Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Pathology Diagnosis
and Social Research
New Applications and Explorations
Edited by
Neal Harris
Political Philosophy and Public Purpose
Series Editor
Michael J. Thompson, William Paterson University
New York, NY, USA
This series offers books that seek to explore new perspectives in social
and political criticism. Seeing contemporary academic political theory and
philosophy as largely dominated by hyper-academic and overly-technical
debates, the books in this series seek to connect the politically engaged
traditions of philosophical thought with contemporary social and political
life. The idea of philosophy emphasized here is not as an aloof enterprise,
but rather a publicly-oriented activity that emphasizes rational reflection
as well as informed praxis.
Pathology Diagnosis
and Social Research
New Applications and Explorations
Editor
Neal Harris
Oxford Brookes University
Oxford, UK
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
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Series Editor’s Foreword
Erich Fromm once asked from the vantage point of the mid-1950s, “can a
society be sick?” The question was posed at the apex of the “affluent soci-
ety”, an age of unprecedented social wealth and post-subsistence society
was emerging. It was also a time when modern medicine, vaccines and
other modern therapies for dealing with physical maladies were reaching
unprecedented efficacy. But Fromm saw that, just as Marx had a century
earlier, that modernity was ill, that it suffered from a de-humanising
pattern of pathologies that could be diagnosed and cured. Today it is
still not difficult, when skimming newspapers and popular journals, to
discover evidence for the thesis that modern society is ill. Fromm believed
that a critical, humanistic form of reason would be able to root out
the causes of social pathology—of alienation, reification, personal psychic
suffering—and usher in a new sense of freedom and humane existence.
Although it was once at the origin of modern social science, the
concept of social pathology has fallen out of favour in recent decades.
Although thinkers such as Rousseau, Hegel, Marx and Durkheim remain
the progenitors of the idea that societies as whole entities can suffer
from pathologies, the ontological paradigms of much of mainstream social
science have marginalised thinking about macro social entities as having
distinct properties and features. As methodological individualism reshaped
the social sciences and social theory, the idea that only individuals can
suffer and that only individuals can be healed became prevalent. The idea
that the origins of individual suffering was social, that there were systemic
v
vi SERIES EDITOR’S FOREWORD
vii
viii PREFACE
xi
xii CONTENTS
Index 283
Notes on Contributors
xiii
xiv NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Neal Harris
N. Harris (B)
Oxford Brookes University, Oxford, UK
e-mail: nharris@brookes.ac.uk
state capitalism and the horrors of the Nazi fascistic terror were held
to be manifestations of a deformed, ‘pathological’ irrationality. Enlight-
enment thought itself, declared Adorno and Horkheimer, with self-
conscious hyperbole, ‘has extinguished any trace of its self-consciousness’
and has become ‘ultimately self-destructive’ (Adorno & Horkheimer,
1979 [1944]: 4). Erich Fromm and Herbert Marcuse served to
inject a Freudian-Marxian synthesis to these conversations. Fromm’s
humanist Marxism (1963, 2010) spoke explicitly of the ‘insane society’
and a ‘pathological normalcy’, while Marcuse (1977 [1941]) brought
a phenomenological lens with his critique of a pathological ‘one-
dimensionality’ to the modern social experience. Walter Benjamin’s (2008
[1935], 1978) work added yet further nuance and eclecticism, intro-
ducing the concerns of temporality, redemption and the messianic. While
these theorists approached social research with differing inflections, they
all shared a strong conviction in the need to conduct a deeper form of
social criticism, to disclose the contradictions within the dominant form
of life (Honneth, 2000).
