The one road of technical development

Deterministic theories of technology are typically premised on an implicit identification of capital with its technical manifestations. What really does present itself as a universalising, rationalising, totalising and automatic subject, with a single unilinear course at world level, is capital. It presents itself that way; this self-presentation is open to contestation. And there is a world of technique that can never fully be subsumed to capitalist ends. Every proletarian life actively constructs its own mediations from what affordances it finds, even if capital has already shaped the conditions of that construction. Every new act of materially-mediated problem-solving opens onto an alternative world, however minor the distinction may be. To imagine otherwise would be to allot undue power to capitalist management. There is always a tension between the drive towards an absolute mastery of the production process in which the worker is left with no room at all for their own initiative, and the simple categorical fact that labour-power is necessarily an indeterminate variable.

No single line of development then, but an unthinkable plenitude of different technical possibilities in every moment. A latent chaos, whose main ordering principle is the dominant social form, imposed in the tyranny of the labour relation. But there are other kinds of ordering which are not simply reducible to the prerogatives of the value form. Technical standardisation as such will be rational in any world where devices mediate relations between people. But that doesn’t tell us what the standard should be, and it doesn’t say anything about how those relations are mediated, or to what end.

Strategy, counter-strategy

Strategy implies autonomy within a given field of operations. As such, the strategic perspective tends structurally to be unavailable to subordinated agents. To them, the contingencies of fragmentary and often self-defeating tactics are the most that can be summoned. But such action contributes to the general, ultimately ungovernable chaos of the field, and thus may ultimately thwart the standpoint of strategy. In such moments of opening, a potential autonomy begins to emerge, and with it the possibility of counter-strategy. Until such moments, calls for a strategy of the subordinate slide necessarily into impotent abstractions. Impotent, though not necessarily pointless: with due self-consciousness, the concepts formed in a state of strategic paralysis can bring clarification.

The longue durée of computer surveillance

Most discourses on technology are characterised by a strange eternal recurrence of the same, even as they are always hailing the new. In itself this should be no surprise: thinking on technology tends towards futurist or presentist—as opposed to historical—modes for good reason. And though constant change obviously characterises the technical realm, the deep nature of technological structures does not itself change all that quickly: it is too constrained by the social forms within which those structures develop. But it is always worth noting the echoes from the past of what one might take to be peculiar to the current predicament. The present can turn out to have lasted for much longer than one expects.

People have conceptualised computers as creepy surveillance tools for decades, and for obvious reasons. States and businesses have self-evident interests in gathering data on citizens, employees, customers, clients, enemies: scientia potentia est, so goes the cliché. Even before mechanical computation, some states gathered prodigious amounts of data on their citizens; the rise of statistics-gathering was intrinsic to the formation of the modern state:

The intrusive policies of absolutism made censuses a regular event in the eighteenth century. But it was the revolutionsof the late eighteenth century, which gave shape to official statistics in the form we know today. In 1787 the constitution of the newly independent United States called for a regular census to establish the membership of the House of Representatives. In 1800 revolutionary France established the first ‘Bureau de statistique’. This was enough to persuade counter-revolutionary Britain. In 1753 the Houses of Parliament had rejected a census as an unwanted intrusion upon ‘English liberty’. In 1801 the first modern census of population went ahead almost entirely unopposed. Statistical offices were established in Prussia in 1805, in Bavaria in 1806, in 1810 in Habsburg Vienna, in 1820 in Wurttemberg, in 1826 in the Netherlands and in 1831 in the newly independent Belgium. The British Board of Trade established its statistical department in 1832. Five years later demographic statistics were placed under the control of the Registrar General. Russian administrative statistics were put on an institutional footing in 1834. In 1833 Denmark set up a Central Statistical Commission, followed by Norway in 1837. Finland was the last of the Scandinavian countries to establish a statistical office in 1865. The constitution of the ‘double-monarchy’ was shortly followed in 1867 by the formation of an Hungarian statistical bureau. The provisional Republic put Spain on the statistical map in 1873. Inspired by the ideas of Saint-Simon the fledgling Greek state had set up a statistical section as early as 1834. In 1850 funds were finally appropriated to establish a semi-permanent office of the census for the United States. By this time, no self-respecting state administration did without some kind of statistical equipment.

Adam Tooze, Statistics and the German State, 1900–1945: The Making of Modern Economic Knowledge, Cambridge 2001, p. 2.

