Advantages and Disadvantages of an Academic Approach (Column 554)

This morning I was sent remarks made by Prof. Yonatan Breuer, from the Department of Mathematics at the Hebrew University. For me, this is merely a springboard to the topic I wish to discuss here—the advantages and disadvantages of the academic outlook. So I’ll begin with his remarks.

Breuer’s remarks

At the beginning of his lecture in the course “Functional Analysis,” he prefaced with a few words about the current situation:

I present his words in full precisely because they strike me as sincere and expressing a genuine concern (which I do not share, at least not fully), and it is evident they come from an anxious and pained heart. I also believe him that he does not intend to judge students by their positions, though I doubt how well he will succeed in that, since the prevailing spirit in his milieu is that those who hold different views are wicked or foolish. I see how comments of mine (which are by no means support for Levin’s reform, but merely a tempering of the fears about it) are received by my interlocutors with an attentive ear and substantive engagement—and therefore I doubt how a lecturer can give such consideration to the views of a student that strike him as absurd and even malicious, and, of course, threatening. Even subconsciously that may introduce a bias (we all know that when grading exams there is sometimes doubt about what the student meant, and your view of the student and his abilities can change your interpretation of his words. Don’t tell anyone, but there is a measure of fairness and logic in that). Similar claims about judges—that they are removed from the people and unaffected by public discourse—are, of course, baseless, and I don’t see why university lecturers should be an exception. Precisely because the discussion is so acute and the emotions that accompany it (and also the great and, in my view, genuine fear), I would nevertheless refrain from inserting it into lectures on other subjects at the university. Before I come to my topic, one more note.

Is it really appropriate to bring such discussions into a mathematics course?

The justification Breuer offered for his remarks is, in my eyes, problematic. He says that any discussion on any topic must be based on well-constructed arguments—and that is the essence of mathematics. But such a claim could justify engaging with any subject whatsoever (he himself says all fields require substantive and well-constructed argumentation) within a mathematics course. Moreover, even if he were right, I don’t see how such a discussion would contribute to a student’s mathematical ability or to his achievements and understanding in functional analysis. Thus, ironically, this very justification strikes me as an argument that is itself not well constructed.

I will add that I do not categorically reject the legitimacy of raising such a topic in a mathematics course. The issue is burning, and there is certainly interest and room to discuss it substantively in academia as well. But I still have two remarks: First, when there is a heated topic, I agree there is room to discuss it openly—provided there is an opportunity to present arguments and positions from all sides, and provided it does not come at the expense of the syllabus and the material that must be taught (as noted above, I doubt how feasible that is in practice). Second, even a correct conclusion requires proper justification. In my view, the argument he offered does not hold water.

So much for the example; now to the principled discussion.

The thesis: this picture is a result of an academic mode of viewing

I did not bring these remarks in order to discuss the legitimacy of addressing such matters within an academic course, but to ask why academics are indeed inclined to relate to today’s processes in such extreme and hysterical terms. Where do the fears come from that are expressed so candidly and forcefully in Breuer’s words, and likewise in the words of many other academics? I wish to argue that this stems inherently from an academic approach to the world and to what happens in it. One can see this in many varied contexts; here I will do so in relation to the reform. This discussion can illuminate the advantages and limitations of academic thinking and academic engagement in general. I will open with a definition of the academic approach, then move to critical remarks on an interview with Assaf Sagiv, and finally arrive at my thesis regarding the judicial reform and beyond.

A look at the “sciences” of society and the humanities

When I speak here about an academic approach, I mean the methodology customary in the “social sciences” (and parts of the “humanities,” such as history, which for some reason is classified with them rather than with the social sciences, as would be appropriate). The quotation marks indicate that we are not dealing here with science in the full sense (I have addressed this more than once on the site. See, for example, Columns 23–24, 60, 96, 107, 178–184, 403–405, and more), which is reflected in the colorful label I bestowed on them: “the pseudo-sciences.” This is not to say they lack value, only that they are not sciences in the standard sense.