First-generation Critical Theory enabled incisive social critique, yet
Adorno’s increasing emphasis on philosophical negativity, and his belief
in the emancipatory potential of abstract art, failed to resonate with the
dynamic political activism of the late 1960s (see Jarvis, 1998: 90–123;
124–147). As Fromm and Marcuse moved to develop Critical Theory
in directions more in keeping with the zeitgeist, first-generation Critical
Theory’s metaphysics seemed increasingly antiquated and paralysing. In
this context, Jürgen Habermas (1972, 1984) attempted to offer radi-
cally new theoretical and normative foundations, forging what has since
become known as the ‘second generation’ of Critical Theory. Developed
in Knowledge and Human Interests (1972 [1968]) and extended in his
Theory of Communicative Action (1984 and 1987 [1981]), Habermas
offered a new grounding for Critical Theory, anchored less explicitly
in left-Hegelianism. Synthesising insights from pragmatics, hermeneu-
tics, analytic philosophy and developmental psychology, Habermas sought
an unambiguously post-metaphysical Critical Theory (see Rasmussen,
1991). With Habermas, Frankfurt School social research increasingly
focused on identifying pathologies of systematically distorted commu-
nication; instances where systemic logics overdetermine the possibili-
ties for communicative exchange and deliberation within the lifeworld.
While Habermas served to rehabilitate pathology diagnosing, normatively
undergirded social research, his account was comparatively distanced
1 INTRODUCTION: SOCIAL PATHOLOGY AND SOCIAL RESEARCH 5
1 By this rather ungainly term, borrowed from Bourdieu, McNay (2007) means that
recognition theorists risk distorting their conception of the social world in order to
retain the validity of their ‘recognition’ approach. For McNay, instead of admitting the
obvious reality, that a monistic recognition lens is unviable, recognition theorists alter
their understanding of the social world to fit within the parameters of their heurism.
1 INTRODUCTION: SOCIAL PATHOLOGY AND SOCIAL RESEARCH 7
…the supply and demand for different types of labor; the balance of power
between labor and capital; the stringency of social regulations, including
the minimum wage; the availability and cost of productivity enhancing
technologies; the ease with which firms can shift their operations to loca-
tions where wage rates are lower; the cost of credit; the terms of trade; and
international currency exchange rates. (Fraser & Honneth, 2001: 215)
3 The Structure
and Contribution of This Volume
It is within this context that this volume was conceived of as an oppor-
tunity to showcase the enduring merits of pathology diagnosing social
research, notwithstanding the very real areas of reflexive analysis that
are undeniably warranted. As the contributors demonstrate, now is a
crucial time to advance a normative, post-liberal form of social research,
focusing on the forms of rationality manifest within the social world. This
volume thus seeks to showcase the contemporary relevance of pathology
diagnosing social criticism as much as its analytic potency. The chapters
gathered here demonstrate that the rise of authoritarian neoliberalism
and widespread defacement of critical consciousness can be powerfully
engaged through a pathology diagnosing, dialectical imagination.
The volume is divided into three parts, grouping together applied
research (Part I), philosophical reflections (Part II) and conscious
attempts at forging new relationships between pathology diagnosing
critique and other schools and traditions (Part III). The contributors
also represent a diverse demographic; ranging from established profes-
sors from the Global South, North America and Europe, to early-career
academics from across Scandinavia, the Netherlands, Turkey, France and
the UK. The diverse spread of ideas and positions offers a chance to unite
10 N. HARRIS
The precise form that Critical Theory will take, in ten, twenty or fifty
years’ time is extremely uncertain. The hope embedded in this volume is
that it will contribute towards the safeguarding of a form of social research
16 N. HARRIS
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PART I
Gerard Delanty
1 I would like to acknowledge helpful comments from Neal Harris and a reviewer on an
earlier version of this chapter. My thanks too to William Outhwaite and Patrick O’Mahony
for comments. This chapter, it should be noted, was written in early 2020, just before
the pandemic, with which Brexit was to become intermeshed.
2 See Fromm (1941, 1963 [1955], 2010 [1991]). See also Burston (1991) and Harris
(2019).
