Lure of globalisation battles our instinctive tribalism

What has caused the rise in populism that's threatening the mainstream political parties around the developed world, including here?

Economists tend to explain it essentially in economic terms – the bottom has been given a rough deal for years, and finally is rising up – but other scholars see it much more in social and cultural terms: people objecting to being overrun by incomers. Immigrants, asylum seekers, Mexicans, Muslims, Asians.

In his new book for the Lowy Institute, Choosing Openness, Parliament's most accomplished economist, Dr Andrew Leigh, also Labor's shadow assistant treasurer, readily acknowledges the role of xenophobia in explaining why "openness makes us uncomfortable".

He sees our fear of foreigners as part of our evolutionary make-up, and I don't doubt he's right.

Drawing on the work of British anthropologist Robin Dunbar, he argues that "for most of history, humans lived in groups of about 150 people" – a figure known as "Dunbar's number".

Such groups were big enough for some specialisation, but small enough for everyone to know and trust everyone else. People were born, mated, hunted and died within their small community.

"In this environment, there were two kinds of people: those in your tribe and those not in your tribe," Leigh says.

"It made sense to take care of your tribal members. You shared a lifelong relationship with them. Thanks to inbreeding, the rest of the tribe probably looked a lot like you and you certainly all dressed alike.

"Conversely, outsiders were likely to look a bit different and were probably dangerous. While some groups traded, killing was extremely common."

One in seven people in these kinds of societies met their end as a result of violence by another person, he says.

For about 99 per cent of the time that homo sapiens have been on the planet, most of us have lived in small groups. As a species, that is what we evolved to do.

"Each of us is here today because our primitive ancestors were skilled at either fighting outsiders or avoiding conflict. The rule that 'different equals dangerous' kept our forebears alive."

But while hunkering down in the face of difference might have been a useful evolutionary strategy in the past, the growth of cities changed the equation, Leigh argues.

Cities are bound together by not by familial relationships, but by rules and norms of acceptable behaviour.

For hundreds of years, the most productive cities have been those that welcome visitors. In a primitive tribe, a dislike of difference can keep you alive. In a city, it's likely to just make you poorer.

"In this sense, a distrust of diversity is a bit like wisdom teeth – an evolutionary vestige that once helped us grind up plants, but now are more likely to take us on a trip to the dentist's chair."

Today's backlash against openness, Leigh argues, shows how humans' natural discomfort with difference can be exploited for political gain.

In a seminal study of the politics of hatred, the Harvard authority on urban economics Edward Glaeser noted that the key to building a powerful coalition around hate is to focus voters' anger on an "out group" that is sufficiently large to be taken seriously as a threat, but too small to be electorally decisive.

Remind you of any redheads you know?

So Leigh says that populism – the idea that politics is a conflict between the pure mass of people and a small vile elite – is the product of four main forces.

First, slow growth in living standards when the proceeds of economic growth haven't been shared.

"In societies where prosperity is broadly shared, a cosmopolitan outlook steadily replaces traditional values of religion, deference to authority, and an exclusive focus on the security of our family and tribe," he says.

Second, populism is fostered by the pace at which society and technology are changing. Voters may turn to extreme politics as a way of saying "Stop the world – I want to get off."

Third, populism has benefited from canny political entrepreneurs – Duterte, Erdogan, Trump – able to generate massive free media coverage by attacking rivals and breaking taboos.

Fourth, populism has grown because of a loss of faith in mainstream centrist parties. (Their ever-declining standards of behaviour would have nothing to do with this, of course.)

In the late 1960s, seven out of 10 Australians said they always voted for the same party. Today, the share of party loyalists is down to four in 10.

Seems to me that, though much of the problem is manifest in fear of foreigners, the best way to strengthen cosmopolitan values is to ensure the benefits of globalisation and technological change are shared more fairly.

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Our bulldust detectors are on the blink

The world has always been full of bulldust, which is why everyone should come equipped with a bulldust detector.

Trouble is, we're living in a time of bulldust inflation. Some of the things we're being told are harder and harder to believe. But a lot of people's detectors seem to be on the blink.

