Dans un monde où les discours circulent de plus en plus vite et peuvent être générés par des machines, il importe plus que jamais d’apprendre aux élèves à remettre en contexte ce qu’ils lisent et à comparer leurs sources, en s’interrogeant sur les intentions des locuteurs. Exemple en classe de CM2.
Dans un contexte marqué par une surabondance d’informations issues des réseaux sociaux et d’internet, il devient de plus en plus difficile, pour les jeunes, de distinguer les sources fiables des contenus mensongers. Dans ce contexte, le rôle des enseignants dans le développement des compétences critiques des élèves s’avère crucial.
Peu de chercheurs en didactique se sont véritablement attelés à définir ce que recouvre la notion de critique. Ce n’est pas une discipline officiellement enseignée. Cette notion est transversale, on parle plutôt de compétence critique ou de pensée critique.
Voici ce que propose Hannah Arendt dans Juger, sur la philosophie politique de Kant : « Le penser critique n’est possible que là où les points de vue de tous les autres sont ouverts à l’examen ». L’examen c’est l’analyse, l’observation minutieuse d’un élément pour établir une réalité. En histoire, il est difficile d’établir une vérité en dehors des faits, un document portant toujours le point de vue de celui qui l’a créé. On préfère donc le terme de réalité. Afin de mener cet examen, comment s’y prend-on ? Quel processus peut être mis en œuvre ?
Le rôle de l’enseignant
La classe se structure autour de plusieurs pôles : l’enseignant, les élèves et le savoir en jeu, constituant ce que l’on désigne généralement comme le triangle didactique. En amont de la séance, l’enseignant engage une réflexion préalable sur les savoirs à transmettre. Il est alors pertinent d’analyser les modalités concrètes qu’il mobilise en situation d’enseignement, sous la forme de gestes professionnels.
L’enseignant va utiliser cet outil pour guider, orienter les élèves vers le savoir qu’il a décidé de viser : ici, la compétence critique. Étudier son rôle et son langage est donc une entrée pour mieux comprendre le discours des élèves et, à travers leurs paroles, leur faire apprendre un savoir, une compétence. Le discours de l’enseignant va être analysé au prisme de ce qu’on appelle les gestes professionnels langagiers didactiques.
Ce concept de gestes professionnels trouve son origine dans la psychologie du travail. Il renvoie d’abord à des gestes corporels : l’enseignant se déplace, mobilise ses mains et exprime des intentions à travers ses mimiques. Ces gestes sont qualifiés de « professionnels » car ils contribuent à l’instauration de codes partagés au sein de la classe (corriger des copies par exemple). Ils sont également langagiers, dans la mesure où le langage constitue l’outil central de l’enseignant pour transmettre des connaissances : il s’agit d’un discours structuré autour d’un objectif d’apprentissage. Enfin, ces gestes sont didactiques, en ce qu’ils participent à la construction d’un savoir ciblé. Cet ensemble de gestes relève d’un processus d’étayage, visant à guider et orienter l’activité cognitive des élèves.
L’enseignant mobilise le langage de diverses manières : pour mettre en lumière le thème de la discussion (geste de focalisation), valoriser l’intervention d’un élève en la reprenant (geste de reprise), attirer l’attention sur un élément pertinent à analyser (geste de pointage), reformuler et enrichir les propos d’un élève (geste de reformulation), ou encore établir des liens avec des connaissances précédemment construites (geste de tissage didactique).
Ces gestes de l’enseignant peuvent amener les élèves à se poser des questions, à réfléchir et à débuter la construction d’une compétence critique.
Un cours d’histoire en CM2
Les données sont recueillies dans une classe de CM2 lors des séances d’histoire. La démarche de cette recherche est d’étudier des lettres de poilus présentant des points de vue différents, voire divergents. Les élèves sont confrontés à l’avis de quelqu’un qui a vraiment existé et qui nous livre sa pensée. Les élèves sont amenés à utiliser les mêmes outils que les historiens pour comprendre les documents : mener des enquêtes.
Ici il s’agit de deux lettres de poilus (Giono et Prieur) qui ont écrit en étant au même endroit (1916 à Verdun) mais pas tout à fait au même moment. Voici les lettres transcrites.
Initier les élèves à un questionnement méthodique
Afin de mettre en évidence l’intérêt des gestes professionnels langagiers didactiques dans les propos de l’enseignante et leur rôle dans la construction d’une pensée critique, nous analysons un échange portant sur la lettre de Giono (la lettre de Prieur ayant également été travaillée en classe). L’enseignante est désignée par l’abréviation PE, et les prénoms des élèves ont été modifiés. La transcription rend fidèlement les échanges, y compris les erreurs de langage. Les gestes professionnels langagiers didactiques repérés sont signalés en gras.
Fourni par l’auteur
Dans le tour de parole 335, l’enseignante focalise l’attention des élèves sur l’objet de la discussion, à savoir la lettre de Giono. Elle reformule alors l’intervention d’une élève en soulignant que la lettre de Prieur « dit la vérité ». Elle oriente ensuite le regard des élèves vers la lettre de Giono et les invite à réfléchir à la question de sa véracité.
Cela entraîne des réponses intéressantes de la part des élèves : « il ment » (Giono), un autre précise « il dissimule la vérité ». Les élèves questionnent le contenu de la lettre de Giono et réalisent que l’auteur ment : ce que dit Giono est donc potentiellement faux.
L’enseignante reprend sans modification l’intervention d’Archie et demande des précisions sur les indices qui le mènent à cette conclusion.
L’enseignante précise sa question : que manque-t-il dans cette lettre pour être crédible ?
Les élèves répondent de deux manières : en citant les éléments manquants tel le lexique en lien avec le domaine de la guerre (qui sont évoqués dans la lettre de Prieur) et, en réalisant que l’auteur parle de joie, terme qui ne coïncide pas avec la thématique guerrière.
L’enseignante reprend la remarque d’Archie sur le mot « joie » en donnant son avis (« choquant »). Elle incite les élèves à continuer leur enquête en cherchant d’autres mots inattendus dans la lettre de Giono. Archie trouve tout de suite le mot « heureux ».
Fourni par l’auteur
L’enseignante questionne ensuite les élèves dans l’objectif de replacer la situation dans un contexte qui leur permet de comprendre le décalage entre être heureux et être en guerre. Elle engage un tissage didactique, pour chercher un lien entre ce qu’ils connaissent et ce qui est travaillé en classe : « A quel moment de votre vie vous êtes heureux ? »
Jane se positionne et estime que Giono dit la vérité, mais la sienne, en omettant l’aspect négatif que représentent la guerre et ses combats.
Les élèves comprennent ensuite que Giono s’adresse à ses parents âgés et qu’il cherche à ne pas les inquiéter. La compétence critique permet alors aux élèves de saisir non seulement ce que dit l’auteur, mais surtout pourquoi il le formule de cette manière et pas autrement. Elle les amène à comprendre qu’un texte ne se limite pas à transmettre une information : il produit un discours – au sens fort du terme – qui poursuit un objectif spécifique (ici, rassurer ses parents). Les gestes de l’enseignante visent précisément à guider les élèves vers cette compréhension.
Initier les élèves à un questionnement méthodique permettant de mieux comprendre la fonction d’un document relève de gestes professionnels que l’enseignant peut mettre en œuvre en classe. On le voit bien dans cet extrait de transcription : l’enseignante pose des questions pour orienter la réflexion des élèves et cela permet aux élèves de questionner ce qu’ils lisent.
Face aux réseaux sociaux, l’école primaire et le travail autour de la compétence critique doivent permettre aux jeunes d’être en mesure d’analyser les informations reçues et de pouvoir les trier.
Marie Coutant ne travaille pas, ne conseille pas, ne possède pas de parts, ne reçoit pas de fonds d’une organisation qui pourrait tirer profit de cet article, et n’a déclaré aucune autre affiliation que son organisme de recherche.
Les tensions entre Donald Trump et Elon Musk semblent avoir atteint un point de non-retour. Le milliardaire de la tech vient d’annoncer la création de sa propre formation politique, le « Parti de l’Amérique ». Si le bipartisme paraît gravé dans le marbre du système états-unien, cette tentative de troisième voie s’inscrit dans une longue tradition de contestation – avec, jusqu’ici, un succès limité.
L’histoire politique des États-Unis a souvent été façonnée par des élans de colère : colère contre l’injustice, contre l’inaction, contre le consensus mou. À travers cette rage parfois viscérale surgit l’énergie de la rupture, qui pousse des figures marginales ou charismatiques à se dresser contre l’ordre établi.