We have become accustomed to the fact that under the heading “exact sciences” we find only the natural sciences (mathematics and computer science are not empirical sciences), and not the social sciences and humanities (philosophy is not at issue here either; it is the mathematics of the humanities. See Columns 155–160). At first glance this is puzzling, for the difference between the natural sciences and the social sciences/humanities is ostensibly only one of subject matter. Physics, chemistry, and biology deal with inanimate nature (and of course differ from one another in laws, character, and content), whereas psychology and history deal with natural phenomena pertaining to humans and society. Seemingly it is only a difference in fields of inquiry, but exactness should not necessarily be determined by different subject matter. Why, then, do biology and physics belong to the exact sciences while psychology and history do not? Does content determine method?

It seems to me the root of the matter is that the phenomena addressed by the social sciences and humanities are more complex, multi-causal, and perhaps also less deterministic (depending on your view of the human being and of free will), and therefore less compliant with rigid laws.[1] One can discuss philosophically whether there are rigid laws in these fields which we have not yet discovered, or whether there are no such laws at all. This is related, in some way, to the question of the uniqueness of the human being (does he have free will, or is he part of the determinism that governs the natural sciences), but I will not enter into that here. Factually, it is clear we do not possess such a system of laws; therefore, at least de facto, in these fields one does not speak in the language of rigid laws of nature. I have written more than once that despite the large amount of worthless nonsense produced in these disciplines, I am not claiming they are devoid of value or that important and interesting work is not done there. My claim is that they are not science. Today, of course, it is very unfashionable to disparage them, since beyond the political correctness underlying the matter, there is also a difference in the kinds of phenomena and modes of treatment. The differences do not necessarily point to failure in research and methodology, but to the nature of these fields.

But researchers in these fields also wish to enjoy the halo accorded to practitioners of the exact natural sciences. A professor of history does not want to be treated differently than his colleague the professor of mathematics or physics. Science proves itself in a very impressive fashion, while these fields do so far less, of course. I already mentioned the anecdote my sister told me, who studied criminology: almost every course of theirs opened with the definition of science. I told her that in physics (and also in engineering) no one addressed that question (which is a shame, in my view). The reason is obvious. Engaging with these questions expresses the desire to gain scientific legitimacy.

Why is all this important? Because there is an effort among researchers in these fields to cling to claims that are falsifiable—so as to be able to shelter under the mantle of “science” (hence their insistence on calling themselves “humanities” or “social sciences”). I touched on this in my article “Academic Research and ‘Issur Negi’ah’” (and elsewhere), and there I explained that although many deny this, in my view the right is with those who insist on this demand (the philological-historical school in the debate discussed there). That is indeed the role of academia, as distinct from the creator or the thinker (consider a professor of literature versus a novelist or poet; or a professor of philosophy versus a philosopher; or a halakhic researcher versus a decisor or commentator, and so on). Academia is supposed to deal with the investigation of the objective components of these fields to the extent such exist, and to leave the creation itself to creators and thinkers (whose thought is then studied in academia).

Karl Popper defined a scientific theory as one that entails predictions that can be subjected to empirical refutation. There are debates over his criterion, and many see it as too draconian and rigid. But without entering into nuances, I will say it is fairly agreed to constitute some kind of minimum demand for scientific status. For example, engagement with demons—or with God, to distinguish—or even with values, cannot be considered scientific because claims in these realms are not susceptible to empirical refutation. This does not mean they are false (the claim that God exists is, in my view, certainly true. As for the existence of demons and angels—I wouldn’t stake my head on that). The claim is that whether true or false, they are clearly not scientific claims.

For our purposes, scholars of Judaism cannot publish an article in an academic journal on the importance of pluralism, since such a claim is not academic. They can, of course, express this as a personal opinion in an op-ed, but not as an article in an academic journal (I am not speaking of the fields that have been completely debased from facts to values—gender studies and the like—where hardly anything remains of scientific character and almost everything is agendas. These are mainly preaching platforms rather than frameworks for academic research). Academic researchers can, however, engage in proving that Maimonides or the Rashba were—or were not—pluralists (and leave conclusions to the reader), since these are claims that are considered “scientific.”

