Trade Agreements and Me

Note: This article was originally published on the Asian Trade Centre’s Talking Trade blog.

Rhetoric against trade agreements mostly revolves around ideas of loss of sovereignty, inundation of foreign cultures and peoples, and an inability to control one’s own political destiny.  This can be seen clearly in domestic arguments against TPP especially in the United States and a range of other countries, and perhaps nowhere has it been more clear than in the UK in arguments made in favour of exit of the European Union.

In this light, trade agreements give rise to a whole range of dangers and evils that are best avoided at all costs.

But the ire is misdirected. When one reads the text of trade agreements, and especially those that are high quality, like the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), one finds in them much related to the concerns of individual citizens, and a concern for how citizens’ interests can best be preserved as technologies and trade patterns change over time.

A trade agreement like TPP not only tries to make crucial goods and services cheaper for consumers, but attempts to deal with many of the causes and issues that citizens care about—like environmental issues and corporate social responsibility.

It has been a political failure of immense proportions to neglect to explain these concerns and focuses to citizens. And this failure might be because, in reality, the benefits are more difficult to explain than explaining the benefits of trade itself.

As we showed, there are real, tangible benefits from trade to every person almost every hour of their day. But trade agreements are a step removed from these benefits; they require an extra leap. Politicians find it far easier to fall back on the easy explanation of “trade is necessary if you want iPhones” than to explain why it is that they see trade agreements as being in citizens’ interests.

The most obvious way that trade agreements benefit individual citizens is through their effects on trade itself. This is, in essence, the “iPhone” argument, and there is indeed something to it.

Trade agreements at their most fundamental aim to reduce barriers to trade that exist in the forms of tariffs and non-tariff barriers (NTBs or NTMs). Different agreements succeed at this to varying levels, but this is the primary goal of any free trade agreement. Successful agreements will then directly lower the costs of all the goods and services that consumers use every hour of every day by reducing tariffs rates, and by reducing the kinds of red tape that make trade more expensive at borders.

And high quality agreements—the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) most notably—make attempts to consider what new products and services consumers want, and may want in future, which could be subject to tariffs.

For instance, TPP’s Chapter 14 on Electronic Commerce is careful to ensure that new technologies will not be arbitrarily subject to duties that might make them more expensive. “No party shall impose customs duties on electronic transmissions, including content transmitted electronically…”, TPP states.

That is the simple part. Simple, but crucial—and yet a narrative that is often not explained sufficiently by politicians when discussing trade agreements. Trade agreements are about access to products, yes; but they are also about the prices of those products for consumers, and the kinds of products and services available to consumers that may be affected by in future.

And yet most agreements contain other elements that benefit individuals in non-financial ways, or in less direct ways.

Take, for instance, the rest of TPP’s E-Commerce chapter. The minutiae are often unrelated to areas where consumers might benefit financially, but explicitly aim to protect or aid individuals in areas of concern to them.

TPP member countries recognise, the agreement says, “the importance of adopting and maintaining… measures to protect consumers from fraudulent and deceptive commercial activities… when they engage in electronic commerce.” This is vitally important to all consumers, and threatens their very trust in the predominant form of purchasing today.

TPP also tries to protect individuals from “unsolicited commercial electronic messages”; again, spam can be the bane of the online world, and TPP works towards protecting consumers from it.

The agreement even goes so far as to guarantee consumers the right to use electronic signatures as an acceptable form of document certification. It might not seem like a big deal, but these things can matter for individuals trying to save themselves time each day.

The E-commerce chapter is a perfect example of non-monetary areas in which trade agreements try to help individuals in their lives. And many trade agreements go further than this, acting to pressure other governments on issues that their own citizens care about and which harm individuals in other countries.

For those concerned about corporate responsibility, “Each Party shall endeavour to encourage enterprises to voluntarily adopt corporate social responsibility initiatives.” For those concerned about environmental sustainability, “each Party shall take measures to control the production and consumption of, and trade in” substances that deplete the ozone layer. Likewise, there is a section on Marine Protection, and another on ensuring that each country affords the ability for the public to make submissions on the effects of climate change. These kinds of clauses do a great deal to help individuals in places where they often don’t have a voice.