G. Delanty (B)
Sociology and Social & Political Thought, The University of Sussex,
Brighton, UK
e-mail: g.delanty@sussex.ac.uk
order to make sense of societal regression. There are relatively few studies
on the pathogenesis of political modernity. Klaus Eder (1985) wrote a
classic one on Germany. The idea of modernity engendering pathologies
has been central to the critical theory of the Frankfurt School, but has
been rarely, if at all, developed in relation to current trends. In making
this claim, I am not suggesting that there is a normal condition from
which the pathological is a departure. Indeed, it can be the case that
pathologies themselves become normalised.
In this context, I am interested in major political pathologies, which are
related to socio-cultural pathologies. The example I am taking is Brexit,
which I argue is an event of considerable historical significance and that
it can be seen as a political pathology that has nurtured a wider socio-
cultural pathology.3 I would like to make a strong claim and place Brexit
in the context of the pathogenic formation of British political modernity.
It is not my claim that Brexit was inscribed within the course of modern
British history, but that certain historical conditions made it possible.
The outcome was contingent in the end on specific circumstances, but
it cannot be taken on its own as an aberrant event. I also argue that
Brexit is not a specifically British phenomenon. While having British-
specific features, it can be related to trends towards authoritarianism in
other democracies, most notably the election of Trump in the USA.
To this end, in order to try to understand it theoretically, I draw on
one of the major works of social and political analysis in critical theory,
namely the monumental Authoritarian Personality, published in 1950 as
part of the Studies in Prejudice programme (Adorno et al., 2019 [1950]).
I also draw on the work of Erich Fromm, who was closely associated with
Horkheimer’s circle in New York in the late 1930s and wrote key works
on social pathology (see Harris, 2019). One of my key arguments is that
Brexit is a pathology of democracy: it is an elite-led project that disguises
itself by populist rhetoric as the will of the people. It is also an example
of a pathology of entrapment. One of the basic questions is this: why did
an advanced democracy allow an event to take place that has inflicted
major economic, social and political damage? The main argument for
Brexit reflects a deep pathology, namely that Brexit must be implemented
simply on the grounds that it was supposedly decided to do so and should
3 For a wider analysis on Brexit see Evans and Menon (2017), Haseler (2017) and
Outhwaite (2017).
2 THE PATHOGENESIS OF BREXIT: PATHOLOGIES … 25
was expunged from the country that invented it. Henceforth it was asso-
ciated with foreign and anti-colonial movements. Paradoxically, England
imported its monarchies from abroad: France, Holland, Hannover. The
1534 Act of Supremacy can be seen as England’s break with the conti-
nent, with which it has been so closely imbricated in the middle ages
(Black, 2019). If a break occurred, it was later with the need born of
political necessity to repress the memory of republican regicide. However,
the relation between Britain and Europe is much more complicated (see
also Simms, 2017).
The result of the ‘English Revolution’ and the subsequent constitu-
tional arrangement—and the convenient absence of a written constitu-
tion—was that England entered the modern age with revolution silenced
and disguised by the nascent Whig theory of history and the fiction of
ancient liberties. There was never any questioning of this myth of parlia-
mentary greatness since Britain was never defeated in war or occupied
by a foreign power and therefore never forced to recreate its political
institutions. Instead it did the occupying. The doctrine of parliamentary
sovereignty, it should be noted, does not pertain only to the House of
Commons but to the two houses of parliament and thus preserves the
monarch as the sovereign. It meant in practice that the Ancien Regime
was preserved and only had to accommodate demands from civil society.
This historical background is key to the pathogenesis of Brexit, which
was predicated on the basis of a myth of sovereignty and a parliamen-
tary tradition that was ill-equipped to deal with changed notions of what
sovereignty means. Parliamentary sovereignty, adhered to for centuries,
came face to face with calls for popular sovereignty and what resulted
was a dysfunctional mixture of both, as reflected in the use of the arcane
ritual of the prorogation of parliament and the royal prerogative to deal
with parliamentary opposition to the government’s Brexit plans. British
Eurosceptics rightly or wrongly criticise the political institutions of the
EU, but fail to see the flawed design of their own political institutions.