En ce sens, le lancement par Elon Musk du Parti de l’Amérique (« American Party ») s’inscrit dans une tradition d’initiatives politiques issues de la frustration à l’égard d’un système bipartisan jugé, selon les cas, sclérosé, trop prévisible ou trop perméable aux extrêmes. Ce geste politique radical annonce-t-il l’émergence d’une force durable ou ne sera-t-il qu’un soubresaut médiatique de plus dans un paysage déjà saturé ?
Le système bipartisan : stabilité, stagnation et quête d’alternatives
Depuis le début du XIXe siècle, le paysage politique américain repose sur un duopole institutionnalisé entre le Parti démocrate et le Parti républicain. Ce système, bien que traversé par des courants internes parfois contradictoires, a globalement permis de canaliser les tensions politiques et de préserver la stabilité démocratique du pays.
L’alternance régulière entre ces deux forces a assuré une continuité institutionnelle, mais au prix d’un verrouillage systémique qui marginalise les initiatives politiques émergentes. Le scrutin uninominal majoritaire à un tour, combiné à une logique dite de « winner takes all » (lors d’une élection présidentielle, le candidat vainqueur dans un État « empoche » l’ensemble des grands électeurs de cet État), constitue un obstacle structurel majeur pour les nouveaux acteurs politiques, rendant leur succès improbable sans une réforme profonde du système électoral.
Historiquement, plusieurs tentatives ont cherché à briser ce duopole. L’exemple le plus emblématique reste celui de Theodore Roosevelt (président de 1901 à 1909), qui, en 1912, fonda le Progressive Party (ou Bull Moose Party), dont il devint le candidat à la présidentielle de cette année. Le président sortant, William Howard Taft, républicain, vit alors une grande partie des voix républicaines se porter sur la candidature de Roosevelt, qui était membre du Parti républicain durant ses deux mandats, ce dernier obtenant 27 % des suffrages contre 23 % pour Taft ; le candidat du parti démocrate, Woodrow Wilson, fut aisément élu.
Plus récemment, en 1992, dans une configuration assez similaire, le milliardaire texan Ross Perot capta près de 20 % des voix en tant que candidat indépendant lors de l’élection remportée par le démocrate Bill Clinton devant le président sortant, le républicain George H. Bush, auquel la présence de Perot coûta sans doute un nombre considérable de voix. Perot allait ensuite fonder le Reform Party en 1995. Sa rhétorique anti-establishment séduisit un électorat désabusé, mais son mouvement s’effondra rapidement, victime d’un manque de structure organisationnelle, d’idéologie claire et d’ancrage local.
Ross Perot (à droite) lors du troisième débat l’opposant à Bill Clinton et à George H. Bush lors de la campagne présidentielle de 1992. George Bush Presidential Library and Museum
D’autres figures, telles que les écologistes Ralph Nader (2000, 2004, 2008) et Jill Stein (2012, 2016, 2024) ou le libertarien Gary Johnson (2012 et 2016), ont également porté des candidatures alternatives, mais leur impact est resté marginal, faute de relais institutionnels et d’un soutien électoral durable.
Cette récurrence de la demande pour une « troisième voie » reflète la complexité croissante de l’électorat américain, composé de modérés frustrés par l’immobilisme partisan, de centristes orphelins d’une représentation adéquate et d’indépendants en quête de solutions pragmatiques. Ce mécontentement, ancré dans la perception d’un système bipartisan sclérosé, offre un terrain fertile à des entreprises politiques disruptives, telles que le Parti de l’Amérique d’Elon Musk, qui cherche à transformer cette frustration en une force politique viable.
Le Parti de l’Amérique : une réappropriation symbolique et une réponse au trumpisme
Le choix du nom « Parti de l’Amérique » n’est pas anodin ; il constitue une déclaration politique en soi. En adoptant l’adjectif « American », Musk opère une réappropriation symbolique de l’identité nationale, se positionnant comme une force de rassemblement transcendant les clivages partisans.
Cette stratégie rhétorique vise à redéfinir le débat sur ce que signifie être « américain », un enjeu central dans le discours politique contemporain. Le nom, volontairement générique, cherche à minimiser les connotations idéologiques spécifiques (progressisme, conservatisme, libertarianisme) pour privilégier une identité englobante, à la fois patriotique et universelle, susceptible d’attirer un électorat lassé des divisions partisanes. En outre, en reprenant cette dénomination, qui a été celle de plusieurs formations politiques par le passé, Musk joue avec une mémoire politique oubliée, tout en expurgeant ce terme de ses anciennes connotations xénophobes pour en faire un vecteur d’unité et de modernité.
En effet, dans l’histoire des États-Unis, plusieurs partis politiques ont porté le nom d’American Party bien avant l’initiative d’Elon Musk. Le plus célèbre fut l’American Party des années 1850, aussi connu sous le nom de Know-Nothing Party, un mouvement nativiste opposé à l’immigration, en particulier à celle des catholiques irlandais. Fondé vers 1849, il a connu un succès politique important pendant quelques années, faisant élire des gouverneurs et des membres du Congrès, et présentant l’ancien président Millard Fillmore (1850-1853) comme candidat à l’élection présidentielle de 1856.
Après le déclin de ce mouvement, d’autres partis ont adopté le même nom, notamment dans les années 1870, mais sans impact significatif. En 1924, un autre American Party émerge brièvement comme plate-forme alternative, sans succès durable. Le nom est aussi parfois confondu avec l’American Independent Party, fondé en 1967 pour soutenir George Wallace, connu pour ses positions ségrégationnistes ; ce parti a parfois été rebaptisé American Party dans certains États.
En 1969, une scission de ce dernier a donné naissance à un nouvel American Party, conservateur et anti-communiste. Par la suite, divers petits groupes ont repris ce nom pour promouvoir un patriotisme exacerbé, des idées anti-globalistes ou un retour aux valeurs fondatrices, mais sans réelle influence nationale. Ainsi, le nom American Party a été utilisé à plusieurs reprises dans l’histoire politique américaine, souvent par des partis à tendance nativiste, populiste ou conservatrice, et porte donc une charge idéologique forte.
Le lancement du Parti de l’Amérique de Musk s’inscrit également dans une opposition explicite au trumpisme, perçu comme une dérive populiste du conservatisme traditionnel. Musk, par sa critique des projets budgétaires de Donald Trump, exprime une colère ciblée contre ce qu’il considère comme une gestion économique irresponsable et des politiques publiques inefficaces.
Cette opposition ne se limite pas à une divergence tactique, mais reflète une volonté de proposer une alternative fondée sur une vision techno-libérale, où l’innovation, la rationalité scientifique et l’entrepreneuriat occupent une place centrale. Le Parti de l’Amérique se présente ainsi comme un refuge pour les électeurs désenchantés par les excès du trumpisme et par les dérives perçues du progressisme démocrate, cherchant à dépasser le clivage gauche-droite au profit d’un pragmatisme axé sur l’efficacité, la transparence et la performance publique.
Une idéologie floue : aspirations économiques plutôt que fondements doctrinaires
Le Parti de l’Amérique, malgré son ambition de réinventer la politique américaine, souffre d’une absence de fondements idéologiques cohérents. Plutôt que de s’appuyer sur une doctrine politique clairement définie, le mouvement semble guidé par des aspirations économiques et financières, portées par la vision entrepreneuriale de Musk.
Cette approche privilégie la méritocratie technologique, l’optimisation des ressources publiques et une forme de libertarianisme modéré, qui rejette les excès de la régulation étatique tout en évitant les dérives de l’anarcho-capitalisme. Cependant, cette orientation, centrée sur l’efficacité et l’innovation, risque de se réduire à un programme technocratique, dénué d’une vision sociétale ou éthique plus large.
Le discours du Parti de l’Amérique met en avant la promesse de « rendre leur liberté aux Américains » mais la nature de cette liberté reste ambiguë. S’agit-il d’une liberté économique, centrée sur la réduction des contraintes fiscales et réglementaires pour les entrepreneurs et les innovateurs ? Ou bien d’une liberté plus abstraite, englobant des valeurs civiques et sociales ? L’absence de clarification sur ce point soulève des questions quant à la capacité du parti à fédérer un électorat diversifié.