The TPP is not a labour agreement or an environmental agreement. It is a trade agreement, and no trade agreement will ever satisfy every concern across the full spectrum of issues that people care about. Of course more could and should be done in many of these areas. But what is significant is that a trade agreement has taken care to deal with some of these other issues at all, beyond focussing on simply market access and tariff reduction.

In looking for a perfect agreement, TPP’s opponents have undermined causes they profess themselves to care deeply about. When one reads the text and speaks to those who negotiated the Agreement, one finds that the benefits accruing to individual citizens are a focus throughout.

Most crucially, to understand how trade agreements affect individuals, one should read the text. Repeating empty rhetoric without knowing one’s facts simply spreads misunderstanding, as we’ve seen with TPP. Trade helps everyone in every hour of their day; and trade agreements, while more complex to explain, support all those benefits while also focussing on non-financial areas of concern to citizens.

At a point where anti-trade rhetoric seems to be reaching fever pitch, what we need more than ever is to step back and look at the facts. And when one does so, one starts to see just how important trade agreements can be to individual lives.

***This edition of Talking Trade was written by departing intern Michael Moore-Jones, Asian Trade Centre, Singapore***

Swimming Upstream at College

“It is particularly painful when those colleges at the top of the usual lists, the ones with the most resources and (as they like to claim) the most talent, fail to confront their obligations—when, as the former dean of Harvard College, Harry Lewis, puts it, they “affect horror” that “students attend college in the hope of becoming financially successful, but… offer students neither a coherent view of the point of a college education nor any guidance on how they might discover for themselves some larger purpose in life.”

— Andrew Delbanco, College: What It Was, Is, and Should Be

The gap between the ideal of a liberal arts education and its reality seems ever-growing. It isn’t that one cannot pursue an ideal kind of liberal education at a liberal arts college—the kind that focusses on self-examination, reading the great books to give meaning to experience. One can pursue that education. But what Delbanco so aptly puts is that when students arrive on campus, there is no mention of that larger vision of liberal education, no reminders that that is what we are here for.

And so education begins to merge with the language used daily, the subtle pressures from university offices and graduate employers. It is not overt, and it isn’t sinister. It is simply that in the busyness and pressures of everyday life at college, thought about the purpose of it all becomes a luxury one cannot afford. That is the great irony of a college education today.

To pursue liberal education as one thought about it before starting college, then, is not just to choose one path of two when they diverge… Instead, it is to swim upstream, against the current. It requires twice the strength over a sustained period of time, and it’s often all too easy to say simply, let’s go with the flow.

Commodified Learning in the Flipped Classroom

Formal education has always seemed a paradox for me. On the one hand I am passionate about learning and passionate about what schools and universities can do for individuals and societies. This perhaps stems from my having attended over ten different educational institutions in six different countries. But on the other hand, my own experience in formal schooling, most especially my high school years, was an exemplary case of education getting in the way of someone’s learning. At times this has led to some hard-to-reconcile positions, like when, as an International Baccalaureate scholar at my high school, I complained in an interview to a local newspaper about not learning enough in school.

But the paradox makes sense, I think, when one separates what education is at its core from its present manifestation. One could love architecture but nevertheless live in a less-than-stellar house; one could be an artist yet hang prints on their walls. So long as there is an attempt to improve what one believes in, I don’t see the paradox as being real; the frustrations, the desire to fix and improve, merely emphasise the depth of one’s passion.

At some point during my second to last year in high school I discovered the term “flipped classroom”. The idea was to return education to its roots in learning: have students consume information at home through books and online videos, and then in class turn that information into knowledge through questioning and discussing with the teacher. As each day I went to school and sat through hours of teachers merely repeating back the reading I’d done at home (not all of them, to be sure, but certainly the majority), the idea seemed to recapture the belief in what education was meant to be about.