One consequence of what was a relic of the early modern period is the
absence of a modern written constitution. The British Constitution (in
effect a medley of documents and Acts of Parliament) did not provide
what all modern constitutions provide, namely a written statement of the
rights of the individual and a recognition of the people as the source
of sovereignty. By investing sovereignty with parliament, British political
modernity located the source of sovereignty in the crown, as represented
2 THE PATHOGENESIS OF BREXIT: PATHOLOGIES … 27
4 See Hechter (1975) for the original theory. See also Bartlett (1993).
28 G. DELANTY
5 See George Orwell’s poetic portrait of the English and Englishness. See in particular
the essay, written in 1941, ‘England Your England’.
2 THE PATHOGENESIS OF BREXIT: PATHOLOGIES … 29
off various kinds of class resentment. 52% voted Remain and 48% voted
Leave, with the majority of the Leave vote in England (Clarke et al.,
2017; Evans & Menon, 2017). It did not need to be called in the first
instance. It was a high-risk calculation of the then Prime Minister, David
Cameron, as a way to end dissent in the Conservative Party. However, it
received parliamentary approval without extensive scrutiny and an act of
parliament passed without any consideration of what might happen were
the Leave Vote to win. The main parties canvassed, without great enthu-
siasm, for Remain, confident that the masses would be obedient and heed
the advice of the elites to vote remain. Although it was a consultative
Referendum, the government and opposition regarded it as legislative,
though there was no constitutional reason to do so. Within months after
the outcome, there was swift silencing of the legal status of the Refer-
endum as consultative. It was repackaged as something that had to be
implemented. Since it was consultative, the Act of Parliament did not
define the vote share required for a determinate majority. The majority of
3.8% (c 1.2 m) was very small but was deemed to be decisive and ‘the will
of the people’ and thus had to be implemented, despite no definition of
what was to be implemented. Leaving the EU has multiple meanings and
many adverse implications. Deadlock in the political system arose after an
election, which left the governing party without a majority and dependent
on support from a far-right Unionist party in Northern Ireland.
Over a three-and-a-half-year period, until the general election of
December 2019, a process of radicalisation took place in both the political
system and in the wider society, especially in England. In this sense, Brexit
was as much a cause of change as a consequence of changes that had
occurred. Brexit became the mantra of the right and underwent ever new
and darker interpretations as to what it might mean. Leaving the EU in
2016 could have meant a so-called ‘soft Brexit’, but due to the variety of
interpretations as to what this might be, and the ascent of new and more
radical interpretations, no consensus was reached. Meanwhile, the tide of
opposition grew; but this was divided on the question of the preferred
method to stop Brexit. There was a fierce debate between factions on
whether a second Referendum was desirable. Those who favoured a
second Referendum could not agree when it should be staged, or agree
on the precise wording of the question posed. The Liberal Democratic
Party’s proposal of a direct, unilateral revocation of Art. 50 triggered
further divisions.
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low, the sharaki lands amounted to 264,000 acres only, as against
nearly 1,000,000 in 1877.
As for the high lands lying immediately between the river and the
basin dyke, only eight or nine times in a century does the Nile rise
high enough to flood them. They are called ‘berms,’ and are
ingeniously irrigated by means of special high-level canals, which,
starting from a point above the head of the basin system, or perhaps
leading down from an upper system, pass by means of a siphon
under the feeder canal. The berms are, of course, also irrigated by
lifting water directly from the Nile itself.
There are forty-five systems of basins in Upper Egypt, most of
which, and those the largest, are on the left bank. Some of the
feeder canals are insignificant, and feed only two or three basins.