En se focalisant sur des objectifs économiques – tels que la promotion des mégadonnées, de l’intelligence artificielle et de l’entrepreneuriat – au détriment d’une réflexion sur les enjeux sociaux, culturels ou environnementaux, le Parti de l’Amérique risque de se limiter à une élite technophile, éloignant les électeurs en quête d’un projet politique plus inclusif. Cette orientation économique, bien que séduisante pour certains segments de la population, pourrait ainsi entraver la construction d’une base électorale suffisamment large pour concurrencer les partis établis.
Les défis de la viabilité : entre ambition et réalité électorale
La viabilité du Parti de l’Amérique repose sur plusieurs facteurs décisifs : sa capacité à s’implanter localement, à recruter des figures politiques crédibles, à mobiliser des ressources financières et médiatiques durables, et surtout à convaincre un électorat de plus en plus méfiant à l’égard des promesses politiques.
Si Elon Musk dispose d’un capital symbolique et économique considérable, sa transformation en une dynamique collective reste incertaine. Le système électoral américain, avec ses mécanismes favorisant les grands partis, constitue un obstacle majeur. Sans une crise systémique ou une réforme électorale d’envergure, le Parti de l’Amérique risque de reproduire le destin éphémère de ses prédécesseurs.
De plus, la figure de Musk est profondément polarisante. Sa colère, catalyseur de cette initiative, traduit un malaise réel dans la société américaine, mais sa capacité à fédérer au-delà de son audience habituelle – composée d’entrepreneurs, de technophiles et de libertariens – reste à démontrer. Le succès du Parti de l’Amérique dépendra de sa capacité à transcender l’image de son fondateur (lequel ne pourra pas, en tout état de cause, se présenter à l’élection présidentielle car il n’est pas né aux États-Unis) pour incarner un mouvement collectif, ancré dans des structures locales et des propositions concrètes.
Le Parti de l’Amérique, malgré l’aura de son instigateur, risque de demeurer un sursaut protestataire plutôt qu’une force durable. Toutefois, il révèle une vérité profonde : l’Amérique contemporaine est en quête d’un nouveau récit politique, et la colère, lorsqu’elle est canalisée, peut parfois poser les bases d’une transformation.
Reste à savoir si le « grand soir » annoncé par Musk saura prendre racine ou s’évanouira dans le tumulte électoral.
Frédérique Sandretto ne travaille pas, ne conseille pas, ne possède pas de parts, ne reçoit pas de fonds d’une organisation qui pourrait tirer profit de cet article, et n’a déclaré aucune autre affiliation que son organisme de recherche.
Le gouvernement espère toujours un accord entre partenaires sociaux dans le cadre du conclave sur la réforme des retraites. Mais quelle serait la valeur juridique de ce « conclave » ?
Tentant de clore le vif débat ouvert par l’adoption de la Loi au sujet du recul de l’âge légal de départ à la retraite à 64 ans, le 1er ministre a proposé aux représentants des salariés et des employeurs une procédure qu’il a qualifié de « conclave ». Cette dénomination évoquant la désignation d’un nouveau pape est d’autant plus mal choisie qu’elle renvoie en réalité à une vieille procédure fort républicaine de « concertation ». Quels sont ses fondements et ses modalités ?
La « concertation » selon la loi
Notre système politique a longtemps connu une tradition de « concertation » informelle ayant porté ses fruits en donnant lieu à des accords interprofessionnels fondateurs notamment dans le domaine des retraites (accords sur les régimes complémentaires de retraites des salariés cadres – AGIRC – en 1947 ainsi que non-cadres – ARRCO – en 1961). Toutefois la loi du 31 janvier 2007 a institué une procédure de « concertation » préalable aux votes de projets de Loi portant sur les relations individuelles et collectives du travail, l’emploi et la formation professionnelle.
Pour certains, cette institutionnalisation de la participation des parties prenantes à la formation de la loi représente un effort méritoire accordant une nouvelle place aux destinataires de la loi, mais pour d’autres il s’agit bien au contraire d’un abaissement supplémentaire de la place du parlement, voire une atteinte inadmissible à la souveraineté du peuple s’exprimant normalement par la représentation parlementaire. En effet, l’article 3 de notre Constitution précise que : « la souveraineté nationale appartient au peuple qui l’exerce par ses représentants et par la voie du referendum. Aucune section du peuple ni aucun individu ne peut s’en attribuer l’exercice ». Par conséquent, dans les différentes branches du droit, la Loi est exclusivement formée par des parlementaires, le cas échéant sur un projet du gouvernement.
Néanmoins, en matière de droit du travail, la formation de la loi fait désormais l’objet d’une délibération publique associant divers acteurs privés considérés comme représentatifs et dont l’avis est sollicité de façon formelle. Cette procédure ne se confond pourtant pas avec la consécration d’une négociation collective interprofessionnelle préalable au vote de la Loi. Il ne s’agit pas de prévenir (ou de régler) un éventuel antagonisme social par le procédé de la négociation collective, mais de préférer un « dialogue » afin d’obtenir une mise en œuvre efficace des réformes voulues par les autorités publiques.
Pas de compétence autonome des partenaires sociaux
Dans plusieurs systèmes juridiques, comme en Allemagne (l’article 9, alinéa 3 de la constitution allemande, les acteurs sociaux ont obtenu un champ de compétence autonome constituant un domaine réservé en matière de droit du travail. C’est ce qu’ont réclamé les partenaires sociaux français (positions communes des 16 juillet 2001 et 9 avril 2008 sans obtenir satisfaction. En droit français, il n’existe pas de liste de thèmes pour lesquels les protagonistes sociaux bénéficient d’une priorité d’intervention leur permettant de supplanter le législateur. Si le principe constitutionnel de participation garantit et soutient la contribution de la négociation collective à la production normative du droit du travail, le législateur fixer toujours les grands principes.
La « concertation » représente donc un prudent englobement de la « démocratie sociale » par la « démocratie politique », conférant aux acteurs sociaux la possibilité de discuter les termes des projets de réformes du droit du travail mais conservant au bout du compte au législateur le pouvoir du « dernier mot » comme l’écrit Alain Supiot.
Un gouvernement peu contraint par la « concertation »
En outre, l’examen de la portée effective de cette « concertation » démontre sa modestie. Soulignons d’abord que les modalités prescrites sont très peu contraignantes. En effet, le Conseil Constitutionnel et le Conseil d’État estiment que si la Loi adoptée n’a pas respecté la procédure prévue par les articles n°1 et suivants du Code du travail, mais qu’elle a tout de même suivi une procédure de « concertation » au moins équivalente, alors elle peut être jugée comme conforme à la Constitution. Il en découle que le gouvernement peut changer selon sa guise les modalités de la « concertation ». De surcroît, il peut décider d’étendre le domaine des thèmes soumis à la procédure en question comme il le fait actuellement au sujet de l’âge légal de départ à la retraite.
Par la suite, les acteurs professionnels ont le choix de donner une suite favorable ou défavorable à une sollicitation entièrement formulée par les pouvoirs publics. En cas de refus, liberté est laissée au gouvernement de former son projet de façon unilatérale. Cependant s’ils décident de se saisir du sujet, le gouvernement doit attendre la fin de leurs pourparlers. Dans l’hypothèse de la conclusion d’un accord dont le contenu a pour effet de modifier la Loi, le gouvernement se trouve dans l’obligation de reprendre à son compte le texte conventionnel par le biais d’un projet de Loi. Dès lors, celui-ci peut reprendre fidèlement à son compte le texte issu de la négociation collective en l’incorporant intégralement à la Loi ou se réserver la possibilité de le réécrire par addition ou soustraction. Enfin, le projet en question est ensuite soumis au pouvoir d’amendement et de vote du parlement.
En cas d’échec des négociations, le gouvernement a la possibilité d’abandonner son initiative, ou de reprendre les fragments de compromis sociaux de son choix, pour présenter son propre projet au parlement. Selon ces différentes hypothèses, il doit éviter un procès en déloyauté de la part de signataires bafoués ou de négociateurs incapables de trouver un compromis. Dès lors, les marges de manœuvre sont plus ou moins larges selon les diverses situations mais à coup sûr relativement étroites en cas de conclusion d’un accord sur la base d’un large consensus des acteurs professionnels. Il en ressort que le champ de la coproduction des normes légales du travail s’apparente à un espace où le législateur et les protagonistes sociaux se surveillent et formulent des reproches réciproques.
En somme, par le biais de cette modeste procédure, le gouvernement trouve avantage à déléguer de manière contrôlée la formation de la Loi aux acteurs professionnels représentatifs soit pour se délier de sa responsabilité soit pour tenter de renforcer sa légitimité.