It was very exciting, then, to attend a talk last night by Professor Eric Mazur of Harvard, the man who is generally recognised to have come up with the flipped classroom model (or what he calls peer instruction). Eric spoke at Yale-NUS of his “confessions of a converted lecturer”, how he realised as a teacher that he was wasting his own and his students’ time by merely repeating what books already said, focussing on transfer of information rather than the understanding of knowledge. The audience was actually made up of Yale-NUS professors, rather than students, which made for a different perspective than the one I’ve so far been used to thinking from.

Through examples, data, and an interactive session, Eric had seemingly all the professors convinced of the flipped classroom model. This was true at least for those whose subjects require transfer of information at some point; there is a great difference between philosophy, which I think focusses on knowledge from the start, and the sciences, which begin with information and must move to knowledge.

But to my surprise, by the end of the talk I wasn’t convinced. I had gone into the lecture already convinced of the flipped classroom model, merely wanting to hear the idea from its inventor’s mouth; I left with serious doubts, at least about the extent to which it is being taken. And what struck me was how the one class I’ve taken that was the most faithful reproduction of a flipped classroom model was the one class I and my peers came to despise most. Eric’s talk inadvertently ended up explaining why.

Eric’s goal with the flipped classroom is to have every student prepared for every class. To achieve this, he encouraged teachers to focus on ensuring that everyone has the information needed before the start of class. His new company produces an online reading tool that has students annotate their readings and ask questions of each other on a web platform. Through an algorithm, the software analyses the highlights and comments and determines how “thoughtful” students were, then assigning a grade. The advantage of this is that teachers then know exactly what students understand, what they don’t, and what questions they have. Teachers can also test students’ dedication to their readings through short quizzes at the start of class. All of these annotations, questions and quizzes will contribute to a student’s grade.

What I hated most about that class (well, really two classes, each which focussed on slightly different aspects) that most faithfully lived up to the flipped classroom model was that everything I read was done with a grade hanging over my head. The passages I chose to highlight and question on the course website would be graded! If something struck me as interesting, I first had to think about whether I should highlight it or not; what if it wasn’t a “good” annotation? The annotations were, after all, public for my classmates and professor to see. I found an interesting passage, highlighted it, and also wanted to write a comment to myself on something to remember. But what would my professor think of that? Would my comment be good enough to receive an “A” grade? All the while I had to focus on memorising the information on every page, since the first ten minutes of every class would be a test on my recall and ability to apply what I had read.

The extent to which Professor Mazur has taken the flipped classroom model has essentially commodified learning entirely.

Students are now incentivised to learn, to turn information into knowledge, it is true. And data shows that this works! Students will remember information better, and in class they will come to grasp its implications more clearly. But what data can never show is how that knowledge comes to affect students’ lives. And as a student in an entirely flipped classroom, I came to see how nothing done for class was done for an intrinsic reason. A flipped classroom requires extrinsic motivators, and though these work in improving both recall and understanding, they necessarily work against the last step of education—how knowledge affects life. Reading, annotations and comments in the margin are done for classes’ sake, and what the flipped classroom forgets is that the classroom is only the starting point of education. It is what happens when a student leaves a classroom with knowledge that determines the success of education. It seemed as though Professor Mazur and his model of a flipped classroom has thought so much about the classroom that he has seemingly forgotten that the classroom is merely instrumental, not in itself the end of education.

Imagine a philosophy class practising the flipped classroom. The contradiction would become absurd. Philosophy, which takes knowledge as useful for its own sake, which hopes to ask and instruct how we should live, would then be reduced for students merely to “intelligent” and “thoughtful” annotations, and pop quizzes at the start of class. The point of a philosophy class is for students to discover for themselves how to live; to have tools with which to think about material, but ultimately leaving the application of that material up to students. It can only have intrinsic motivators, where a flipped classroom can only have the extrinsic.

So we’re back to a kind of paradox like the one I began with. I haven’t given up on the flipped classroom, but I am now far more aware of its limits and its dangers. The task is to find or encourage intrinsic motivators (if that is not too great a contradiction), so that the flipped classroom can remain merely an educational tool. The danger with any great educational innovation is that it forgets education is really only what happens afterwards.

Eric Mazur flipped classroom Yale-NUS

Note: Emphasis was added to make clear that two different classes I’ve taken tried to replicate the flipped classroom model, and each focussed on slightly different aspects of it.