Part of the reason for the step-up may be that there are so many people shouting that anyone else hoping to be heard has to start shouting too.

These thoughts are prompted by the runaway success of the claim that 40 per cent of jobs in Australia are likely to be automated in the next 10 to 15 years.

This is a fantastic claim in the original, dictionary sense: imaginative or fanciful; remote from reality.

And yet it seems many thousands of people have accepted its likelihood without question.

Similar predictions have been made about America, and are just as widely believed.

As I've written before, two economists, Jeff Borland and Michael Coelli, of Melbourne University, who didn't believe it – because they could find no evidence to support it – traced the origins of the claim and the flimsy assumptions on which it was based.

Which led them to ask the question I'm asking: why do people so readily believe propositions they should find hard to believe?

The authors found a quote from a leading American economist, Alan Blinder, of Princeton University, in his book, After the Music Stopped.

"The consequences of adverse economic events are typically exaggerated by the Armageddonists​ – a sensation-seeking herd of pundits, seers and journalists who make a living by predicting the worst.

"Prognostications of impending doom draw lots of attention, get you on TV, and sometimes even lead to best-selling books . . .

"But the Armageddonists are almost always wrong," Blinder concludes.

What? Journalists? Bad news?

Blinder is right in concluding we take a lot more notice of bad news than good. Borland and Coelli observe that "You are likely to sell a lot more books writing about the future of work if your title is 'The end of work' rather than 'Everything is the same'.

"If you are a not-for-profit organisation wanting to attract funds to support programs for the unemployed, it helps to be able to argue that the problems you are facing are on a different scale to what has been experienced before.

"Or if you are a consulting firm, suggesting that there are new problems that businesses need to address, might be seen as a way to attract extra clients.

"For politicians as well, it makes good sense to inflate the difficulty of the task faced in policy-making; or to be able to say that there are new problems that only you have identified and can solve," the authors say.

I'd add that if you're a think tank churning out earnest reports you hope will be noticed – if only so your generous funders see you making an impact – it's tempting to lay it on a bit thicker than you should.

By now, however, it's better known that there are evolutionary reasons why the human animal – maybe all animals – takes more interest in bad news than good news.

It's because we've evolved to be continually searching our environment for signs of threat to our wellbeing.

All of us are this way because we've descended from members of our species who were pretty nervy, cautious, suspicious types. We know that must be true because those of our species who weren't so cautious didn't survive long enough to have offspring.

In ancient days, the threats we were most conscious of were to life and limb – being eaten by a wild animal. These days we keep well away from wild animals, but there are still plenty of less spectacular, more psychological threats – real or imagined – to our wellbeing.

This instinctive concern for our own safety is no bad thing. It helps keep us safe. It's an example of the scientists' "precautionary principle" – the dire prediction may not come to pass, but better to be on the safe side and take out some insurance, so to speak.

By contrast, failing to take notice of good news is less likely to carry a cost.

Except that, like many good things, it can be overdone. If we're too jumpy, reacting to every little thing that comes along, we're unlikely to be terribly happy. And unremitting stress can take its toll on our health.

Which brings us to the media. Journalists didn't need evolutionary psychologists to tell them the customers find bad news more interesting. Bad news has always received a higher weighting in the assessment of "newsworthiness".

But I have a theory that the news media have responded to greater competition – not just between them but, more importantly, with the ever-increasing number of other ways of spending leisure time – by turning up the volume on bad news.

This can create a feedback loop. People wanting their messages to be broadcast by a media that's become ever-more obsessed by bad news respond by making those messages more terrible.

I'm not sure the media have done themselves a favour by making the news they're trying to sell more depressing, BTW.

But Borland and Coelli offer a further possible explanation of why we're inclined to believe that the technological change which has been reshaping the jobs market for two centuries without great conflagration is about to turn disastrous: the cognitive bias that causes people to feel "we live in special times" – also known as "this time is different".

"An absence of knowledge of history, the greater intensity of feeling about events which we experience first-hand, and perhaps a desire to attribute significance to the times in which we live, all contribute to this bias," they say.

If so, a lot of people will continue believing stuff they should doubt.

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