What is the difference between these two kinds of claims? A claim favoring pluralism deals with values and worldview, and as such lies outside the domain of the academic researcher. By contrast, the claim that Maimonides was a pluralist is a claim of fact (true or not) that can, in principle, be examined and refuted. One cannot argue scientifically (on the basis of observations and facts) about value questions, but one can certainly argue scientifically about questions of the second kind. One can examine Maimonides’ sources and see whether pluralism can indeed be found there or not. Therefore the claim that Maimonides was a pluralist is a claim that can be refuted, and as such approaches being a scientific claim (of course, the definitions are more flexible and the evidence less decisive, but it seeks to approximate Popper’s criterion of falsifiability). It is no wonder that the social sciences and humanities strive to focus on such objective claims and distance themselves from more subjective, value-laden claims (see also my debate with Prof. Yoram Yovell about psychiatry in Columns 25–26).

What is an “academic approach”?

The result of this process is that academics tend to examine things by comparing them with analogous situations or parallel cases. They deal with classifying phenomena and finding universal common denominators for each cluster of phenomena, and explaining each phenomenon through its general features. For the same reason, they also try to reduce phenomena to as small a set as possible of general rules and laws, and are inclined toward deterministic interpretations of occurrences in the world. An event is supposed to be the product of the circumstances in which it unfolds and of the “laws of nature” (softer ones, by nature, than the laws of nature in physics, chemistry, or biology) that govern these fields.

This is a very important methodological assumption. The assumption that all phenomena can be explained on the basis of general laws, and that the way to arrive at those laws is by classifying phenomena into subgroups with similar features, grants experts in these fields an advantage over laypeople. A layperson who sees a phenomenon does not know comparable cases and does not conduct such comparisons, and therefore may interpret them incorrectly according to his own inclinations. Comparisons that employ generalizations from experience (these “laws of nature,” the softer ones) and consideration of parallel cases introduce a certain objective control into our interpretation of phenomena. This can avoid various biases stemming from narrow vision and from the observer’s inherent wishes, values, and biases—and especially from specific features of the case observed. Comparison gives us test cases for the interpretation we propose, neutralizes the effect of specific features, and even offers a framework for empirical testing of our hypotheses.

But, on the other hand, for that very reason, academic tools of analysis are also quite limited in their ability to examine singular phenomena—and certainly to recognize the singularity of phenomena. When they see salient characteristic lines in some phenomenon, they tend to assign it to a group of similar phenomena, and they also tend to ignore differences between the phenomena, especially if they don’t fit the accepted categories in their field. If there are unique features to the case before us, they will always try to explain them in universal terms. Therefore they will not accept “subjective” claims based on a sense or intuition, since the “scientific” comparison seems to them more persuasive. They, too, may have a subjective sense that something here is not right or not universal, but because there is no way to justify that “scientifically”—and, of course, it cannot be published as an academic article (which demands comparative “scientific” grounding)—they will tend to ignore such senses.

This is the reason for the flourishing of what is now called “qualitative research” in these fields. It is the result of a feeling that the pseudo-scientific method customary there does not always suit them. It is also a revolt against the desire to resemble the natural sciences and to arrive at rigid universal descriptions. Proponents of qualitative research argue that the fields of society and the humanities are not scientific and that we should acknowledge this and put it on the table. The main reason is the singularity of human phenomena and the inherent difficulty of fitting them into a framework of rigid laws. Qualitative research tries to look at a single case and focus on it—not on comparisons and general features embodied in it. It is important to understand that as academic research, qualitative research also cannot avoid comparisons with other cases; otherwise, the single case teaches us no general insight and is therefore of no academic value. Hence qualitative research also suffers from the aforementioned drawbacks, albeit to a lesser degree. Of course, the advantages of quantitative research are not present there either, and thus sometimes it truly amounts to subjective farce whose admission into academic forums is a tasteless joke (which is why I have allowed myself to chuckle at this phenomenon more than once in the past). This is the advantage of the academic, comparative, and objective outlook.