Letting It Go

After my first season racing in the bitter cold of a New England winter for the Yale Cycling team, it was almost surreal to race yesterday for Yale-NUS in the stifling mugginess of mid-afternoon in Singapore. Singapore’s size and year-round good weather mean if you want to race, you have really no excuse not to; you can ride directly to the course, and if it rains it will be dry and sunny again in a couple of hours. With a fast-growing cycling scene, a few passionate individuals, and a well-run cycling events company in Cycosports, racing here is on the rise.

Cycosports Seletar Aerospace Park CriteriumI competed alongside three others from Yale-NUS in the Cat C criterium, which ran seven laps of a 3.1km course in just under 35 minutes. The course was untraditional in that each lap had five corners; two sweeping turns that could be pedalled through, and then three roundabouts, which required heavier braking and even harder accelerations than a usual four-corner crit. The straights were longer than in other criteriums I’ve raced, making the efforts more varied.

The Oldham Breakfast Cycling Club, a club formed by Anglo-Chinese School alumni, had the numbers with maybe 8 guys in the race. On the first lap they sent someone up the road and almost immediately put four on the front to slow the peloton. Most of the bunch was nervous about putting in too much too early, and were happy to sit up, but I was concerned the gap could grow more quickly than anyone expected with one team dominating. I put in an early effort to chase the lone break, half wondering if the Oldham guys would keep blocking on the bunch and let the two of us work together to form a gap. But after half a lap working with this guy, that wasn’t to be, with Oldham pulling their own guy and me back, clearly intent on setting themselves up for multiple podium placings. Things were tame from then on until the last few laps, with nothing happening but a few half-hearted attacks on the straights which were easily pulled back.

I attacked out of one of the sweeping corners to test what the reaction would be, with three guys from the Roadbrothers team chasing me down straight away. I sat up around five wheels back to recover for the rest of the lap, only to watch as, with just over two laps remaining, one of the guys from Roadbrothers shot off the front at exactly the corner I’d previously tried to attack out of. It was an impressive effort, and I didn’t have it in me to follow; neither did anyone else, and within half a lap he had at least fifteen seconds on everyone.

The final lap was classic crit racing when a bunch realises they left it too late to bring someone back. As the bunch crossed the line with the one-lap-to-go bell ringing, I sprinted off the front to chase, figuring I’d be fresher than the guy out the front and could bring him back. It just wasn’t to be. His lead was too big, and as I got perhaps half-way between him and the bunch I realised my mistake. There was no way I had it in me to go all the way, and my effort was going to cost me in what was now inevitably going to be a bunch sprint for second and third.

Racing highlights parts of our own natures that in everyday life remain hidden; it requires us to confront our limits and the extent of our ambition. What do you decide when you are on your limit? What do you decide when you aren’t able to think clearly, when all strategy has been thrown out, and you are left with a single second with which to decide? Racing lets you see yourself more clearly than in everyday life because it strips away the mirrors and walls we usually hide behind, and puts your subconscious on a pedestal for you to observe and analyse.

I should’ve known when to let it go; to realise that gold was simply off the table, but that it was still within my abilities to set myself up for a shot at the other podium placings. By focussing solely on first place I didn’t see the obvious, and I then passed up the opportunity for what was next-best. We are taught to “never give up”; but there is a point beyond which continuing to pursue something unattainable is simply rash.

The bunch absorbed me and I hung on somewhere in the middle to cross the line. An impressive race by Roadbrothers, and some nice attempts by Oldham. Thanks to my teammates Aaron, Danny and Zheng Jie who all showed impressive grit, and to everyone else from Yale-NUS who came to support.

Why Do We Commit To Sport?

A friend once asked me why I spend so much time cycling. He could understand spending perhaps forty-five minutes cycling each day, so as to keep fit and keep a good physique. But why would I bother going for such long rides on the weekends, hundreds of kilometres, often solo? What did I achieve by doing that?