Stéphane Lamaire ne travaille pas, ne conseille pas, ne possède pas de parts, ne reçoit pas de fonds d’une organisation qui pourrait tirer profit de cet article, et n’a déclaré aucune autre affiliation que son organisme de recherche.
Sexting – the creating and exchanging of sexual texts, photos and videos – has become part of many people’s sexual and romantic lives. In an age where interpersonal relations often take place through digital technology, particularly since the pandemic, understanding sexting can help us better understand intimacy.
Discussions around this topic inevitably involve concerns about sexual consent, and violation of it. One frequent concern is the risk of intimate image abuse, where private sexual images are shared without the consent of the person depicted. Another is the risk of receiving unsolicited or non-consensual “dick pics”.
These violations can and do affect people of any gender identity. But research suggests that both types of violation particularly affect girls and women, who are more likely to be victims of the non-consensual further sharing of intimate images and to receive unsolicited dick pics. Girls are also more likely than boys to report feeling pressured into sending nudes or other sexual content.
In my research, I have explored how men and women experience and navigate consent when sexting in heterosexual relationships.
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I have found that consent is central to the sexting practices of both women and men, but that they approach it differently. Overall, the women I spoke to were most concerned about the risk of having their consent violated. The men, on the other hand, were more worried about the risk of accidentally violating the consent of the person they were sexting with.
Women’s experiences
Between June 2016 and February 2017, I interviewed 44 women about their use of digital media and technology in their romantic and sexual relations. A core part of this involved discussion about their experiences of sexting. Our conversations focused especially on their experiences of sexting with men, and on their notions of intimacy, risk and trust.
My participants primarily saw mitigating the risk of intimate image abuse as an individual responsibility. In other words, these women saw themselves as responsible for ensuring that their consent was not violated by a sexting partner.
They reflected on the importance of women taking charge to protect themselves. For example, by not placing their trust in the “wrong” kind of person when sexting. Many employed tactics to reduce risk, from not showing their face in an image, to establishing close connections with the friends and family of their sexting partner.
As one participant in her mid-20s explained: “I do try to meet their family and friends beforehand, just so, if anything does happen, I can kind of go and tell his mum.”
Just as the women focused on their individual responsibility for reducing risk, they also understood men as individually responsible for the sexism of sending unsolicited dick pics. Overall, they saw it as an issue of some men behaving badly, rather than part of a broader, systemic issue. This view differs from that of scholars in this area, who have linked non-consensual dick pics to wider misogyny and social issues like rape culture.
Men’s experiences
The 15 interviews I conducted with men took place between May 2022 and May 2023, five years after the interviews with women. During these intervening years, the #MeToo movement gained global reach. This movement raised awareness about the widespread, social and structural issues that lead to sexual consent violations and abuse of power in sexual relations.
This research, the findings of which will be published in a forthcoming book chapter, coincided with what many have recognised as a backlash to #MeToo. This backlash (in politics, entertainment and wider society) has manifested in, for example, the advance of the manosphere and crackdowns on sexual and reproductive rights.
Only one participant mentioned #MeToo specifically, noting its role in putting sexual consent on the agenda. However, it was clear that the rapidly changing and tumultuous social and political landscape regarding sexual consent informed the mens’ experiences.
One participant in his late thirties stressed how an interest in consent was what made him want to participate in an interview. He said: “I’ve grown up through a period where … understanding about consent has changed a lot. Men of my age … I just think we’re very ill prepared for the expectations of modern society.”
My women participants had been most concerned to protect themselves from having their consent violated. But the men appeared to be most worried about the possibility that they might violate a woman’s consent by not having ensured sexual consent when sexting.
Some participants struggled with managing what they understood as conflicting messages regarding women’s expectations of men when sexting. For some, it meant avoiding sexting they saw as “risky”. For others, it meant continuously establishing consent by checking in with a partner.
Moving forward
Overall, my interviews revealed that both men and women take consent seriously, and are eager to prevent its violation.
This is something I explored further in workshops with other researchers, relevant charities and stakeholders. Our discussions, summarised in the Consent in Digital Sexual Cultures report, stress the importance of creating room (for young men especially) to explore ideas around consent without worrying about social repercussions.
Charities like Beyond Equality and Fumble are already creating spaces for such discussions in their meetings with young people at school, in the university and online. We also need to see more of these discussions taking place in the home, at government level and through collaboration with tech companies.
Navigating consent in sexual relationships has long been a fraught task for many. Digital technology has created new opportunities for sexual interaction, but also for the violation of consent. We need spaces for dialogue, to help us figure out – together – what good sexual consent practice is and should look like, for everyone involved.
Rikke Amundsen has received a British Academy/Leverhulme Small Research Grant with reference number
SRG2223230389. This grant covered the costs of the research outlined in the Consent in Digital Sexual Cultures Report.
Source: The Conversation – UK – By Simone Abram, Professor in the Department of Anthropology, Director of Durham Energy Institute, Durham University
David Iliff / shutterstock
Thousands of new electricity pylons are to be built across parts of England under the government’s plans to decarbonise the electricity. And some people aren’t happy.
A glance at recent Daily Telegraph articles seem to suggest most of the genteel English countryside is about to be taken over by evil metal monsters. Headlines talk of “noisy” pylons set to “scythe through” “unspoiled countryside”, leading to a “pylon penalty” for house prices and even “mass social unrest”.
While some of the stories are rather over the top, they reflect a genuine unease, and there have been significant campaigns against pylons. In Suffolk, for instance, resistance is building against plans for a 114-mile-long transmission line connecting new offshore wind farms to Norwich and beyond.
So why do these towering steel structures evoke such powerful feelings?
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Pylons have had a particular fascination since they were first introduced in the 1920s. Even then, the biggest challenge was to get “wayleaves” (permission) to cross farmland. To calm rural protest groups, the government’s electricity board commissioned an architect, Reginald Blomfield, to design transmission towers with an eye to “visual amenity”.
Pylon cleaning, 1946. Smith Archive / Alamy
In the most protected areas, expensive underground cabling was used to hide the transmission lines altogether. The board used its copious marketing materials to emphasise that this option was around six times more expensive, and therefore only for exceptional use. By the 1940s pylons were much cheaper than underground cables, providing a techno-economic rationale that remains politically persuasive today.
Why we love the countryside
One reason pylons are so controversial is related to a particularly English fascination with landscape. The geographer David Matless wrote some years ago of the “powerful historical connection” between Englishness and a vision of its countryside. People feel a degree of ownership over a varied landscape, encompassing lowland and upland, north and south, picturesque and bleak, and often have strong opinions about what “fits”, what constitutes “heritage” and what is “out of place”.
Even if most of England is privately owned and commercially farmed, many people still imagine the land as a public good tied to national sentiments and see pylons as intruders in the landscape.
Intruders? Pylons in England’s Peak District. Martin Charles Hatch / shutterstock
This could also explain why proposals to build infrastructure across the English countryside often provoke significant objections. My research on planning in the Home Counties (the areas surrounding London) back in the 1990s revealed a very determined population of well-educated and well-resourced people willing to spend significant amounts of time and money ensuring that the landscape met their expectations.
Concerted efforts had seen off a proposal from the then Conservative government to build a motorway through the Chiltern Hills to the west of London, for example.
There were, and still are, innumerable village groups willing to turn up to public enquiries and to pay lawyers to launch appeals and legal challenges. They may have been sceptical of the more grungy road protesters (historically embodied by the indomitable Swampy), but there was certainly common purpose.
My conclusion at the time was never to underestimate the effectiveness of local action where people’s vision of the English countryside was challenged. More recently, plans to run the HS2 rail line through those same hills ran into fierce local opposition, which prompted significant redesigns.
That’s all well and good, but today we face catastrophic climate change and biodiversity loss. Wind turbines are one of the most effective ways to decarbonise electricity supplies, but they are in different places from the old coal and gas power stations. Ironically, the same love of landscape that pushed wind farms out to sea now fuels opposition to the cables that bring the power back to land.
Democratic decisions?
One of the challenges here is that decisions over things like high-voltage transmission lines are based on models that seek to “optimise” the design of equipment, on the basis of cost or effectiveness, or both. These models have no way to account for landscape and heritage value or aesthetics and should never be the sole basis for decisions about infrastructure.
Running pylons across Suffolk might be the cheapest route with least electrical loss, but is it the best option? What would the alternatives be? Starting the discussion from the basis of techno-economic modelling often preempts a properly balanced debate.
This isn’t an argument for or against big pylons. It’s a call for more democratic planning and not less.