By the way, similar things happen in the study of philosophy. Most academic articles by philosophy scholars deal with comparisons between claims and philosophical doctrines (this one is Humean, that one Kantian or Wittgensteinian, with differences such-and-such, etc.), as opposed to works of philosophical thought whose subject is the arguments themselves and are, by their nature, less susceptible to objective examination. It is commonly thought that Aristotle or Kant could not have gotten any article accepted into an academic journal, even though studies about their doctrines fill those journals. Incidentally, this is not a criticism. That is fitting and proper, since it is the role of academia and of academic research.

I recall that in the Azach”aḥ forum (“Stop Here and Think”), in which I took part for several years, there was a rule that each participant should present his own justifications for or against a thesis—but one should avoid comparisons and remarks about the character of the argument or the approach under discussion. It is not interesting whether it is Kantian or Popperian. What matters is whether it is true or not, what it says, and what the arguments are either way. It also doesn’t matter whether the arguments you presented already exist in the literature, as is customary to examine in an academic work (where you must then reference them). What matters is whether they are correct and persuasive or not. There, we sought truth and not sources, influences, etc. This is an excellent example of distancing from the academic approach.

It is important to note that academic comparisons are not without value. On the contrary, they have great value. They help us sharpen and clarify concepts and the different options, and therefore also the arguments. This is the advantage of the academic approach. But the flip side of the coin is the disadvantage of circumventing the discussion of what is right and what is wrong, focusing instead on classifications and comparisons.[2] This is in addition to ignoring the particular and focusing on the universal, noted above.

So far I have explained what, for our purposes here, constitutes an “academic approach” to phenomena and to the world in general. I will now move to the interview about Assaf Sagiv, but again will preface with necessary background.

Assaf Sagiv and the “Shalem Academic Center”

A few weeks ago I was sent an interview with Assaf Sagiv, one of the founders of the “Shalem Center” and a leading conservative-right thinker in today’s Israel, who speaks about the current situation (i.e., the current government and its deeds). Surprisingly, he has harsh criticism of the “full-on right-wing government” he himself had hoped for. I will only note what I have written more than once—that this government is everything but “right-wing to the max.” It is a government that espouses extreme socialism (unfettered support for the weak, including those responsible for their condition), that seeks to strengthen the power of the government and weaken that of the court opposite it (that is, to increase governmental centralism)—which is exactly what we would expect from a “full-on left-wing” government. It is no wonder that a true right-winger like Assaf Sagiv would recoil from its conduct. Even so, I think his words and arguments well illustrate the effects of the academic approach. I contend that the fact that a conservative thinker like him joins the severe fears of the protesters (=the “leftists,” and there are those who say: anarchists. Incidentally, such anarchism is a typically right-wing approach, albeit not conservative—see for example here) stems at least in part from this approach.

Let me preface by saying that “Shalem” (which not for nothing calls itself “the ‘Shalem’ Academic Center”) sought from its inception to establish itself as a thoroughly academic institute. Beyond the roster of people involved with it, it also sought to compete on the academic-intellectual playing field that until then had been dominated by left-wing elements. The Israel Democracy Institute, Van Leer, and other policy, economics, and security think tanks—almost all were dominated by center-left figures. That dictated the types of publications and articles the institute produced and the style of thinking that prevailed there (to my impression this has been changing somewhat in recent years as its academic standing has solidified).

It is important to understand that the fields of political science and democratic thought ostensibly deal with facts and science (the state), but by their very nature are entangled up to the neck in value assumptions. It is no wonder that there was at the time a palpable lack of institutions that would give academic expression to conservative-right views and values and would bring conservative thought, arguments, and options to the Hebrew and Israeli reader. Shalem filled this gap in a very impressive way, and Assaf Sagiv has a central role in this process (he was the editor-in-chief of Shalem’s press and of its journal Tchelet). Today the institute has a well-established status and it certainly competes honorably on this field. Following it, additional such institutes were founded (some by people who had worked at Shalem), and the Tikvah Fund and the Kohelet Forum (founded by my friend Prof. Moshe Koppel, whom many see as responsible for the judicial reform now under debate) are part of this phenomenon.