I replied by saying, because I enjoy it. Because this time means something to me. Because it helps me in other parts of my life in ways I’ll never understand. Those were the closest I could get to what cycling means to me, but for this friend, these reasons were wholly insufficient. Again, he could understand time spent cycling (or any kind of exercise) up to a point, but unless one was training to be an Olympic athlete (where there are very clear rewards), he simply could not understand what one would get out of devoting so much time to an activity that in the scheme of things doesn’t achieve anything.

This question of what one achieves through running or cycling or any other sport that takes immense commitment is one that seems to sit behind Haruki Murakami’s brief, autobiographical book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. On the surface the book traces Murakami’s preparation for the 2005 New York City Marathon; it takes us through Hawaii, Japan, Greece and New York City and into Murakami’s early days running and writing in what is written as a personal attempt to understand what running has meant to him.

The obvious summary of the book says that there are certain lessons Murakami took from running that he applied to his writing which allowed him to succeed. Running a marathon is different from running a 10km; the training is different, the body is different, and writing a novel is a marathon, so the lessons Murakami learnt from his training helped him become a successful writer.

“You’ll naturally learn both concentration and endurance when you sit down every day at your desk and train yourself to focus on one point. This is a lot like the training of (running) muscles I wrote of a moment ago…” These kinds of lessons are interspersed throughout the book, and make for one kind of reading. But it is, in essence, the point of view of my friend who couldn’t understand the extent of my commitment to cycling. It’s a view of running that says running serves a practical purpose in our lives, which is why we do it. There is little point in doing it beyond the point where it serves that purpose.

Those practical purposes do exist, but I think Murakami is getting at his deeper commitment in this book. Cycling means more to me than for how it teaches me life lessons, but as my response to my friend showed, I was unsure how to describe that meaning.

I think Murakami comes as close as he can to describing it late in the book, when he talks about driving home from a race and wondering what it was all for.

“After our unpretentious race on a fall Sunday, we were all on our way back to our own homes, back to our own mundane lives. And with the next race in mind, each of us, in our place, will most likely go about our usual training. Even if, seen from the outside, or from some higher vantage point, this sort of life looks pointless or futile, or even extremely inefficient, it doesn’t bother me. Maybe it’s some pointless act like, as I’ve said before, pouring water into an old pan that has a hole at the bottom, but at least the effort you put into it remains. Whether it’s good for anything or not, cool or totally uncool, in the final analysis what’s most important is what you can’t see but can feel in your heart. To be able to grasp something of value, sometimes you have to perform seemingly inefficient acts. But even activities that appear fruitless don’t necessarily end up so.”

Murakami captures the intrinsic side of his sport; it is done for its own sake, regardless of how it looks from the outside. It feels right, somewhere inside, and that’s why we do it, even if it takes up too much time, even if it’s inefficient, futile and pointless. It may be all those things if we look for a purpose it serves; but if we stop looking for a purpose and instead do it precisely because we want to, the time spent running or cycling falls away, and these can be some of the most enjoyable and rewarding experiences in life, perhaps precisely because we cannot explain why they were so.

I think that’s what Murakami really talks about when he talks about running. Not how it served his writing, but just what it is in his life, without the activity needing to achieve something.

The Man Who Made Yale-NUS Yale-NUS

 

It’s coming up on four years since I sat nervously at my family’s home in Wellington and waited to receive a Skype call that would determine the next four years of my life. I ran through the possible questions I might be asked by the Yale-NUS admissions officer, practising possible formulations of answers, reminding myself to remain calm yet formal.

My computer rang, I took a deep breath, then answered. In a rapid-fire voice at times very deep and, when excited, melodious, the admissions officer told me his name was Austin Shiner, he’d been with Yale-NUS for a year or so since himself graduating from Yale, and that he was excited beyond belief about what Yale-NUS might become. His smile was infectious and I was smiling too within a minute of talking, and his facial expressions seemed to mimic perfectly what he was saying: something serious was said with head tilted slightly downwards and a furrowed brow to give no doubt this was serious; something frivolous, with head tilted backwards and eyes smiling. His cheeks were red, as if to emphasise the extent to which he couldn’t contain his excitement when speaking of Yale-NUS.