Studies consistently show that people resent being excluded from decisions that reshape their landscape and environment. Planning is a political process, and in any such process, humiliating your opponent rarely leads to long-term harmony.
Top down decisions about “national infrastructure” may save time on paper but are not a good way to make progress. It appears autocratic and shifts objectors onto the streets or into the courts.
Real consultation takes time and effort. But it builds trust and leads to better outcomes.
Maybe pylons are the least-worst option. Maybe not. But we won’t know unless we ask – and listen.
Don’t have time to read about climate change as much as you’d like?
Simone Abram receives funding from EPSRC for research on integrated energy systems and equality, diversity and inclusion in energy research. She received funding from the Norwegian Research Council for research on socially-inclusive energy transitions. Her Chair is co-funded by Ørsted UK but she does not represent the company in any way and any views expressed here remain independent.
Across much of Europe, the engines of economic growth are sputtering. In its latest global outlook, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) sharply downgraded its forecasts for the UK and Europe, warning that the continent faces persistent economic bumps in the road.
Globally, the World Bank recently said this decade is likely to be the weakest for growth since the 1960s. “Outside of Asia, the developing world is becoming a development-free zone,” the bank’s chief economist warned.
The UK economy went into reverse in April 2025, shrinking by 0.3%. The announcement came a day after the UK chancellor, Rachel Reeves, delivered her spending review to the House of Commons with a speech that mentioned the word “growth” nine times – including promising “a Growth Mission Fund to expedite local projects that are important for growth”:
I said that we wanted growth in all parts of Britain – and, Mr Speaker, I meant it.
Across Europe, a long-term economic forecast to 2040 predicted annual growth of just 0.9% over the next 15 years – down from 1.3% in the decade before COVID. And this forecast was in December 2024, before Donald Trump’s aggressive tariff policies had reignited trade tensions between the US and Europe (and pretty much everywhere else in the world).
Even before Trump’s tariffs, the reality was clear to many economic experts. “Europe’s tragedy”, as one columnist put it, is that it is “deeply uncompetitive, with poor productivity, lagging in technology and AI, and suffering from regulatory overload”. In his 2024 report on European (un)competitiveness, Mario Draghi – former president of the European Central Bank (and then, briefly, Italy’s prime minister) – warned that without radical policy overhauls and investment, Europe faces “a slow agony” of relative decline.
To date, the typical response of electorates has been to blame the policymakers and replace their governments at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, politicians of all shades whisper sweet nothings about how they alone know how to find new sources of growth – most commonly, from the magic AI tree. Because growth, with its widely accepted power to deliver greater productivity and prosperity, remains a key pillar in European politics, upheld by all parties as the benchmark of credibility, progress and control.
But what if the sobering truth is that growth is no longer reliably attainable – across Europe at least? Not just this year or this decade but, in any meaningful sense, ever?
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For a continent like Europe – with limited land and no more empires to exploit, ageing populations, major climate concerns and electorates demanding ever-stricter barriers to immigration – the conditions that once underpinned steady economic expansion may no longer exist. And in the UK more than most European countries, these issues are compounded by high levels of long-term sickness, early retirement and economic inactivity among working-age adults.
As the European Parliament suggested back in 2023, the time may be coming when we are forced to look “beyond growth” – not because we want to, but because there is no other realistic option for many European nations.
But will the public ever accept this new reality? As an expert in how public policy can be used to transform economies and societies, my question is not whether a world without growth is morally superior or more sustainable (though it may be both). Rather, I’m exploring if it’s ever possible for political parties to be honest about a “post-growth world” and still get elected – or will voters simply turn to the next leader who promises they know the secret of perpetual growth, however sketchy the evidence?
To understand why Europe in particular is having such a hard time generating economic growth, first we need to understand what drives it – and why some countries are better placed than others in terms of productivity (the ability to keep their economy growing).
Economists have a relatively straightforward answer. At its core, growth comes from two factors: labour and capital (machinery, technology and the like). So, for your economy to grow, you either need more people working (to make more stuff), or the same amount of workers need to become more productive – by using better machines, tools and technologies.
Historically, population growth has gone hand-in-hand with economic expansion. In the postwar years, countries such as France, Germany and the UK experienced booming birth rates and major waves of immigration. That expanding labour force fuelled industrial production, consumer demand and economic growth.
Why does economic growth matter? Video: Bank of England.
Ageing populations not only reduce the size of the active labour force, they place more pressure on health and other public services, as well as pension systems. Some regions have attempted to compensate with more liberal migration policies, but public resistance to immigration is strong – reflected in increased support for rightwing and populist parties that advocate for stricter immigration controls.
While the UK’s median age is now over 40, it has a birthrate advantage over countries such as Germany and Italy, thanks largely to the influx of immigrants from its former colonies in the second half of the 20th century. But whether this translates into meaningful and sustainable growth depends heavily on labour market participation and the quality of investment – particularly in productivity-enhancing sectors like green technology, infrastructure and education – all of which remain uncertain.
If Europe can’t rely on more workers, then to achieve growth, its existing workers must become more productive. And here, we arrive at the second half of the equation: capital. The usual hope is that investments in new technologies – particularly AI as it drives a new wave of automation – will make up the difference.
In January, the UK’s prime minister, Keir Starmer, called AI “the defining opportunity of our generation” while announcing he had agreed to take forward all 50 recommendations set out in an independent AI action plan. Not to be outdone, the European Commission unveiled its AI continent action plan in April.
Keir Starmer announces the UK’s AI action plan. Video: BBC.
Despite the EU’s concerted efforts to enhance its digital competitiveness, a 2024 McKinsey report found that US corporations invested around €700 billion more in capital expenditure and R&D, in 2022 alone than their European counterparts, underscoring the continent’s investment gap. And where AI is adopted, it tends to concentrate gains in a few superstar companies or cities.
In fact, this disconnect between firm-level innovation and national growth is one of the defining features of the current era. Tech clusters in cities like Paris, Amsterdam and Stockholm may generate unicorn startups and record-breaking valuations, but they’re not enough to move the needle on GDP growth across Europe as a whole. The gains are often too narrow, the spillovers too weak and the social returns too uneven.
Yet admitting this publicly remains politically taboo. Can any European leader look their citizens in the eye and say: “We’re living in a post-growth world”? Or rather, can they say it and still hope to win another election?
The human need for growth
To be human is to grow – physically, psychologically, financially; in the richness of our relationships, imagination and ambitions. Few people would be happy with the prospect of being consigned to do the same job for the same money for the rest of their lives – as the collapse of the Soviet Union demonstrated. Which makes the prospect of selling a post-growth future to people sound almost inhuman.
Even those who care little about money and success usually strive to create better futures for themselves, their families and communities. When that sense of opportunity and forward motion is absent or frustrated, it can lead to malaise, disillusionment and in extreme cases, despair.
The health consequences of long-term economic decline are increasingly described as “diseases of despair” – rising rates of suicide, substance abuse and alcohol-related deaths concentrated in struggling communities. Recessions reliably fuel psychological distress and demand for mental healthcare, as seen during the eurozone crisis when Greece experienced surging levels of depression and declining self-rated health, particularly among the unemployed – with job loss, insecurity and austerity all contributing to emotional suffering and social fragmentation.
These trends don’t just affect the vulnerable; even those who appear relatively secure often experience “anticipatory anxiety” – a persistent fear of losing their foothold and slipping into instability. In communities, both rural and urban, that are wrestling with long-term decline, “left-behind” residents often describe a deep sense of abandonment by governments and society more generally – prompting calls for recovery strategies that address despair not merely as a mental health issue, but as a wider economic and social condition.
The belief in opportunity and upward mobility – long embodied in US culture by “the American dream” – has historically served as a powerful psychological buffer, fostering resilience and purpose even amid systemic barriers. However, as inequality widens and while career opportunities for many appear to narrow, research shows the gap between aspiration and reality can lead to disillusionment, chronic stress and increased psychological distress – particularly among marginalised groups. These feelings are only intensified in the age of social media, where constant exposure to curated success stories fuels social comparison and deepens the sense of falling behind.
For younger people in the UK and many parts of Europe, the fact that so much capital is tied up in housing means opportunity depends less on effort or merit and more on whether their parents own property – meaning they could pass some of its value down to their children.
‘Deaths of Despair and the Future of Capitalism’, a discussion hosted by LSE Online.
Stagnation also manifests in more subtle but no less damaging ways. Take infrastructure. In many countries, the true cost of flatlining growth has been absorbed not through dramatic collapse but quiet decay.