What is perhaps most striking is that in the eighteenth century something as seemingly innocuous as a census could be viewed by members of the British Parliament as an infringement of liberty. As we find in the MP William Thornton’s speech to the House of Commons, the state’s capacity to know already appeared a potential threat:

An annual register of our people will acquaint our enemies abroad with our weakness, and a return of the poor’s rate, our enemies at home with our wealth. Our enemies abroad are the Spaniards and the French, and our enemies at home are place-men and tax-masters; and I should ill deserve the confidence placed in me by my constituents, if I should concur to increase the knowledge or the power of either. […]

Can it be pretended, that by the knowledge of our number or our wealth, either can be increased? Is it not evident that, to all good purposes, it will render them less effective? […] To what end shall our number be known, except we are to be pressed into the fleet and the army, or transplanted like felons to the plantations abroad? And what purposes will it answer to know where the kingdom is crowded, and where it is thin, except we are to be driven from place to place as graziers do their cattle? […]

As to myself, I hold this project to be totally subversive of the last remains of English liberty, and therefore, should it pass into law, I should think myself under the highest of obligations to oppose its execution. If any officer, by whatever authority, should demand of me an account of the number and circumstances of my family, I would refuse it; and if he persisted in the affront, I would order my servants to give him the discipline of the horse-pond.

William Thornton, speech to the House of Commons, 30 March 1753, in The Parliamentary History of England from the Earliest Period to the Year 1803, vol. 14, Hansard 1813, pp. 1318–20.

While the modern state’s impulse to gather data clearly does not depend upon any technology, the Hollerith punch card and its descendents enabled the automatic processing of that data, and at higher speed than clerical staff working manually. All the more scientia, all the more power. In the 1940s US census data, stored on punch cards, was used to track down Japanese Americans for internment. Yet the concept of surveillance maintained a limited scope of application well into the 1970s, employed primarily in technical, managerial, epidemiological and military contexts. What was surveilled was traffic, infrastructure, the battlefield, airspace, the spread of diseases—and occasionally union organisers on the shop floor. Notably absent here is the average citizen or consumer, who seem to figure almost solely as potential carriers of disease.

Rather than the advent of widespread computation infrastructure, it seems to have been the fall-out of Watergate that first gave surveillance a prominent place in public debate, as the legitimacy of actions that had long been undertaken by American state towards its own citizenry was thrown into crisis when Nixon was found to have breached the conventional bounds of bipartisan party-political etiquette. In 1978 came the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, which formalised some state regulation of those activities, rather than significantly impeding them—a pattern that is familiar to the present, in such things as the British Investigatory Powers Act of 2016, or ‘Snooper’s Charter’. Yet since then, the power to know has appeared irrevocably entwined with the computer, and as such, a key facet of hi-tech capitalism.

Through the 1970s, TRW—a corporation with interests in aerospace, automotion, electronics, computation and data processing—had been gathering unnerving masses of data on tens of millions of US consumers, for sale to potential creditors. Unsurprisingly, given its range of operations, TRW was intimately entwined with the CIA. “Just how much pressure would the chairman of the board and chief executive officer of TRW have to bring on the vice-president in charge of the company’s information division for the CIA to gain access to credit reports stored in the division’s computers?” asked New York Times journalist David Burnham in his 1980 book Rise of the Computer State, more than three decades before the Snowden revelations.

Struggles over computer-aided surveillance sometimes occurred in the workplace. From 1979, workers at Daimler Benz, Opel and other plants in Germany organised against the introduction of computerised Personnel Information Systems, and in 1980 technical workers in Toulouse raided computer centres of Phillips Data Systems Corporation and Honeywell-Bull to delete data in opposition to the use of the computer by the powerful to “classify, control, and to repress” (David F. Noble, Progress Without People, pp. 54–7). According to Noble, the German workers’ focus on Personnel Information Systems was tactical, aiming to appeal to a widespread abhorrence of such things.

Here are some paragraphs from Burnham’s book, which can seem strikingly prescient:

Most US commentary on computers has tended to be laudatory, in part because of the widely shared perception that the machines are essential to the continued growth of the American economy. A few critics, nevertheless, have sought to examine the dark side of computers, often aiming their fire at the somewhat narrow question of personal privacy.

In response to these criticisms and the increased public awareness of government surveillance that grew out of the Watergate scandals of President Richard Nixon, Congress enacted a handful of narrowly drawn laws. One statute imposed restrictions on the use of personal information by federal agencies. Another permitted Americans to see and challenge the information collected about them by credit reporting firms. A third established a secret court that authorizes the FBI to install bugs and taps against espionage suspects.

Despite this flurry of legislative activity, Americans frequently discount the importance, in the phrase of one Supreme Court decision, of being left alone. “I have nothing to hide,” many respectable citizens reply when asked whether they fear the increased intensity of all kinds of surveillance made possible by the computer. And they often seem unaware that personal privacy has been considered a valuable asset for many centuries and is not just a faintly hysterical fad of the age of technology.

“A wonderful fact to reflect upon that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to the other,” Charles Dickens wrote in A Tale of Two Cities. “A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret, that every beating heart in the hundreds of breasts there is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it.”

