It is hard to blame the politicians of the 90s, as the main goal back then was simply to survive, but it is difficult to understand why, at some point in the 2000s, “not knowing things” became our relative advantage. Ignorance truly and seriously became, to use economists' terms, our relative advantage. The prerequisite for this model is officials, politicians, and academics who simply do not know what they ought to know. Fundamentally, they do not know because it allows someone else to profit. In this way, for example, ignorance of where a double-digit current account deficit might lead allowed builders, banks, and the real estate sector to profit during the “fat” years; ignorance of trans-fatty acids in food allowed the food processing sector to profit; ignorance of the high costs of the 2nd pension pillar generated profits for the entire banking sector; and ignorance of money laundering allowed yet another part of the banking sector to profit.
Gundars Dāvidsons “Could we have done better and differently?”
Delfi, 11 July
Every child remembers the period when ignorance separated them from the adult world. Not knowing how to handle a knife, not knowing how to ride a bike on the street, not knowing how to provide for a family—all of this separated me from the magical world where knowledgeable uncles opened champagne with swords, raced through boulevards in their cars, and flirted with mature ladies. I wanted that too, so I gulped down knowledge in big draughts, hoping to join the club of the knowledgeable as quickly as possible.
Halfway to wisdom, doubts began to plague me. Firstly, my knowledge in many fields—mathematics, physics, electronics, and biology—began to exceed the capabilities of the average adult. Yet, it gave me no immediate advantage. Secondly, I learned that I knew nothing, or, in the words of Richard Feynman, I had become smart enough to know that I was stupid. Only later did I find out that this thought comes to almost everyone at a certain stage in life, and Plato had already devoted much reflection to it in the Socratic dialogues. That was how my relationship with ignorance began.
My parents—incredibly bright people who had dedicated their lives to educating others—were convinced meritocrats. All their teaching to me as a child could be summarised in the thesis that, even if they could not provide me with wealth or status in society, my knowledge combined with hard work would certainly ensure my chances of survival, because that is what society is like.
The next phase on my path to wisdom was the revelation that life is full of truths “they don't teach you at school”. These were primarily based on human relationships and social hierarchy, which formed from the skills to convince others of one’s rightness, to organise the work of others to achieve a goal, to defend oneself and one’s opinion, to represent one's ideas, to be loved and in demand; and, according to this revelation, these social intelligence skills were no less important than factual knowledge. I saw dozens of examples where academically brilliant and talented people were ordered about by resourceful, communicative, and admired bosses who, strictly speaking, did not know much at all. I saw early businessmen who made a lot of money by organising the flow of goods and services, and precisely directing their much more knowledgeable subordinates.
I remember an episode from primary school well, where a classmate of mine (who consistently earned ones and twos, rarely diluting them with threes at the end of the quarter) said some wise words: “You will be sweeping the street, but I will be driving past you in my Volga!” And the prophecy actually came true: in 1988, I was sweeping pavements in the mornings at the intersection of Murjāņu and Brīvības streets in Riga, studying physics during the day, working as a lab assistant at the CFI in the evening, while my classmate proudly greeted me from the window of a fancy car as I shoveled cigarette butts discarded at the bus stop. It would be very arrogant to explain what happened through the “value of my classmate’s ignorance”. My classmate’s social knowledge had yielded returns in the short term; his life was also relatively successful later on.
Therefore, the paradox aptly noted by Gundars Dāvidsons, that “not knowing things” is a relative advantage, is rooted in that peculiar form of Latvian political meritocracy we have created by allowing self-taught socialites (some of whom are undoubtedly professors in their own spheres) to dictate the agenda of legislation and economic management. Going to the ballot box, we have valued most those whose social skills in talking have charmed us and who are more agile in servicing our dreams for the future. We have selected politicians who, in their party meetings, do not ask: “What can we do that is useful for Latvia?” (because they do not know), but discuss which statements to release to respond to the electorate's anxieties as measured in sociological polls.
We have not asked about the politicians' knowledge of economics, jurisprudence, or international law either. They decide on these matters, but they have no opinion of their own. Most public servants do not have a single publication in any scientific field, nor a single opinion piece on the national economy. They simply do not know almost anything. When there is an objective need to make a qualified decision, there is a dilemma—whether to start reasoning, revealing one's own incompetence, or to form working groups and hire consultants who have knowledge (and then other doyens of social relations appear, who manage to bribe these consultants to provide commercially more favourable advice, which in turn the first group of wheeler-dealers is unable to understand or expose). Seeing this, the voter becomes desperate and, depending on the degree of despair, either emigrates, gives up and does not participate in elections, or looks for new professors of social relations whose construct of the future they can trust.
Opponents will argue here that, based on the Socratic paradox, scrutinising the knowledge of candidates in the election process is an unattainable goal—deputies will “know nothing” anyway because the volume of knowledge in the world is growing exponentially, one person cannot know everything, etc., but this is a fallacy. The more knowledgeable the politicians, the more qualified the decisions and the faster the progress of the country. For example, I recently listened to a very competent presentation by the former Estonian Prime Minister Taavi Rõivas on e-governance and cryptocurrencies, and I no longer have any questions about the reasons for the success of the E-stonia project.
It is understood that the anecdotal type of the absent-minded, strange, and uncommunicative professor we know from comics will not exist in politics. Fortunately, there are many experts in various sciences whose social relationship skills are at a high enough level to operate publicly. One can agree that barriers have been created in legislation that hinder knowledgeable people from going into politics, especially successful managers and businessmen with good incomes. One can agree that it is extremely humiliating for the knowledgeable to engage in discussions where false and tendentious arguments are used, while sensation-hungry journalists start unravelling the private lives of their family members and hypocritical demands are set against mistakes made in the past. This strengthens the monopoly of masters of social friction in politics, but the value of ignorance does not follow from this.
Speaking of knowledge and modern state administration in Latvia, one must mention another fallacy in which we have become entangled. Voters, and consequently journalists, often ask: what is the (one) thing that must be solved for Latvia to develop as rapidly as everyone would like? This is a great dream of a (big) silver bullet that will once and for all kill everything that is crooked. Political parties try to shout over each other with simple solutions. They are ridiculous. Some want to put the human being at the centre of politics. Others want to lower taxes. A third group wants to invest more in education. Others—to eradicate corruption by tomorrow. As long as they try to simplify the complex process of state administration down to one thing to do, the knowledgeable will feel redundant. This will only rouse the potential employees of the Ministry of Propaganda. I would even like to argue that all sensible ideas in the public space have already been said at some point. Latvia’s misfortune is not a lack of correct ideas, but a very mediocre implementation of them.
Therefore, ignorance has no value. Voters are meritocrats; they just lack the understanding that power should not belong to those who engage in constructing social visions, but to those who also have achievements in economics, medicine, biology, engineering, finance, computer science, philosophy, mathematics, jurisprudence, management science, and other fields of knowledge I have not named and am unable to name. Because I do not know.
Article first published in the August 2018 issue of the magazine "Rīgas Laiks"