Across the UK, more than 1.5 million children are learning in crumbling school buildings, with some forced into makeshift classrooms for years after being evacuated due to safety concerns. In healthcare, the total NHS repair backlog has reached £13.8 billion, leading to hundreds of critical incidents – from leaking roofs to collapsing ceilings – and the loss of vital clinical time.
Meanwhile, neglected government buildings across the country are affecting everything from prison safety to courtroom access, with thousands of cases disrupted due to structural failures and fire safety risks. These are not headlines but lived realities – the hidden toll of underinvestment, quietly hollowing out the state behind a veneer of functionality.
Without economic growth, governments face a stark dilemma: to raise revenues through higher taxes, or make further rounds of spending cuts. Either path has deep social and political implications – especially for inequality. The question becomes not just how to balance the books but how to do so fairly – and whether the public might support a post-growth agenda framed explicitly around reducing inequality, even if it also means paying more taxes.
In fact, public attitudes suggest there is already widespread support for reducing inequality. According to the Equality Trust, 76% of UK adults agree that large wealth gaps give some people too much political power.
Research by the Sutton Trust finds younger people especially attuned to these disparities: only 21% of 18 to 24-year-olds believe everyone has the same chance to succeed and 57% say it’s harder for their generation to get ahead. Most believe that coming from a wealthy family (75%) and knowing the right people (84%) are key to getting on in life.
In a post-growth world, higher taxes would not only mean wealthier individuals and corporations contributing a relatively greater share, but the wider public shifting consumption patterns, spending less on private goods and more collectively through the state. But the recent example of France shows how challenging this tightope is to walk.
In September 2024, its former prime minister, Michel Barnier, signalled plans for targeted tax increases on the wealthy, arguing these were essential to stabilise the country’s strained public finances. While politically sensitive, his proposals for tax increases on wealthy individuals and large firms initially passed without widespread public unrest or protests.
However, his broader austerity package – encompassing €40 billion (£34.5 billion) in spending cuts alongside €20 billion in tax hikes – drew vocal opposition from both left‑wing lawmakers and the far right, and contributed to parliament toppling his minority government in December 2024.
Such measures surely mark the early signs of a deeper financial reckoning that post-growth realities will force into the open: how to sustain public services when traditional assumptions about economic expansion can no longer be relied upon.
For the traditional parties, the political heat is on. Regions most left behind by structural economic shifts are increasingly drawn to populist and anti-establishment movements. Electoral outcomes have shown a significant shift, with far-right parties such as France’s National Rally and Germany’s Alternative for Germany (AfD) making substantial gains in the 2024 European parliament elections, reflecting a broader trend of rising support for populist and anti-establishment parties across the continent.
Voters are expressing growing dissatisfaction not only with the economy, but democracy itself. This sentiment has manifested through declining trust in political institutions, as evidenced by a Forsa survey in Germany where only 16% of respondents expressed confidence in their government and 54% indicated they didn’t trust any party to solve the country’s problems.
This brings us to the central dilemma: can any European politician successfully lead a national conversation which admits the economic assumptions of the past no longer hold? Or is attempting such honesty in politics inevitably a path to self-destruction, no matter how urgently the conversation is needed?
Facing up to a new economic reality
For much of the postwar era, economic life in advanced democracies has rested on a set of familiar expectations: that hard work would translate into rising incomes, that home ownership would be broadly attainable and that each generation would surpass the prosperity of the one before it.
However, a growing body of evidence suggests these pillars of economic life are eroding. Younger generations are already struggling to match their parents’ earnings, with lower rates of home ownership and greater financial precarity becoming the norm in many parts of Europe.
Incomes for millennials and generation Z have largely stagnated relative to previous cohorts, even as their living costs – particularly for housing, education and healthcare – have risen sharply. Rates of intergenerational income mobility have slowed significantly across much of Europe and North America since the 1970s. Many young people now face the prospect not just of static living standards, but of downward mobility.
Effectively communicating the realities of a post-growth economy – including the need to account for future generations’ growing sense of alienation and declining faith in democracy – requires more than just sound policy. It demands a serious political effort to reframe expectations and rebuild trust.
History shows this is sometimes possible. When the National Health Service was founded in 1948, the UK government faced fierce resistance from parts of the medical profession and concerns among the public about cost and state control. Yet Clement Attlee’s Labour government persisted, linking the creation of the NHS to the shared sacrifices of the war and a compelling moral vision of universal care.
While taxes did rise to fund the service, the promise of a fairer, healthier society helped secure enduring public support – but admittedly, in the wake of the massive shock to the system that was the second world war.
In 1946, Prime Minister Clement Attlee asked the UK public to help ‘renew Britain’. Video: British Pathé.
Psychological research offers further insight into how such messages can be received. People are more receptive to change when it is framed not as loss but as contribution – to fairness, to community, to shared resilience. This underlines why the immediate postwar period was such a politically fruitful time to launch the NHS. The COVID pandemic briefly offered a sense of unifying purpose and the chance to rethink the status quo – but that window quickly closed, leaving most of the old structures intact and largely unquestioned.
A society’s ability to flourish without meaningful national growth – and its citizens’ capacity to remain content or even hopeful in the absence of economic expansion – ultimately depends on whether any political party can credibly redefine success without relying on promises of ever-increasing wealth and prosperity. And instead, offer a plausible narrative about ways to satisfy our very human needs for personal development and social enrichment in this new economic reality.
The challenge will be not only to find new economic models, but to build new sources of collective meaning. This moment demands not just economic adaptation but a political and cultural reckoning.
If the idea of building this new consensus seems overly optimistic, studies of the “spiral of silence” suggest that people often underestimate how widely their views are shared. A recent report on climate action found that while most people supported stronger green policies, they wrongly assumed they were in the minority. Making shared values visible – and naming them – can be key to unlocking political momentum.
So far, no mainstream European party has dared articulate a vision of prosperity that doesn’t rely on reviving growth. But with democratic trust eroding, authoritarian populism on the rise and the climate crisis accelerating, now may be the moment to begin that long-overdue conversation – if anyone is willing to listen.
Welcome to Europe’s first ‘post-growth’ nation
I’m imagining a European country in a decade’s time. One that no longer positions itself as a global tech powerhouse or financial centre, but the first major country to declare itself a “post-growth nation”.
This shift didn’t come from idealism or ecological fervour, but from the hard reality that after years of economic stagnation, demographic change and mounting environmental stress, the pursuit of economic growth no longer offered a credible path forward.
What followed wasn’t a revolution, but a reckoning – a response to political chaos, collapsing public services and widening inequality that sparked a broad coalition of younger voters, climate activists, disillusioned centrists and exhausted frontline workers to rally around a new, pragmatic vision for the future.
At the heart of this movement was a shift in language and priorities, as the government moved away from promises of endless economic expansion and instead committed to wellbeing, resilience and equality – aligning itself with a growing international conversation about moving beyond GDP, already gaining traction in European policy circles and initiatives such as the EU-funded “post-growth deal”.
But this transformation was also the result of years of political drift and public disillusionment, ultimately catalysed by electoral reform that broke the two-party hold and enabled a new alliance, shaped by grassroots organisers, policy innovators and a generation ready to reimagine what national success could mean.
Taxes were higher, particularly on land, wealth and carbon. But in return, public services were transformed. Healthcare, education, transport, broadband and energy were guaranteed as universal rights, not privatised commodities. Work changed: the standard week was shortened to 30 hours and the state incentivised jobs in care, education, maintenance and ecological restoration. People had less disposable income – but fewer costs, too.
Consumption patterns shifted. Hyper-consumption declined. Repair shops and sharing platforms flourished. The housing market was restructured around long-term security rather than speculative returns. A large-scale public housing programme replaced buy-to-let investment as the dominant model. Wealth inequality narrowed and cities began to densify as car use fell and public space was reclaimed.
For the younger generation, post-growth life was less about climbing the income ladder and more about stability, time and relationships. For older generations, there were guarantees: pensions remained, care systems were rebuilt and housing protections were strengthened. A new sense of intergenerational reciprocity emerged – not perfectly, but more visibly than before.
Politically, the transition had its risks. There was backlash – some of the wealthy left. But many stayed. And over time, the narrative shifted. This European country began to be seen not as a laggard but as a laboratory for 21st-century governance – a place where ecological realism and social solidarity shaped policy, not just quarterly targets.
The transition was uneven and not without pain. Jobs were lost in sectors no longer considered sustainable. Supply chains were restructured. International competitiveness suffered in some areas. But the political narrative – carefully crafted and widely debated – made the case that resilience and equity were more important than temporary growth.
