I really have any to recall at all. But it was nonetheless precisely this fear of mistakes, of regrets, that defined my decisions from ages eighteen to twenty. I think it was literature that did it to me. Literature and, perhaps, my knowledge that the lessons from literature were likely to be compounded in a world where collective memories are stored online.

Milan Kundera wrote, of a subtly different but somehow similar idea, that “Human life occurs only once, and the reason we cannot determine which of our decisions are good and which bad is that in a given situation we can make only one decision; we are not granted a second, third or fourth life in which to compare various decisions”.

For Kundera, humans should feel lightness in making decisions because there is no way we can determine good or bad decisions. Yet we must decide, and should therefore feel lightness about any ramifications of a decision we could not avoid. For those he disagrees with, we would feel unbearable weight because in every moment we make decisions that we must suffer the consequences of. I’ve always thought that Kundera sees humans as helpless in the face of grand decisions, and therefore paradoxically able to throw off any chains and burdens; most of us, however, see humans as culpable for decisions, and therefore prone to the feeling of weight.

But it seems to me that Kundera more closely describes goldfish than humans. Goldfish live one life, but are unable to learn within it; each three-second block is lived in a form of the dictum that “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” With no memory there is indeed the impossibility of culpability for actions; mistakes and bad decisions will be repeated endlessly, and one can hardly assign any blame or fault to the goldfish. It is true that humans live but one life; but unlike the goldfishes’ life, a human’s can be improved based on past experiences.

A goldfish that can remember is a goldfish that makes a mistake and can resolve not to repeat it. A goldfish that can remember is one that is culpable for its actions. It still lives just one life, yet that life can be changed, improved, bettered through its course.

A goldfish that can remember can legitimately make a mistake once and claim innocence. But beyond that, a feeling of weight is appropriate: the feeling that weighs on our throats, just below our adams-apple, when we must make a decision the consequences of which we have previously seen. It is this weight that encourages learning, changing course, improving.

A goldfish that can remember is one that disavows previously held views when new facts or ideas come to light. Consistency is a virtue only for the goldfish with a three-second memory—consistency in what is practically insanity. Flexibility in light of new learning is the virtue of the goldfish that can remember.

I begin my third decade somewhat sorry for the simple goldfish, and thankful for being a goldfish that can remember. I am less afraid of saying and doing what I think and believe, where previously I lived in fear of saying or doing something I might later disagree with. I feel lightness because I can learn from mistakes; I can act and learn, then decide whether to repeat the action or not. The weight of consequence allows the lightness that comes from an ability to learn and to change course. The goldfish whom I so fervently admired now seems a poor fellow; the lightness of innocence is, in the end, the greatest of burdens.

What’s in a Flag?

If I had been looking for an example to describe a lilliputian dilemma, the phrase I decided to have title this blog, I would’ve done well to have chosen the “great debates” nations go through to change their ultimate symbols, their flags. It’s the sort of example where there isn’t truly a bad outcome, yet one where passions run high, and debate occasionally runs through to apocalyptic scenarios if change happens this way or that. I’m guilty of these passions myself, and am guilty of raising the topic far too many times with my friends in Singapore, for whom changing the New Zealand flag was not exactly vital world news.

What’s in a flag? Why the radically opposing views, to the extent that votes were sharply split between non-voters, pro-change and protest votes? And how does a nation decide on a flag when everyone seems to conceptualise of a flag in a different way?

For a flag is not viewed uniformly. I think first of our flag at the United Nations. I think of it flying outside our embassies and on our ambassadors’ cars in fifty capitals, and I think of it flying on the Beehive and sewn onto our soldier’s sleeves. Our Prime Minister first thinks of the flag being waved by thousands as the All Blacks play the Wallabies, and my friends think of it in their bedrooms at universities around the world. Others think of it as a sticker on their laptop, a patch on their backpack, or a profile photo on Facebook.

I do think of our flag in these other contexts, but after thinking of it in the international context, as a symbol of our country to the world. My international upbringing, and the fact that I currently live overseas, leads the international portrayal to be the one to come first to my mind. This situation will likely be reversed for other New Zealanders; indeed, many may find it incomprehensible that I first view what is fundamentally a domestic symbol in an international context.