Others, like the Sohagia Canal, south of Assiout, feed an extensive
system, and are real rivers when full. The basins themselves are
5,000 to 15,000 acres in extent, and it can easily be understood that
when they are taking in they have an enormous effect in diminishing
the pressure of the flood, and, on the other hand, their discharge
lengthens it out in the lower reaches of the river, when the level has
already fallen very much at Assouan. While the basins are filling in
August and September, they absorb about 2,000 cubic metres per
second. Besides this, a considerable amount is employed in filling
the channel of the Nile itself and its branches. Evaporation,
absorption, and direct irrigation, also play their part, and the result is
that the discharge of the Nile at Cairo is some 2,500 cubic metres
less than it is at Assouan. But during October and November the
basins are discharging. The southernmost ones are empty by
October 15, those in the neighbourhood of Cairo not till about
November 30, or even later. The consequence is that the Nile at
Cairo in October is discharging 900 cubic metres per second more
than at Assouan, and in November 500 more.
In November, therefore, the visitor to Cairo can still get some idea
of what Upper Egypt is like in flood-time. From desert to desert it
stretches, one vast lake, divided by a network of dykes, and studded
here and there with villages raised on artificial mounds, which year
by year rise higher on their own ruins. A greater flood than usual
makes terrible havoc in these villages; for the rising water soon
crumbles their mud walls, and the whole collapses like a pack of
cards. Every mortal thing is living on the dykes, which play the part
of roads; only the water-fowl, emerging in thousands from their
secluded marshes, spread themselves in security over the wide
waters, and here and there an isolated villager may be seen in an
ancient palm-wood tub, paddling and baling by turns. The dykes run
on the same lines as they have run for centuries, and on them the
traveller, on his way to visit the Pyramids of Gizeh or the Tombs of
the Kings at Sakkarah, the burial-ground of ancient Memphis, may
watch the whole life of Egypt pass and repass in long procession, set
as in a frieze. Work in the fields, of course, is at a standstill, but the
villages are humming with preparation for the sowing, and alive with
flocks of goats and sheep, camels, buffaloes, and asses; even the
rats have been forced to the same refuge, and may be seen popping
in and out among the roots of the palm-trees.[4] Where one basin
drains into another the fisherman spreads his net, and reaps a rich
harvest in the rush of the current. At intervals are stationed pickets of
grave watchers, squatting patiently alongside large bundles of millet
or maize stalks. This is all that remains of the corvée service, and
gladly is it borne.
For every villager is interested in the preservation of the dykes,
and apart from ordinary accidents this great lake, owing to the swift
changes of temperature in the neighbouring desert, is liable to
violent storms, which drive great waves against the crumbling dykes,
and would soon break them if left alone. The millet stalks are put
down to break the force of the waves. Each village omdeh, or
headman, is responsible for these arrangements, and he, too, may
be met upon the dykes, a picturesque figure in flowing black and
white, mounted on an ambling Arab pony, going round to see that all
his sentinels are on duty. How near the past is brought, when you
enter the tombs and find painted on the walls, or figured out in stone,
the same people engaged in the same pursuits, as though Egypt had
not been since then for thousands of centuries coveted and seized in
turn by so many invading nations! The cultivator of the soil, moulded
by the unchanging and imperious demands of the great river, to
which he owes his whole subsistence, has retained the customs, and
even the features, of those remote forerunners, who are his
ancestors in everything, except, perhaps, by descent of blood.