While some countries mocked it, others quietly began to study it. Some cities – especially in the Nordics, Iberia and Benelux – followed suit, drawing from the growing body of research on post-growth urban planning and non-GDP-based prosperity metrics.
This was not a retreat from ambition but a redefinition of it. The shift was rooted in a growing body of academic and policy work arguing that a planned, democratic transition away from growth-centric models is not only compatible with social progress but essential to preventing environmental and societal collapse.
The country’s post-growth transition helped it sidestep deeper political fragmentation by replacing austerity with heavy investment in community resilience, care infrastructure and participatory democracy – from local budgeting to citizen-led planning. A new civic culture took root: slower and more deliberative but less polarised, as politics shifted from abstract promises of growth to open debates about real-world trade-offs.
Internationally, the country traded some geopolitical power for moral authority, focusing less on economic competition and more on global cooperation around climate, tax justice and digital governance – earning new relevance among smaller nations pursuing their own post-growth paths.
So is this all just a social and economic fantasy? Arguably, the real fantasy is believing that countries in Europe – and the parties that compete to run them – can continue with their current insistence on “growth at all costs” (whether or not they actually believe it).
The alternative – embracing a post-growth reality – would offer the world something we haven’t seen in a long time: honesty in politics, a commitment to reducing inequality and a belief that a fairer, more sustainable future is still possible. Not because it was easy, but because it was the only option left.
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Peter Bloom does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment. His latest book is Capitalism Reloaded: The Rise of the Authoritarian-Financial Complex (Bristol University Press).
“Are we stopping again already?” It’s a familiar complaint on family road trips and one that’s often aimed at women. From sitcoms to stand-up routines, the idea that women have smaller bladders has become a cultural punchline. But is it anatomically accurate?
The short answer? Not really. The full picture reveals a more complex – and far more interesting – interplay between anatomy, physiology and social conditioning. Women might feel like they need to go more often, but their actual bladder size isn’t significantly different.
The detrusor is a layer of smooth muscle that forms the bladder wall. Its unusual elasticity – a quality known as compliance – allows it to stretch without triggering constant “full” signals. When nature calls, it contracts forcefully to empty the bladder.
An inner lining, the transitional epithelium, behaves like biological origami, it stretches and flattens to accommodate expanding volume, all while shielding underlying tissues from the toxic contents of stored urine.
Thanks to this clever design, your bladder can expand and contract throughout a lifetime without tearing, losing tone, or sounding false alarms – most of the time.
So where does sex come into it?
In structural terms, male and female bladders are more alike than different. Both comfortably hold around 400–600 millilitres of urine. What surrounds the bladder can influence sensation and urgency, and this is where the differences begin.
In men, the bladder nestles above the prostate and in front of the rectum. In women, it sits in a more crowded pelvic compartment, sharing space with the uterus and vagina. During pregnancy, the growing uterus can compress the bladder – hence the dash to the loo every 20 minutes in the third trimester.
Even outside pregnancy, spatial constraints may mean the bladder triggers a sense of urgency earlier. Some studies suggest women are more likely to feel bladder fullness at lower volumes – possibly due to hormonal influences, increased sensory input or the dynamic relationship between pelvic floor support and bladder stretch.
The pelvic floor – a sling of muscles supporting the bladder, uterus and bowel – is crucial. In women, it can be weakened by childbirth, hormonal shifts or simply time, altering the coordination between holding on and letting go.
Much of that control hinges on the external urethral sphincter – a ring of voluntary muscle that acts as the bladder’s gatekeeper, helping you wait for a socially convenient time to void.
A part of the pelvic floor complex, and like any muscle, it can lose tone or be retrained. Meanwhile, urinary tract infections (more common in women due to a shorter urethra) can leave the bladder hypersensitive, upping the frequency of urination even after the infection has passed.
Toileting habits can vary across cultures. But from a young age, many girls are often taught to “go, just in case” or avoid public toilets. These habits can train the bladder to empty prematurely, reducing its capacity to stretch.
Meanwhile, boys are often given more leeway – or encouraged to wait. Anyone who has ever “hovered” over a toilet seat will also recognise that hygiene concerns will influence behaviour. Over time, the bladder learns. You can’t change its size, but you can train its tolerance.
Bladder training, a technique championed by the NHS and the British Association of Urological Surgeons, involves gradually increasing the time between toilet trips. This helps reset the feedback loop between bladder and brain, restoring capacity and reducing the sensation of urgency.
Often combined with pelvic floor exercises, it’s an effective, non-invasive way to take back control – especially for those with overactive bladder syndrome or stress incontinence.
So women may not have smaller bladders, but they may have less room to manoeuvre, both anatomically and socially. The next time someone rolls their eyes at a toilet stop, remind them: it’s not about weak willpower or tiny tanks. It’s about anatomy, habit and hormones.
Michelle Spear does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Professional athletes from around the world spend years training to compete in some of the UK’s biggest summer sporting tournaments: Wimbledon and the British Open. But not all tournament hopefuls will make it to the finals — and some may even be forced to drop out due to a variety of sporting injuries, from torn anterior cruciates to strained shoulders.
Their elbows are at risk too. In fact, two of the most common reasons for elbow pain relate to sporting injuries — the aptly named (and dreaded) tennis and golfer’s elbow.
But it isn’t just professional athletes who are at risk of developing these common elbow injuries. Even those of us sitting on the sidelines or watching from our couches can find ourselves struck down by them – even if we don’t participate in either of these sports.
In general practice, we see patients with elbow conditions fairly frequently. Elbows can become swollen as a result of repetitive strain, gout and can be fractured by a fall.
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Tennis and golfer’s elbow are also common reasons people visit their GP. Both share root causes, arising from inflammation and degeneration of the forearm tendons, which attach either side of the elbow. These typically cause pain on the sides of the joint, which can radiate down the affected side toward the wrist. Establishing which side is injured is crucial to diagnosis.
The reason these conditions are associated with sports is because of the actions that are typical when playing them – the same actions which can result in injury.
Take tennis and one of its killer moves: a lethal backhand stroke, which was part of the tournament-winning arsenal of champions such as Roger Federer, Justine Henin and Stan Wawrinka. Tennis elbow seems to be more strongly associated with the one-handed backhand, affecting the outer side of the elbow.
The cause of tennis elbow can be pinpointed to a poor technique in the backhand stroke or grip. Problems with equipment, such as an incorrectly strung or a too-heavy racquet, might also exacerbate the problem.
Notably, this problem is actually observed less frequently in professional players compared to recreational players. This is probably because of their expertise, form and access to the best equipment and physiotherapy.
Golfer’s elbow refers to pain on the inner side, closest to the body. One action that can cause it is the golfer’s swing, where the player contracts their arm muscles to control the trajectory of the club. Doing so with poor technique or incorrect grip can irritate and damage the tendons. The golfer’s swing uses different muscles to a backhand stroke, so the injury occurs on the opposite side of the elbow.
Both conditions have some overlapping symptoms despite affecting different tendons. For instance, some patients may note pain when using their wrist – such as turning a doorknob or shaking someone’s hand. It can be also be present at rest too – affecting other simple functions, such as using a keyboard.
Tennis elbow is around five to ten times more common than golfer’s elbow, since these tendons are used more frequently in sport and daily life.
Confusingly, the conditions are actually not exclusive to these sports. Some golfers can develop tennis elbow, while some tennis players can develop golfer’s elbow. This is because both games feature a combination of techniques that can affect the tendons on either side.
Other sports that might also lead to a similar type of elbow injury include throwing sports (such as javelin), and batting or other racket sports – including baseball, cricket or squash. Weightlifting moves such as deadlifts, rows and overhead presses can also put considerable strain on the elbows too.
You can even develop golfer’s or tennis elbow without taking part in either of these sports. Certain hobbies and occupations which strain or damage the tendons come into play here. Workers who are heavy lifters or use vibrating machinery, such as carpenters, sheet metal workers or pneumatic drill operators, are prime candidates.
Treating a sore elbow
If you develop golfer’s or tennis elbow, standard protocol is to “rice” – rest, ice, compress and elevate. Painkillers such as paracetamol and ibuprofen can also help. In many cases, symptoms resolve themselves within a few weeks.
Depending on the severity of the injury, you may also be sent to physiotherapy or given an elbow support or splint. For really severe cases that aren’t getting better with the usual remedies, more invasive treatment is needed.
Steroid injections into the affected area can act to reduce inflammation – but have variable effects, working better for some patients than for others.