Effective symbols must unite the different backgrounds that everyone, even those under one banner, inevitably have; they must take the variety of contexts that individuals’ backgrounds lead them to conceptualise of the symbol in, and look good in all situations. This is not an easy task. And I think it’s also the reason why so many of us in this country, amongst our friends and in our own families, have struggled over the past months to understand others’ points of view. For my part, I will admit that I cannot understand the perspective of wanting to keep our current flag with the Union Jack on it. I can conceive that others’ life experiences, and others’ mental visualisations of the flag, may lead to that conclusion; but because I don’t have those experiences or visualisation, I cannot actually understand that perspective. Some people very close to me cannot understand my support for the so-called Red Peak, and likewise I cannot understand why a logo-like flag could be preferred over it.

These debates and misunderstandings—in fact, not misunderstandings, but inabilities to understand—happening across New Zealand aren’t a result of the way that this flag referendum has been run. The process has been fine, in my opinion. No, these inabilities to understand are simply the result of the difficulties in choosing a single symbol that must conform best, on average, to the multitude of mental conceptualisations of the flag that four million New Zealanders have. Should we be surprised that many weren’t happy with the four shortlisted designs? I suggest not. Should we be surprised that the vote was split many different ways, including indifference and protest? Again, probably not. And should we be surprised if, at our first attempt, we don’t change our flag? No. Symbols are complex, they function through one’s own lived and thought experiences, and to find one that a majority of us prefer over the status quo is a task that should be expected to take time.

We will have referenda on the flag in future, and it might not be surprising if it does not succeed even at the second try. But merely having the debate, having the issue in the public mind for stretches of time, increases the likelihood of convergence in those conceptualisations of symbols. The longer people discuss, debate, and think about the issues, the more—gradually, yes—there will be subtle changes in opinion, just as polls have shown change in flag preferences since the debate started earlier this year. Over years, perhaps I will come to conceive of the flag more at sporting events than the United Nations, and perhaps others will come to see the vitality I see in the Red Peak. Gradually there will become more overlap in thinking and conceiving of a flag to represent this country, and as time goes on so therefore will the likelihood that we will get both a new flag and a flag that will best serve us.

“When the heart speaks, the mind finds it indecent to object”—this describes my idea of the point at which people must be when there is convergence on a single symbol. Only when those metaphorical hearts speak in a similar way, and in ways that people cannot fully find words to describe, will there have been enough convergence in views of the symbol that there will be sufficient support to change the flag. I fully agree with Rowan Simpson on his reasons for supporting the Red Peak, for instance; but I feel that by having to explain in detail all the aspects of the flag that make it desirable, the inexplicable strong feelings that some have towards it are somehow lost. Only when we cannot explain the strength of identity we feel towards one of the symbols is it likely enough to get the groundswell needed for change.

For the record, I will be spoiling my vote in the second round of this referendum. I desperately want a new flag for this country. But the blue and black Silver Fern with Southern Cross is not, for me, the one, precisely because it is so easily rationalised, and because it gives me no feeling of pride and excitement that I cannot explain. Nor could I bring myself to vote against the blue and black for our current flag, which I truly feel does not represent this country I know. Change takes time, especially when it comes to finding a single symbol to represent millions. If what’s in a flag are the experiences and aspirations of millions, we shouldn’t be surprised that the first four designs we are presented with don’t quite cut it. As much as I want a new flag, I’d rather wait for the right one.

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Perspectives on Small States from Lithuania and Bulgaria

Two friends of mine at Yale-NUS, from Lithuania and Bulgaria, recently debated small states on Fox & Hedgehog:

Bulgaria and the Plight of the Small State: “As long as the country avoids consciously choosing between past loyalties and current prospects, national control will continue to be a chimera. One thing is certain—it is extremely difficult for the small states to be anything but a mere echo of their vociferous “partners.” Satellite states, puppet governments, and proxy wars may be in the past, but subtle directives, resolutions, oligarchic circles, and economic pressures are no less controlling.”

Lithuania and The True Strength of Small States: “Within their specific geopolitical frameworks, small states often become coveted assets. By maintaining their friendly ties with Russia and seeking its help, Cyprus, Greece, and Hungary can send the EU a powerful and clear signal of displeasure with certain policies. They can derive large benefits from outside powers such as Russia without having to make significant concessions.

The fight for smaller countries’ support can be seen in some situations as a game of tug-of-war. However, tug-of-war is won by getting the rope onto one’s side—not by letting it slip. With some wise maneuvering and strategizing, small states can create their own autonomy.”

Small States and Lilliputian Dilemmas

Small states face a different set of dilemmas and challenges to the large. Lilliputians may be small, even sometimes trivial when compared to the great powers that be, but they are not insignificant. As in Swift’s novel, the Lilliputians can sometimes illuminate things about other countries and the world that those countries are themselves unable to see.

