Political discourse deserves better than rule by social media

“One of the penalties of refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your ­inferiors,’’ declared the ancient Greek philosopher Plato.

We might console ourselves by noting that periods of poor government and frazzled politics have at least equalled times of good governance since the Menzies post-war boom — and the country has muddled through well enough.

We could cite observations from Plato through to Shakespeare to convince ourselves that human frailties are the constant undermining political discourse.

And even on the symbiosis between politics and mass media we could hark back to Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop or the musings of Winston Churchill to remind ­ourselves the pitfalls are nothing new.

Yet we have to consider that the dawn of the digital generation is an upheaval at least as disruptive as the birth of mass media. It heralds an era where libraries don’t stock books and individuals can self-publish thoughts globally in an ­instant.

We know the seismic impact of this on business models in media, retailing or service delivery. We know it is reshaping education and communications and is realigning political debate and changing outcomes.

But what if it is also unravelling some of our inheritance; our propensity for intelligent research and consideration, our capacity to debate and respectfully disagree? Our evolved habit of harnessing informed discussion for the greater good is the essence of the liberal democratic model that has proven to be the most successful formula for personal freedom and collective prosperity.

Could the innovation of digital communication — sharing more information, more quickly and more cheaply than ever imagined — actually be dumbing us down?

Is our collective genius being crushed because we are funnelling minds into personalised silos of self-curated and self-affirming information? Has it made frivolity too easy and superficiality too prevalent?

Has our ability to share our thoughts widely on social media platforms given us an instant propensity to make pronouncements not aimed at finding solutions but at claiming our chosen public identity? If the secret ballot was the crucial tool in liberating democratic choices, is the public advocacy of social media the enemy of hard decisions for the greater good?

What virtue is signalled by broadcasting a desire for fiscal rectitude, strong borders or small government? Instead, we are tempted to promote our own compassion by live-streaming our empathy for refugees, welfare recipients and policymakers with good intentions.

“Please like me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Instagram because I believe in hard work, success on merit, sovereign states, personal responsibility and fiscal accountability … oh, and I like puppies” — it just doesn’t cut it.

There are cases where social media has played a destructive role in government decision-making: Julia Gillard’s live cattle export ban, Mike Baird’s greyhound racing ban and perhaps even Gillard’s carbon tax. But these examples are about the mechanics of politics; if politicians learned some patience, understood that viral campaigns do not represent mainstream views and took more considered decisions, these episodes would have been avoided.

But could we have unlearned the economic lessons of the 1970s and 80s so quickly if not for the immediacy of the digital age? Could politicians be so stuck in the moment if their education was based on real history and established fact rather than the fashions of the day?

Are we training people to learn from the past or to shun it? Are we encouraging the debate of ideas or just the denouncement of those considered unfashionable?

These questions crystallised for me in a recent speaking engagement with a group of university-level journalism students. The first disturbing impression you get at such events is how they make clear your “otherness” because you are considered to be right of centre.

This was a worrying enough introduction to the ideologically cloistered world of our education system but the revelations during the discussion were startling. The group was genuinely surprised to hear my straightforward arguments on issues such as offshore detention and climate policy.

The student who interviewed me prepped himself by reading my columns and apparently “despised” many of my views. He explained all this in an article published afterwards. “I walked in unsure if the interview would broaden my views or end in a screaming match that would see me ejected from (the college) and having my reputation tarnished as the student who called Chris Kenny a f..kwit,” he wrote. “Thankfully it was the former. Sitting with Chris Kenny for an hour taught me a valuable lesson in respecting other people’s viewpoints.”

I don’t want to criticise this student, indeed I admire his frankness. “Hearing Kenny’s views made it clear to me that the only way to report fairly on any issue is to acquire a deep understanding of both sides of an argument,” he wrote.

This is a good lesson, learned well. But my point is that this should be a lesson learned on day one at any university, especially in journalism. It is an attitude that should be at the heart of daily living, let alone academic culture.

Do we not consider anything from other people’s perspectives any more? As young people from our postmodernist institutions populate schools, businesses and parliaments, could they weaken respect for valued institutions? Remember this week Labor’s federal opposition overtly accused the government — with no specific evidence — of directing the Australian Federal Police to engage in a political witch-hunt. Most media reported this as a valid political ­argument.

Perhaps we are producing political leaders who don’t understand the legacies on which they need to build.

In January Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau sought to maximise his popularity on the back of Donald Trump’s immigration ban woes. “To those fleeing persecution, terror & war, Canadians will welcome you, regardless of your faith,” he tweeted. “Diversity is our strength #Wel­comeToCanada.”

This was a naive statement from the leader of an immigrant nation, albeit one shielded from ­direct arrivals by icy oceans on three sides and the world’s greatest immigrant magnet to the south. Sure enough and soon enough reality caught up with him as immigrants took up this offer and tried to enter via the US.

By August, Trudeau had to assert the difference between refugees and economic migrants — like a grown-up — and affirm the rule of law. “You will not be at an advantage if you choose to enter Canada irregularly,” he said. “You must follow the rules and there are many.”

Across the Tasman this month another young, progressive leader has assumed office. New Zealand’s Jacinda Ardern seems to have put her own country’s recent economic reforms and progress into the forgettery.

“It all depends on how proactive a government is,” Ardern said. “When you have a market economy it all comes down to whether or not you acknowledge where the market has failed and where intervention is required. Has it failed our people in recent times? Yes. How can you claim that you’ve been successful when you have growth at roughly 3 per cent but you’ve got the worst homelessness in the developed world?”

Here was the Prime Minister offering the complex issue of homelessness as the barometer of market and/or economic success. And she was using it as the justification for as-yet-unspecified interventions (that is, more spending of one kind or another).

We saw a similar kneejerk response here in the wake of the global financial crisis, triggering overblown government interventions and baked-in expenditure that still holds the country back. Kevin Rudd was stuck in the ­moment and pronounced that “the international challenge for social democrats is to save capitalism from itself”.

We live in a world where instead of joining political parties or engaging in serious debate, people can salve their consciences by clicking on a GetUp! campaign.

Even Plato prefigured all this and sent us a warning down the ages: “One of the penalties of refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your ­inferiors.”