Under the Pharaohs and under the Romans the whole of Lower
as well as Upper Egypt was under basin irrigation, and the whole
country was cultivated. In those days Egypt was the granary of the
Mediterranean, and at the time of the Arab conquest, A.D. 700, her
population was estimated to number 12,000,000. Under Arab rule
began that period of deterioration which lasted for 1,100 years, and
which, had the system of irrigation been less natural to the physical
conditions of the country and less simple, would have resulted in an
absolute abandonment of cultivation, and reduced Egypt to the state
in which Mesopotamia, once the garden of the world, finds itself to-
day. Even as it was, by A.D. 1800 the population was brought down to
about 2,000,000, and all the northernmost and greater half of the
Delta had become a neglected and uncultivated swamp. War,
famine, and pestilence, in turn, had played their part; but the
fundamental cause of all was the misgovernment, which had
neglected the irrigation. For in basin irrigation, as, indeed, with all
irrigation, two things are of the utmost importance: the first, to get the
water on to the land; and the second, to drain it off again. Salt is the
great enemy to be fought. Not only do the Nile waters contain a large
quantity of salts, in solution, but the strata underlying the alluvial
deposits, being of marine origin, are also rich in salts. If the water is
allowed to stand on the land, evaporation takes place, until nothing
but a salt efflorescence is left. While if the land be so water-logged
that the level at which water can be obtained by digging is brought
near to the surface, the water containing salts from below is drawn
upwards by means of capillary attraction, and once more
evaporation takes place, leaving the salts in the soil. It is clear that
as the natural level of the land approaches sea-level it becomes
more and more troublesome to provide proper means of carrying off
the water. Accordingly, the northernmost parts of the Delta were the
first to suffer, and gradually the line of cultivation receded.
Nor was this all. No one looking at a map of the Delta can fail to
have been struck by that extraordinary feature of the northern coast-
line, the great lakes. At the present time there are in the Delta about
3,430,000 acres of land cultivated or under reclamation, and another
500,000 acres of waste land. North of these lie 1,180,000 acres,
either permanently covered by the lakes or else flooded by them
from September to December. Between the lakes and the sea is a
belt of sand-dunes or sandy plains, pierced occasionally by
openings. The sand-dunes are constantly being augmented by the
prevailing north-west winds. These lakes or lagoons are for the most
part extremely salt, and are distributed as follows, beginning from the
west: Lake Mareotis, 70,000 acres; Edku, 60,000 acres; Borillos,
180,000 acres, and as much more during flood and early winter; and
Lake Menzalah on the east, largest of all, 490,000 acres, and
flooding 200,000 acres more at the same time of year. All these
waste lands, now known as the Berea, were cultivated in Roman
times, some being occupied by vineyards, others by wheat, and it
would seem that the lakes were kept from extending landwards by
dykes. But when the land was allowed to go out of cultivation no one
had any interest in looking after the regulation of the lakes. First, the
passage through the sand-dunes became silted up, because, as the
basins decreased in number, less water was drained from them into
the lakes at the time of the inundation. Then, after the closing of the
openings, the water gradually rose, breached the neglected dykes,
and completed the ruin of the land. Once the openings in the dunes
are closed, the lake has to rise to a considerable height before it can
force its way through again, owing to the continuous action of the
sand driven by the wind. In this way it came to pass that neither of
the lakes had more than one opening into the sea, and
consequently, rising in flood-time above sea-level, invaded the lands
to the south.
Another cause may have possibly contributed to the same effect
—namely, a sinking of the coast lands. Nowhere is this a more
probable explanation of the facts than in the neighbourhood of Lake
Manzalah. Before the Arab conquest much of what is now a shallow
lake was famous for its gardens, palm-groves, vineyards, and wheat-
fields; besides its agricultural villages, it contained towns famous for
their cloth and cutlery manufactures, like Tunah, Damirah, Dabik,
and, above all, Tinnis. But at the time of the conquest these towns
were already islands in the lake, a position which enabled them to be
the last stronghold of Coptic resistance to the Moslems.
Whatever the cause or the combination of causes—and the
history of these tracts remains very obscure—the results were the
retreat southwards of the cultivated area, with the consequence that,
after over 1,000 years of Mohammedan rule, Egypt found herself in
the weakened and impoverished condition already described; saved
only from annihilation by the system of basin irrigation, of which the
traditions survived, though in a diminished area, stubbornly
preserved from age to age by her industrious and conservative
peasantry.