Why am I going on at length about this? Because I was very disturbed by Shalem’s academic bent from the outset. I felt that, due to its desire to compete on the turf of the social sciences and humanities versus the other academic institutes, it subjected itself to their drawbacks, thereby “throwing out the baby with the bathwater.” Part of the problem with those institutes was precisely their academicism, which drew them into many of their tendencies and their view of reality—and this comes through prominently in the interview mentioned.

The interview with Sagiv

The interview with Sagiv is fascinating, and it seems to contain not a few deep and important insights. I also identify with most of what he says, and my feelings are very similar to his (especially regarding whether this is indeed a “full-on right-wing” government). I will not go into details here, because they are not important in themselves for my discussion. I will suffice with a descriptive and critical characterization of his words. Those interested are invited to read them in the original (highly recommended).

As I read, I was very bothered by his academic approach. He constantly engages in comparisons, identifying processes, and drawing parallels to events in other places and times. He draws distinctions between conservatism and populism, leans on various thinkers and philosophical and policy doctrines, determines labels for how right or left, conservative or liberal, ought to act, examines different influences, and compares processes—and in these respects he is highly academic (befitting “Shalem”). Yet throughout, I felt there were very few arguments on the merits, to persuade that all this is correct—particularly with respect to our specific situation.

Moreover, his main claim is that the government’s policy—and indeed all of Israeli conservatism—is not “right-wing to the max,” but rather a significant deviation from true conservatism (I noted this above). It is a populism that sweeps along classical conservatism and the right, here as in the U.S. He is surely right about that, but such a claim in itself does not necessarily say anything on the merits. To argue that this policy is not just and/or not successful, or that Israeli-style conservatism is incorrect and should not be pursued, a historical description of its development and comparisons to what is happening in the U.S., while leaning on this or that thinker, do not suffice. You must explain what is wrong with it. Note that such an explanation cannot, of course, be offered in an academic medium, since it asserts value claims. The comparisons are academic intellectualism; and in light of my preface about Shalem, it is no wonder that Sagiv focuses on them.

Sagiv compares to what transpired in America (fusionism), and then presents historical descriptions of the evolution of conservatism in Israel and its connection to religious Zionism. He offers explanations about disappointments and crises (Yamit, Oslo, the Disengagement, and messianism) that created alienation from government and the judicial system, about American and Israeli populism—but all this is historicist-sociological explanation. There are very few arguments on the merits about why this is good or not, and why.

As an illustrative anecdote, I will use a passage that is not about substance. Even when Sagiv needs to explain his break with the right-wing milieu to which he belongs, he explains it using contextual, typological, and psychological descriptions, almost ignoring the essence:

In conversations with him it’s clear that he does not enjoy the position of a right-winger attacking right-wingers. “It is very difficult. It runs counter to the political DNA embedded in me since childhood. Internal criticism is not natural to the right, and particularly not to Likud. Our instinct is to close ranks, to unite against the left, and to stand behind the elected leader. But more than I am right-wing, I am a conservative and an Israeli patriot, and when I notice a collective insanity spreading within the home, I must raise a cry. And if this leads to severing ties with the mother-base, if it puts me on a collision course with the milieu within which I have long operated, so be it.”

This is not a substantive passage, as it concerns Sagiv himself rather than ideas. But even his discussion of his own opposition to the right is couched in terms of whether internal criticism suits the right or not. Why is that interesting? And if internal criticism is not a right-wing characteristic, should a right-winger not criticize? Why are labeling and headings relevant arguments? Explain that you criticize because that is the right thing to do. Incidentally, it is not because of Zionism and patriotism, but simply because the absence of criticism is a recipe for stupidity and error. A lack of critical thinking is neither correct nor proper, regardless of your commitment to Zionism or your being right-wing. Even if, factually, self-criticism is not typical of the right, the label “right” does not obligate every person classified as right-wing to think and act in a certain way. Critical thinking is good or bad irrespective of what characterizes the right. Labeling is an academic mode of reference (whose concern is comparison), but it is not the relevant plane of discussion. This is only an anecdote, as noted, but precisely for that reason it well illustrates my claim regarding academic thinking.