Autologous blood injection is a therapy where blood is taken from the patient and then re-injected into the space around the elbow. The thought behind this rather odd-sounding treatment is that the blood induces healing within the damaged tendon. The method is now undergoing a renaissance – and a variation of it, which uses platelet-rich plasma derived from the blood sample.
Surgery is possible, too – but is generally reserved for severe, non-responsive cases or those where a clear anatomical problem (such as damaged tendons or tissue) are causing the symptoms.
Whether or not you’re a tennis or golf pro, persistent elbow pain isn’t normal. It’s best to speak to your doctor to figure out the cause so you can get back to the court or putting green.
Dan Baumgardt does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
The afterlife is not typically associated with aggressive pets and insatiable worms. But these are exactly the creatures that appeared to an unnamed woman recluse living in Winchester, England, over the course of three nights in the summer of 1422. The woman was an anchoress. That means she had chosen – and subsequently vowed – to live in solitary confinement within a small cell attached to a church for the rest of her life.
The recluse wrote a vivid account of her vision and sent it to her confessor and a circle of influential churchmen. Her letter, known today as A Revelation of Purgatory, makes her one of the earliest known women writers in the English language.
Despite deserving this accolade, the Winchester recluse did not appear alongside her more famous contemporaries or near contemporaries, Julian of Norwich (1342 – after 1416) and Margery Kempe (circa 1373 – after 1438), in the British Library’s hugely successful recent exhibition, Medieval Women: In Their Own Words. One likely reason for this is that the manuscript copy of the full account of the vision was not available for display at the time. That situation has now changed.
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The British Library has just announced the purchase of five medieval manuscripts from Longleat House in Wiltshire. One of these manuscripts contains the complete surviving version of the recluse’s letter, which, although referred to in an incomplete version elsewhere as “a revelation recently shown to a holy woman”, is untitled in this particular manuscript. This may be another reason for this woman’s writing having been overlooked until very recently. This exciting purchase will hopefully now give the Winchester recluse and her writing the attention they deserve.
Angels feeding souls through a purgatorial furnace in the 15th century manuscript Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. Wikimedia Commons
In her vivid, technicolor visions, the recluse watched a dead friend, a nun named Margaret, ushered to the forefront of purgatory by a cat and dog that she had adored and pampered when she was alive.
Transformed into vicious satanic minions, Margaret’s former pets joined the many devils responsible for doling out her punishments. They tore endlessly at her flesh and bit and scratched her relentlessly. They did so to remind her that, as a nun, she had broken her vows by keeping them as her companions in her nunnery and by devoting too much love and attention to them.
In Margaret’s heart, too, a voracious little worm had taken up residence – a so-called “worm of conscience” – that was intent on consuming her from the inside out as part of her torment.
So deeply troubling was this vision of her friend’s suffering that the Winchester recluse immediately summoned her young maid, and the two women started to pray for the nun’s soul. On the very next day the recluse decided there was nothing for it but to document her visions of Margaret’s fate. She not only detailed all she had seen, but also stipulated which prayers, and how many, should be said on behalf of poor Margaret to deliver her from her suffering and help her reach the gates of heaven.
The recluse’s letter is very specific about the date of these visions: they took place on St Lawrence’s day, August 10 1322, which fell on a Sunday that year. There was – and still is – a small church dedicated to this saint very close to the cathedral in Winchester (the so-called Mother Church of Winchester).
As an anchoress, the author would almost certainly have occupied a cell attached to a church somewhere in Winchester. This would also have allowed her the time and the space for contemplation, study and writing.
As has been argued in a recent blog and podcast for the University of Surrey’s Mapping Medieval Women Writers project, it is quite possible that the Church of St Lawrence was the location of her cell, where she experienced her visions, and where she wrote down her account of them.
This manuscript now permanently joins an unparalleled collection of medieval women’s writing in England held in the British Library. It includes not only The Book of Margery Kempe, manuscripts of both the short and long texts of Julian of Norwich’s Revelations, but also the Lais and Fables of Marie de France, the Boke of Saints Albans attributed to Juliana Berners, and the letters of the 15th-century Norfolk gentlewoman Margaret Paston and other female family members.
As such, the work of this unnamed Winchester anchoress now takes up its rightful place alongside the writing of her hitherto better-known literary sisters.
Diane Watt has received funding from the AHRC, British Academy and Leverhulme Trust.
Liz Herbert McAvoy received funding for an associated project from the Leverhulme Trust.
Amy Louise Morgan does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Abschied (Parting) by Sebastian Haffner (1907-1999) is dominating the bestseller charts in Germany. It has been published posthumously, over 25 years after his death, after the manuscript was found in a drawer.
The novel is a love story between Raimund, a young non-Jewish German student of law from Berlin, and Teddy, a young Jewish woman from Vienna. Raimund and Teddy meet on August 31 1930 in Berlin and the novel covers the time they spend in Berlin and Paris together.
Abschied was written between October 18 and November 23 1932, just before the Nazi takeover. It reads in the breathless, immediate manner in which it was clearly conceived. It also gives a personal insight into the zeitgeist of the final months of the Weimar Republic.
Haffner was born Raimund Pretzel in Berlin, where he trained as a lawyer. He disagreed with the Nazi regime and emigrated to London in 1938. There, in order to protect his family in Germany from potential Nazi retribution he changed his name.
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It is estimated that around 80,000 German-speaking refugees from Nazism lived in the UK by September 1939. Most of these refugees were Jewish, but there was also a sizeable number who, like Haffner, had fled for political reasons. Many politically committed exiles arrived soon after 1933 but this was not the case for Haffner. In the 1930s he was busy being a young man in Berlin, training as a lawyer and enjoying himself.
Haffner’s father was an educationalist who had a library with 10,000 volumes. As a young man Haffner liked reading, and toyed with the idea of becoming a writer and journalist, but his father advised him to study law and aim for a career in the civil service. Political developments in Germany made this option increasingly unpalatable. Initially Haffner found it difficult to see a way out. As he wrote in Defying Hitler: “Daily life […] made it difficult to see the situation clearly.”
In the book he also describes how he and other Germans acquiesced to the new regime. Haffner was disgusted with his own reaction to the SA (the Nazi party’s private army) entering the library of the court building where he was a pupil, asking those present whether they were Aryan and throwing out Jewish members of the court.
When questioned by an SA man, Haffner replied that he was indeed Aryan and felt immediately ashamed: “A moment too late I felt the shame, the defeat. I had said, ‘Yes’. […] What a humiliation to have answered the unjustified question whether I was Aryan so easily, even if the fact was of no importance to me.” Haffner never really took up his career as a lawyer, because it would have meant upholding Nazi laws and Nazi justice. Instead he started working as a journalist and writer, first in Germany and after his escape in 1938 in the UK.
Life in the UK
Soon after his arrival in the UK, Haffner finished a book titled Defying Hitler (1939). The memoir was both autobiographical and a political history of the period – but after the outbreak of the second world war it was considered not polemical enough, and was dismissed as an unsuitable explanation for the rise of Nazism at the time. But the intermingling of private and public history is of great interest to readers in the 21st century. Defying Hitler was published posthumously in German (2000) and in English (2003) and became a bestseller in both languages.
After Defying Hitler, Haffner turned to writing another book, Germany: Jekyll and Hyde (1940). It was more clearly anti-Nazi and focused on his journalism – during the war, he worked for the Foreign Office on anti-Nazi propaganda and he was later employed by The Observer as a political journalist. The book was a success, and Winston Churchill is said to have told his cabinet to read it.
The handwritten manuscript for Abschied, which was never published in Haffner’s lifetime, was found in a drawer by his son Oliver Pretzel, some time after his father’s death.
The German critic Volker Weidemann who wrote the epilogue to Parting toys with the idea that it was never published because its focus on the love story was considered a bit too trivial for such a great writer. Thanks to his work for The Observer after 1941, Haffner was a well-regarded political journalist and historical biographer. He became the paper’s German correspondent in 1954, and was well known for his column in West Germany’s Stern magazine and for his biographies, including one on Churchill (1967).
The perspective of a young non-Jewish German living a relatively ordinary life in the early 1930s makes Abschied a fascinating read. Academics have been exploring everyday life under Nazi rule for nearly half a century now, but it seems that modern readers are still keen to learn about it today.
Perhaps the novel resonates with so many German readers because we live in a time where many struggle with the inevitable continuation of everyday life while politics is becoming ever more extraordinary.
Andrea Hammel does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
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