CHAPTER III
PERENNIAL IRRIGATION
It has already been explained that on the Nile berms or high banks,
which are covered by the flood only once in six or seven years, on
islands in the river, and on selected tracts within the basins in the
neighbourhood of wells, it has been the immemorial custom to lift
water on to the fields. Everywhere the two primitive instruments of
ancient Egypt are in common use to-day—the shadoof and the
sakieh. The shadoof is a long pole balanced on a support. From one
end of it is suspended a bucket, and from the other a heavy
counterpoise, equal in weight to the bucket when full of water. The
bucket is made of various materials, very often leather, though the
ordinary kerosene-oil tin of commerce is making its presence felt
here as elsewhere. The shadoof is worked by hand. The bucket is
pulled down into the water, then lifted up by the help of the
counterpoise, and its contents are tipped over into the channel
leading to the cultivated land, where the water is steered by means
of miniature canals and dams into the required direction. I suppose
there could not be a simpler form of unskilled labour than working
the shadoof. Whenever I think of the fellah of Upper Egypt, I think of
the shadoof. Up and down, creak and splash, hour after hour, day
after day, he goes on lifting and tilting, with an amazing and
monotonous regularity. Nothing disturbs him—not even a steamer
grounded on a sand-bank twenty yards in front of him. As he stands,
naked except for a loin-cloth of blue cotton, with his absolutely dull,
impassive features, his magnificent chest and arms but weak legs,
you cannot help wondering which came first, the shadoof or the
shadoof-man, so perfectly are they adapted to each other. Two
piastres are the humble guerdon of the long day’s labour. You can
calculate upon the fellah as you could on a machine. But, in spite of
it all, deep down in his soul lies the sentiment which redeems him
and distinguishes him from a mere machine—his absorbing love for
the soil. Take him away, set him to other tasks—to serve, for
instance, in the army—he will perform his duties with the same
unfaltering regularity and docility; but all the time he is thinking in his
heart of the black soil and the water of Egypt. In Omdurman I asked
a more than usually intelligent Egyptian soldier, who had been told
off to perform some small services for me, ‘Do you like being in the
army?’ Without hesitation came the answer, ‘No.’ ‘What do you want
to do?’ ‘I wish to be at home,’ he said, ‘and cultivate the ground.’
With a single shadoof water can be lifted 2½ metres; but when the
bank is high a second or third tier of shadoofs is employed, and in
some places as many as five shadoofs may be seen lifting the water
from one level to another, till it reaches the fields. One man working
twelve hours a day can lift enough water to irrigate an acre of cotton
or corn in ten days.
The sakieh, or Persian water-wheel, consists of a vertical wheel
with a string of buckets attached to it, which, as the wheel turns
round, are let down into the water, come up full, and discharge their
contents into a channel as they come to the top. The wheel is turned
by means of spokes, which catch in a horizontal wheel worked by
oxen, buffaloes, or some other beast of burden. If the lift is high, the
string of buckets may be very long; but if the wheel itself dips into the
water, there may be no string at all, and it is then called a taboot.
The buckets are often earthenware pitchers, and the wheels
themselves are generally of the rudest construction, and made of
palm wood; but new and improved iron water-wheels are coming into
use. Still, whether of iron or of wood, they all seem to make the
same peculiar sing-song whine. There is no sound more
characteristic of Egypt. It has a peculiar penetration. Night and day it
continues. I believe Egyptian music is founded upon it. The fellaheen
say the cattle will not work unless they hear it. Certainly when one
stops, the other stops also.
In the Fayoum, where, owing to the difference in the levels, the
canals have often a very high velocity, there are very ingenious
water-wheels or turbines, which play the part of sakiehs, but are
turned by the force of the current; the water thus lifts itself
continuously.
Where the lift is very little, shadoofs and sakiehs are replaced by
instruments called Natalis and Archimedean screws; but, naturally,
since the introduction of perennial irrigation has so increased the
area to be watered by lift, machinery has had to be called in, and
most of the work is done by pumps worked by steam. Each large
land-owner has his own pump and engine, which can be moved from
place to place, and are also hired out to the smaller men. On very
large estates stationary engines have been erected, which, of
course, are able to raise a much larger amount of water; but as a
rule the machinery employed is a portable eight-horse-power engine
and an eight-inch centrifugal pump.