Implication for the fears and anxiety regarding the reform

I began this column with the question: why, in academic circles, is fear of the reform so prevalent, and why are the concerns about it so deep and hysterical? The talk of the loss of democracy and the fears of dictatorship seem to me entirely sincere (at least consciously—see Column 545 about the calm I observed at the demonstrations, and what that says about the authenticity of these fears), but on the merits, very exaggerated.

I share the opposition to the Levin–Rothman reform, but I do not share the hysteria about it nor the apocalyptic predictions that accompany it. I do not think our democracy is in tangible danger, and it does not seem to me that we are headed to become Turkey, Hungary, Russia, or Poland.[3] I have explained this in previous columns (chiefly in Column 548). My main claim there was that the question of whether we become a democracy or a dictatorship does not depend solely on the system of laws and constitutional arrangements, but also on the integrity of officeholders. Recent right-wing governments appointed conservative judges, and each time they were stunned by their activist rulings. Mandelblit was appointed by Bibi and was his best friend and a prominent right-winger from the womb, and so too Roni Alsheikh. And yet, in practice they acted in an oppositional (some will say too oppositional) and substantive way, and certainly not to the benefit of their appointers.

The conclusion is that it is hard to claim that those appointed by the government will automatically be its instruments. This is definitely not a necessary or self-evident outcome. Therefore, even if the government were to control the appointment of judges and legal advisers, that does not mean it will work that way in practice. Well then, you will say, they will surely fire those who do not please them and replace them with others. But that is not a simple process; it takes much time. Beyond that, the government may change in the meantime (especially if the public understands that this government aspires to take over—it can throw them out). The situation can change back in an instant. I am not saying this is necessarily what will happen, but the fears seem to me very exaggerated, even if not impossible.

Benny Moshe presented me with an interesting argument. If someone today were to propose electing the Attorney General, the State Comptroller, the Chief of Staff, or the Police Commissioner by the government, it would look like a bizarre dictatorial step. But that is the situation today. If that were not the situation and someone tried to change it, there would be fierce protests—just as we see nowadays. It’s just that we have grown used to it, and yet we are still not in a dictatorship. In short, there is a problematic trend in this reform, but the terrible fear, which I consider authentic, that accompanies it seems to me greatly exaggerated.

In my estimation, in academic circles this fear exists mainly because of the constant comparisons made there to what is happening in other places (Turkey, Hungary, Poland, Russia). The segment of the series “Democracy. The End” on Channel 1, along with various comparative pieces in the press (see for example here, here, and here), and much more. There are comparisons that point to the very same processes according to the very same stages, one-to-one, and therefore from an academic vantage the conclusion is entirely natural: we are on the way there. This is an almost necessary result of an academic outlook on reality, which, as explained, is grounded in comparative thinking.

But from my familiarity with Israeli society, I think this comparison is highly problematic. I do not see a realistic chance we will become a state like Poland or Hungary, and certainly not Russia. The question of integrity, which I have stressed many times (especially in Column 548), is something difficult to quantify. Comparative thinking, by its nature, focuses on the systems of rules governing and regulating the situation, and so the gaze is on the character of the laws. It is hard to deal academically with what officeholders will do within the proposed arrangements—but as I explained, this is no less important to this discussion. This is another aspect that reduces my fears about the consequences of the reform. Academics focus on laws, structures, and formal regulation as the metric of democracy or dictatorship, and they struggle to accept that there are particular matters that influence no less. Things like political culture, national and civic character, security circumstances and various pressures (Shoah-related syndromes), modes of recruitment to the army and police, the public’s influence on these institutions, and so on. All these are particular features of our situation that cast great doubt on comparisons to other places.