One of this blogs’ aims is to illuminate and track the often-mentioned but little-understood caricature of the small state, both to accompany research at Yale-NUS College and as a general interest of the author. It will also push the idea that the lenses we use to understand global politics are great-power centric, and we frequently do not realise the ways in which this leads to misunderstanding small and middle powers in international relations.

Small states were studied most extensively in relation to the non-aligned during the Cold War, when they had outsized impacts; but today they lack a continual spotlight upon them to encourage scholarly work, or at least more systematic study. They have their own sets of practitioners and those who follow them, but there is still so much to be seen and understood that I think there is a clear role for a place on the internet to attempt such an understanding, and to curate the work that others are doing.

It is an overlooked fact that the United States has singlehandedly shaped the study of world politics. Every lens through which we view international relations, and every foundational case to prove those lenses, are ones born in the U.S. academy. A professor of mine, himself South Korean, noted that there isn’t a single major theory of world politics thought up by a non-American scholar. This is not without important implications. The great power case is usually taken as the norm, and theories, if ever applied to a small or middle power, are forced to fit. Like clothing that wasn’t made for its wearer’s body it may be able to be put on, but it certainly doesn’t look good. To continue the lenses analogy, things may be seen through them but without clarity. The lenses through which we view world politics are American lenses, made from the American example and for American scholars, and I think there are alternative ones that will help us to better understand small states.

By misunderstanding the extent to which existing theories and paradigms apply to states other than great powers, we risk seriously misunderstanding—mostly subconsciously—how small states approach the world. The only such existing lenses that take small states as a starting point were built to understand small states in the Cold War, and they now seem rather outdated.

With all that in mind, this blog therefore has three explicit, interrelated, aims with regard to its small state focus:

  1. To track small states—especially New Zealand and those in the Asia Pacific—in world politics, while viewing their engagement with the world through a lens that treats them as different from other states.
  2. To attempt to form a better understanding of these interactions; to understand how and why small states act as they do, and how they can more effectively play and enhance the world political game.
  3. To treat U.S. International Relations scholarship with a grain of salt when applied to the Lilliputian case, and to push the larger idea that International Relations is really the story of American great power relations, and small and middle powers need fundamentally different lenses to be understood. 

Why am writing on this topic? I’m a third-year student majoring in Global Affairs at Yale-NUS College  in Singapore, and have grown up around the world in countries both big and small. This interest in small states in world politics is both a product of a global diplomatic upbringing, and a response to the frustration at studying international relations in both New Zealand and Singapore yet receiving what is fundamentally the same U.S. world political narrative.

My senior year thesis at Yale-NUS will be a deeper look into small states in world politics—this blog is, on one personal level, an extension of that project. On another level, this blog continues what I see to be a lifelong involvement with the politics and foreign policies of small countries, especially those in the Asia Pacific, but revolving around my home, New Zealand.


Credit to Robert Keohane for this blog’s title, which came from his 1969 article discussing small states during the Cold War.

Introduction to Lilliputian Dilemmas

This is a blog about politics and foreign policy, with a particular focus on New Zealand and the Asia Pacific. Its guiding theme is the often-mentioned but little-understood caricature of the small state. 

I used to write a blog, and it was read to the extent that I was described in a book solely as a “student and blogger”. Interests and priorities changed and that blog, which now redirects here, no longer exists. But reflecting now, I owe blogging a lot. It opened up many opportunities for travel and work, not to mention meeting great people around the world.

Lilliputian Dilemmas is a step back into writing publicly—and it is writing, after all. Blogging is just a funny name for the writing you do and publish on a certain type of website. Between stopping blogging and creating this blog I’ve written more than I ever have, and hardly a word of it has been read by more than a handful of people. Between university essays and writing for myself, it’s been valuable but in a different way to what I received from blogging.

The blog is, on the one hand, a public step into my final two years at Yale-NUS College and the research I am undertaking into small states in global politics. I intend to both link to other writing on the topic that might be valuable to others, as well as publish my own ideas and thoughts.

On the other hand it is a home for the more general writing I’ve always enjoyed and have learned a great deal from. As its archive grows I may more clearly separate this writing but for now I will let them sit.

Lilliputian dilemmas link these two topics; the phrase both perfectly describes the role of the small state in international relations (as coined by Robert Keohane), as well as more general conditions that we face.