Privacy, however, is far more than the aesthetic pleasure of Charles Dickens. And the gradual erosion of privacy is not just the unimportant imaginings of fastidious liberals. Rather, the loss of privacy is a key symptom of one of the fundamental social problems of our age: the growing power of large public and private institutions in relation to the individual citizen. […]

In what concrete ways does the computer enlarge the power of public and private organizations over the individual citizen?

Computers and telecommunications enormously enhance the ability of organizations to collect, store, collate and distribute all kinds of information about virtually all of the 232 million people of the United States. Computers have allowed far more organizations to have far more access to far more people at far less cost than ever was possible in the age of the manual file and the wizened file clerk.

The computer thus has wrought a fundamental change in American life by encouraging the physical migration of information about the most minute details of our personal and public lives into the computerized files of a large and growing number of corporations, government bureaucracies, trade associations and other institutions. As recently as the end of World War II, much of this information would not have been collected at all, but would instead have been stashed away in our homes. Even when it was collected, it rarely was subject to casual inspection because of the considerable expense involved in paying the salaries of the clerks needed to retrieve any particular item. Computerization has now greatly reduced this economic disincentive to inspect the files.

In addition to allowing large organizations to collect large amounts of detailed information, computers and the linked telecommunication networks have considerably enlarged the ability of these organizations to track the daily activities of individual citizens.

Many computer scientists, government officials and business executives take comfort in the observation that during the last few years in the United States little concrete evidence has emerged suggesting current widespread abuse of these interlocked systems. But history tells us nothing if not that all bureaucracies seek to maximise their powers. […]

The most immediate example of this important lesson, which optimistic Americans are already pushing from their minds, was the illegal and improper government surveillance of hundreds of thousands of citizens suspected of political activism during the last quarter of a century at the direction of three separate presidents. The Kennedy administration initiated a far-reaching effort to keep track of civil-rights activists such as Dr. Martin Luther King. This surveillance ultimately involved the placement of electronic bugs in the motels where King stayed as he moved about the country and the subsequent effort to peddle the secretly recorded material to newspaper columnists. During the Johnson administration, concern about race riots, civil-rights demonstrations and antiwar protests prompted the president to order the army to greatly enlarge its surveillance of citizens, almost all of whom were only exercising the right to speak their minds. The surveillance led to the creation of intelligence files on about 100,000 persons (including Catholic priests and one US senator) and on an equal number of domestic organizations (for example, the National Organization for Women, the John Birch Society and the NAACP). President Johnson ordered the CIA to undertake a similar surveillance program of citizens even though it violated the law approved by Congress when the agency was initially established. During the Nixon administration, the president knowingly encouraged the White House staff to violate the law by obtaining the computerized tax files on individuals Mr. Nixon did not like. This action served as the basis for one of the proposed articles of impeachment drawn up against Mr. Nixon by the House Judiciary Committee shortly before he resigned.

Telecommunications equipment and computers have tended to centralize the power held by the top officials in both government and private industry. Computer experts often reject this complaint. They contend that the rapid growth in the use of personal computers by millions of American citizens will cancel out the increases in power the large organizations. This defense has a surface plausibility. But when the vast capital, expertise and manpower available to the large government and business organizations are compared to the capital, expertise and available working time of even the most favored individual, the personal computer does not appear to be a great equalizer. Furthermore, who controls what information is stored in the great data bases of the United States and who serves as the gatekeeper to most of the giant communications networks?

Is it reasonable to believe that a dedicated band of environmentalists, sending electronic smoke signals via their home terminals, really will be able to effectively match the concentrated power of a giant oil company or committed government agency? Can it really be argued that the personal computers and word processors now being purchased for more and more corporate employees and government officials will enhance their personal freedom? Or will the equipment, while increasing individual output, also allow a level of automated surveillance unknown to any previous age? Certainly the large airlines have spent hundreds of millions of dollars installing computer terminals to help their clerks sell tickets. But how many of the airlines are installing terminals in the homes of stockholders, or even of members of the board of governors, to give them more information about the internal operations of the company so they can exercise more effective control?

Max Weber [. . .] discussed the question in terms of organizational power long before the great organizations of the world had equipped themselves with computers. “The bureaucratic structure goes hand in hand with the concentration of the material means of management in the hands of the master,” he wrote in an essay published before World War I. “This concentration occurs, for example, in the development of big capitalist enterprises, which find their essential characteristics in the process. A corresponding process occurs in public organizations.”

But massive data bases, the ability to track large numbers of individuals and the concentration of power are not the only contributions of the computer. It also increases the influence of the major bureaucracies by giving these organizations a method by which they can anticipate the probable future thoughts and activities of groups of people.

David Burnham, Rise of the Computer State, 1980.