Our society at its core is open and liberal, with all the familiar and vexing flaws I am the last to deny. We have opinionated people, and in my view the employment of real force against citizens (not baton blows against demonstrators) is not a realistic option. The army here is drawn from every segment of the public, and I simply cannot see it being used against regime opponents (even in the police, where the fear is greater, the chance of this seems to me very small). There is something in Israeli culture that, I think, will not allow that. The surrounding security threats give citizens power (see the pilots’ and fighters’ refusals), and more. In short, in my estimation, despite the learned academic comparisons to Poland and Hungary, and despite how everything appears ostensibly identical down to the last detail, each case has unique features—and academic thinking tends to ignore them. Therefore, though I do see existing risks, my concern is not at the intensity one hears among academics and those who follow them.

Proponents of the academic outlook will, of course, respond that everywhere people thought that way. Citizens of Poland and Hungary thought it would not happen to them. And indeed, comparisons have added value, for they can restrain my own biases and wishes and ground me on seemingly solid, “scientific” footing, and not let me be swept along by the particular case. So far, their advantages, as I described above. Therefore, I think it important to take them into account, and not to go blindly after my inclinations (and perhaps biases). But here I wanted to stress the disadvantages of academic comparativism, which are merely the flip side of the same coin. We must remember we are dealing with the “social” sciences and humanities, and as I have explained, the standing of their comparisons is respectable—but sometimes a qualitative, specific analysis based on unmediated familiarity with the case before us can show that these comparisons, even if academically perfect (i.e., the similarity in truly rigid, objective parameters is complete), will not necessarily lead to the same outcomes everywhere.

And I have not even spoken about the fact that these comparisons themselves, especially those that appear in the popular press, are generally made in a biased and agenda-driven way. Even on the objective, academic planes there are differences between cases, and people tend to ignore them. But, as noted, even if the comparisons are made in a perfectly academic fashion, there are inherent drawbacks to comparative approaches.

Summary and conclusions

I do not intend here to lay down absolutes. It is entirely possible that I am naïve, and perhaps these are my wishes, denials, and suppressions. Comparative academic analysis carries weight and should not be dismissed. But I think it also has drawbacks, and it is important to take those into account as well. As I wrote in Column 545, it seems to me that even among the protesters these fears do not always seem practical, and it is not certain that everyone is convinced they will materialize with high probability. But particularly among academics, I think the fears and anxieties are real and palpable, and the example I brought above from Prof. Yonatan Breuer illustrates this well. My claim is that these fears are connected to academic thinking, since academics are accustomed to neutralizing biases and inclinations and to focusing on comparisons and objective, quantitative (and other) data. And again—it is important to take this into account, because it is a proper way to examine our situations and to avoid biases. But to an equal degree it is important to be aware of the limitations of academic comparisons. One should take them into account—for better and for worse. Perhaps I am mistaken because I am ignoring comparisons, but comparisons themselves are no guarantee of a correct result. One must look at the situation through both sets of lenses: the comparative-objective ones, but without ignoring the particularistic ones.

The conclusion is that it is important to act against the reform in its current form, since it leads to bad and dangerous arrangements. The fear of losing our democracy is not baseless, and the comparisons prove that. But still, the particularistic lenses tell me that this fear is, as yet, rather low. The rumors of the death of our democracy—even if the reform passes in its entirety (and the chance of that still seems slim to me)—are premature and exaggerated. This perspective might perhaps calm the atmosphere a bit and lower the flames, making the discussion more substantive; and I hope it will not, nevertheless, lower the motivation to fight and argue with those who support the extreme version of the reform. Inshallah.

[1] I addressed this from a different angle in my article on “okimtot.”

[2] Incidentally, in analytic philosophy the situation is different. In many works belonging to this genre one can see philosophical arguments and not only surveys, classifications, and comparisons. Therefore, not a few articles in analytic philosophy are in fact not philosophical research but rather philosophic thought. Not all, of course. Sometimes the analytic tools serve to distinguish between conceptions and to classify outlooks, in which case the tools serve academic research in philosophy rather than independent philosophical creation. The boundary is, of course, not sharp.

[3] Incidentally, I am also not sure that the situation in those countries is as it is often described. I see how “apartheid” and the current reform here are described, and I understand that the connection between the descriptions and the actual situation is not always very tight. Mordechai noted this in a comment to Column 545—though in my view he exaggerated to the other side.