Muninn

Most nations of the world go out of their way to celebrate things they have, or believe they have, contributed to the world. They often latch onto the creations or achievements of a person or a whole community of a period when there was nothing similar in form to the modern nation. Sometimes the “achievements” claimed or celebrated, are, upon closer examination, responsible for so much mischief, that one wonders why they are still celebrated. Mongolia’s fascination with the figure of Genghis Khan is a good example of both. This sort of practice is so common I think we can all think of examples in every country.

When these achievements are of a more abstract or ideological nature, even the most admirable of principles can lead to sinister consequences. The most obnoxious obvious example I can think of is the American claim to be the world’s wellspring of freedom and democracy. The claim takes many forms, from the limited celebration of the entrance of America’s democracy onto the world stage, to a broader vision of America as being somehow uniquely capable of blessing the world with leadership and guidance. What I think is unique about this kind of nationalist claim is its powerful universal reach. That is, it goes beyond the traditional nationalist claim of, “Hey, my nation has a glorious history and kicks major butt” to reach beyond its borders and suggest there is a national responsibility to attend to the development of the rest of the world.

While America has gone through several “isolationist” periods, I don’t think this built-in aspect of American nationalism has ever disappeared completely. I also know that I’m not the first to argue that this is a feature America shares with Napoleon’s France and the Soviet proletarian revolution. It probably also shares much in common with another move, less particular to any single nation as it is a feature of the birth and development of nations in general (especially the colonial powers): the claim to champion progress and Civilization. All of these moves serve as a powerful justification for Empire, mass mobilization, and total war when they are effectively deployed.

Most nations like Norway, however, appear to be content to take pride in the invention of more mundane things. Of course, Norwegian-Americans can often be found with bumper stickers or mugs claiming, “Columbus had a Norwegian map,” which is a joking reference to the viking settlements in North America that long preceded Christopher’s trip across the ocean. However, I am told now that someone is making the more serious claim that Columbus had a Chinese map. Oh well. At least Norway invented paper clips.

I read this first in a fascinating book I skimmed through some years ago at a friend’s house in Stavanger. It was kind of a picture book of “Norwegian inventions.” Each page had a beautiful picture of some object that “Norway invented” and on the facing side was a short history of that particular object. Ferro-concrete and rubber boots were two of the book’s more memorable entries and probably not as controversial as the Norwegian claim to have invented skiing. But paper clips—how could I ever view these humble metal objects in the same way again? How can I avoid being filled with national pride at the way my dear humble Norway revolutionized the modern office environment at the turn of this century?

What is most farcical about this class of more modest claims, of course, is the way that an individual’s invention is transformed suddenly into the pride of a whole nation. Presumably, the inventiveness of the individual is a reflection of national character, intelligence, or the quality of its educational system. Fortunately, discussion of these national inventions and achievements now often retain only a sort of cocktail party trivia value. I wish I could say that this was always the case. Exceptions abound.

Many Chinese, and the Chinese government, for example, are rather unsure of how they are to respond to the achievements of overseas Chinese who make dazzling scientific discoveries, or when one of the most eloquent critics of their authoritarian government wins a nobel price for literature. Do you claim them for national pride? Ignore them? Or do you perhaps condemn them as traitors if they don’t come home? The Americans, of course, will claim for their own anyone who did research at its powerful universities and other institutes.

Another way that this becomes a big issue is when something like a Nobel prize becomes government currency to legitimize an education system or measure its degree of “creativity.” Japan’s Ministry of Education and many of Japan’s politicians are convinced that winning a certain number of nobel prizes is a great way to advance Japan’s reputation globally, as well as measure the progress of its educational reform. James Bartholomew has done a lot of research on this for those who are interested in learning more. Japan has announced the goal of winning 30 prizes over the next 50 years. One of many problems is, as Bartholomew pointed out in a presentation I saw him give at Berkeley a few years ago, the Nobel prize system has never been anything close to a fair and objective measure of scientific achievement (it was also structurally tilted in favor of Scandinavians at one point). He talked about Japan’s efforts to win science prizes in the prewar period and the amazing obstacles they faced in competing (as well as domestic discord which often sabotaged their chances). The Nobel prize process is one so mired in politics that the Japanese government has poured all sorts of money into coordinating its efforts nationally and playing the political lobbying campaign (see one interesting article here) that I seriously doubt that any eventual success of the policy can be linked to a general flowering of Japanese creativity and scientific prowess.

Now Norwegian paper clips, on the other hand—there is an achievement which can tell you a lot about that people in the cold north. The invention of paper clips doesn’t prove that Norwegians are necessarily more creative or even great scientists. It means, like the Norwegian word for paper clip, binders, itself means: the people of the Norwegian nation are bound together as one. This is best demonstrated by the fact (you can read one online retelling of this here, and on countless Norwegian web sites—the web never lies) that during the German occupation of Norway, Norwegians were forbidden to wear badges bearing the initials of their exiled king so instead they displayed their national unity by attaching paper clips to their clothes.