Might-have-been politicians no longer have the same credibility as commentators, writes JOHN WATERS
HAD I proposed myself as a solution to Ireland’s difficulties and then failed, for whatever reason, to follow through, I believe I would have no option but to find another occupation, or at least to confine myself to debating non-contentious issues, such as amateur drama or soap opera.
It isn’t really to do with the visible loss of objectivity. I’m not a great one for objectivity anyway, at least not this side of heaven (although the Broadcasting Act 2009 takes a more nuanced view).
Really, the issue is credibility. It is one thing for commentators to criticise politicians. That’s what we’re paid to do, a job we acquire an informal legitimacy for because we are also citizens, taxpayers or just plain human. But there is something dubious about crossing over. Once the poacher gives a public indication that he or she may see themselves as a possible gamekeeper, a change is unleashed that cannot be reversed. Similarly, when the might-have-been politician seeks to return to his old role of commentator, every word they utter subsequently becomes contaminated by the memory of their arrogation to themselves of the role of redeemer.
To put it simply, they must perforce become more modest and restrained, lest every utterance become resonant with their own faint-heartedness or failure. Henceforth, they must choose their words carefully, mindful of the risk of charging politicians on terms which, having moved to throw their hat in the ring, they have indicated their inability to accept for themselves.
Politicians frequently accuse commentators of being hurlers on the ditch. But that’s the way the relationship is supposed to work, and, to be fair, most politicians take this in good part.
Indeed, the relationship works precisely because there is usually no question of crossover. Nor is it necessary for journalists to have a popular “mandate” for what they write, for if it were, we would write nothing but pieties. In truth, most commentators feel no sense of inadequacy when occasionally exasperated politicians challenge them to put themselves before the people. We journalists face the public every day: if you don’t like what we write, go read something else.
When people ask me, as sometimes they do, if I would consider “going into politics”, I usually say that I don’t think I would get any votes. But in any event I don’t see the connection.
Just because I express an opinion about politics does not imply that I am, or need to be, capable of doing better than the politicians I criticise. It is not just that the two are different functions, but that the relationship between the two is defined by a choice: one or the other. If I place myself, even momentarily, among the ranks of those I would criticise, everything changes. If, as a columnist, I critique a particular political policy, there is no necessity, in the normal course of events, for me to demonstrate that I could myself devise a better policy and make it work. But once I move to cross over, I risk being judged by a different standard. In this game, once you feint you have to follow through or fold.
Of course, there are situations in which this logic does not apply. When a society drifts into uncharted waters, normal criteria may be suspended. In a time of national emergency, it may be legitimate for commentators to risk involvement in politics, as occurred, for example, throughout eastern Europe in 1989.
The question is: does the present situation in Ireland today qualify under this heading? By their indication of an interest in running for public office, the Democracy Now brigade has intimated that we are indeed in uncharted waters. By their recorded rhetoric as journalists, of course, several of those involved had already implied – and indeed explicitly suggested – this, but by crossing over the line they have intimated that this society has indeed reached an unparalleled moment of emergency. But if they are right about this, and if they continue to believe it, how can they now return to the jobs they’re “best fitted for”, just because the election was called a fortnight earlier than they expected?
Can we imagine Vaclav Havel slinking away with such an excuse? It is one thing for a journalist to state, in the course of his work, that the system has failed the people. It is quite another thing for him, arising from this assertion, to throw down a gauntlet to the political class, implicitly stating that he can, will do better.
And it is another thing again when, having taken this unprecedented step, he picks his gauntlet up again and walks away. For this suggests that there is not such a serious crisis after all, that his previous rhetoric can be taken with a grain of salt, and that anything he says afterwards must be considered in the light of his own timidity.
In other words, if, having announced the revolution you then decide to postpone it because, in effect, you cannot
find a babysitter, observers may feel justified in concluding that we are not quite as close to the apocalypse as you led them to believe.