“What books do you like to read?”, Austin asked me. I could talk about that no problem, even though it wasn’t a question I’d thought of beforehand. I talked for a bit about books, and then trailed off, expecting the next question. Austin instead started talking about his own favourite books, and offered me some recommendations. King Rat by James Clavell, he told me to read: historical fiction telling the story of prisoners of war (including some Americans and some New Zealanders) during World War 2, set at Changi Naval Base in Singapore. I ordered the book right after the call. A recommendation from Austin, especially when it comes to food or books, we’ve all come to realise, is not something to be ignored. (His YouTube channel sums up the man: “These videos deal with food. Hence, they deal with life.” Austin last night became the first person to eat at all 108 of Singapore’s hawker centres).

It is hard to think of that Skype call as an interview. It was merely a conversation between two people both excited about this thing called Yale-NUS, one of whom had just moved half way across the world to a new country called Singapore to work there, and the other who (I would find out in a few months’ time) was about to.

That “interview” was prescient, because in a matter of minutes Yale-NUS (which at this point, remember, had not a single student nor its own campus) was made tangible for me. And it was made tangible with a sense of infectious excitement, intellectual passion, and a desire to see and explore everything that Singapore and Southeast Asia has to offer. Those are three qualities that I think many would agree define the Yale-NUS experience today.

Some might put it as a chicken-and-egg problem: was Austin chosen to work here because he had the qualities they wanted this school to embody, or is Yale-NUS like that today because of Austin Shiner?

But for those of us here, and especially for those of us in the class of 2017 who have been here since the beginning, the chicken-and-egg riddle is easily solved. As he flew off last night to Taiwan for a new chapter of life, it can be said with seriousness and with immense gratitude that one person, perhaps above all others, has left an indelible mark of good at Yale-NUS College. Future classes of students who never met Austin will nonetheless know Austin precisely because they know Yale-NUS.

Thank you, Austin. Have a great year; keep the videos coming; and see you at graduation.

The Danger of Becoming the Stories We Tell

The idea of the “personal narrative” is that we take selective events or periods from our lives and combine them with larger ideas and purpose in order to get somewhere else.

In order to get somewhere else. Perhaps it’s a job interview, or in conversation at a conference; maybe you’ve been asked to give a speech, or you’re applying to graduate school. The reality is that in living our lives daily we do not think about a “personal narrative” so clearly defined. If we meet someone in a casual social situation, we may describe ourselves, but it will not be in the same way as we would describe ourselves in an interview. The “getting somewhere” is what separates describing ourselves to someone and telling a personal narrative; the former is done simply for its own sake, the latter to get somewhere or something.

Not that a personal narrative need be untruthful, but in their selectivity and in their tailoring to the “somewhere” that we are trying to get, personal narratives are likely to anchor us to parts of ourselves that in daily life are not necessarily most important. We may emphasise certain skills or personality traits that, true, we do possess, but which our friends would not think to mention if describing us.

The difference in what we describe in a personal narrative as opposed to what we would tell a friend is the difference between what David Brooks calls “resume virtues” and “eulogy virtues”. We describe the parts of ourselves that will help a company grow its bottom line, or which will impress a graduate school program—skills, past work experience, competitiveness. Yet those are not the things that make us who we are. To our friends and family, or to the people we go cycling with during the weekend, what matters is whether we are kind and caring, thoughtful and conscientious, able to switch off from work and enjoy life, interested in others’ lives.

The danger in telling a personal narrative is that we may come to believe it; that in repeating so often and so forcefully the kind of person we are, other parts of self may start to fall away. The narrative, to repeat, may not be untruthful, but a narrative is by necessity never the whole truth. “I am an a, b, c” kind of person, “and x, y, z events from my life show that”, and “that’s why I’m perfect to get this (job, graduate program, etc)”. You are a, b and c, but also much of the alphabet besides, including qualities and values that are far more important.

In our attempt to “get somewhere”, the personal narratives we tell focus on the external parts of our lives that when all is said and done matter very little. And if we aren’t careful—if we spend our time climbing, always looking for the next thing, always “applying”—we will come to embody the personal narratives we tell, lacking in humanity and virtue as they necessarily do.