How different is all this from the lot of the agriculturist in other
lands! For him there is no digging or maintenance of canals; no
apparatus of regulators, dams, sluice-gates, siphons, and drains; no
painful lifting of the water by pumps and engines, shadoofs, and
sakiehs. The rain falls upon his fields from heaven without any effort
of his. He looks to Providence to regulate his supply; the Egyptian
looks to a Government department. But the Egyptian, as a
compensation for his extra labour, has the advantage of greater
certainty. He knows the sun will shine. The rise and fall of the Nile,
variable as it is, can be foretold with greater exactness than that of
any other river—with far greater exactness than the duration of the
rainy season in any country in the world. Nature indeed made his
task simple in the extreme, if he had been content with one crop a
year. Every year the flood thoroughly washed the land, and kept it
free from injurious salts; it also covered them with a deposit of mud,
which relieved him from the necessity of dressing and manuring the
exhausted soil. The Nile silt, though singularly rich in potash, the
principal food of leguminous plants, like peas, beans, and clover, is,
however, very poor in the nitrates on which cereals depend. But the
Egyptian clover, called bersine, has the property of secreting nitrates
from the air, and depositing them in the soil to an extraordinary
extent, so that the land was able to bear crops of clover and cereals
in rotation to an unlimited extent without any manuring. The desire to
grow rich by crops like cotton and sugar, and by forcing the land to
double its output, has changed all this. Not only has the summer
supply of water become of the utmost importance, but the soil has to
be constantly refreshed with manures. The question of manures is,
indeed, only second, under perennial irrigation, to the question of
water.
Wherever cattle and stock are numerous, farmyard manure is
used, as well as the guano from the immense colonies of pigeons,
kept for the purpose in specially built pigeon-lofts throughout Egypt.
Between Halfa and Kena there are inexhaustive supplies of nitrates
in the desert, and north of Kena the mounds which mark the sites of
ancient cities, like Abydos, Ashmunên, Medinet, and the rest, serve
the same purpose. The ruins of the past are thus valued by the
agriculturist not less than by the archæologist, perhaps even more
so; for lands in proximity to them are rented higher in consequence.
Year by year more attention is now paid to the dressing of the soil,
as perennial irrigation is more understood and more studied; besides
the natural resources of the country, an increasing amount of
manures is imported from abroad, and there is little doubt that the
growing tendency in this direction will continue.
But all preparation of the soil is worse than useless labour unless
the necessary amount of water can be provided. This amount varies
both with the nature of the crop, the season of the year, and the
position of the land. The critical time is, of course, the summer, when
the supply of water is least and the heat is greatest, and, of course,
in Upper Egypt, where the sun is strongest, and the loss by
evaporation consequently greater, the demand is more urgent than
in the Delta.
The total amount of cultivable land in Egypt is 6,250,000 acres.
Before the completion of the new works, to which period all the
figures in this chapter refer, the total nominally under cultivation was
about 5,750,000 acres. Of this, Upper Egypt claimed 2,320,000—
viz., 587,000 nominally under perennial irrigation, and 1,732,000,
including 1,435,000 under basin irrigation every year, and 297,000 of
Nile berms, which are only flooded once in six or seven years, and at
other times irrigated directly from the Nile by means of shadoofs and
water-wheels. Of the whole of this area only about 20 to 30 per cent.
produce double crops in the year; for the amount of perennial
irrigation is but small, and, although the whole of the Fayoum—
329,000 acres—was supposed to be perennially irrigated, so faulty
was the water-supply that the summer crops were only about 30 per
cent. of the whole, instead of 50 per cent., which is the rule in the
Delta. It seems, indeed, as though matters had been arranged
expressly for the benefit of the tourist; it is Upper Egypt in the winter
season that he goes to see, and it is then that the fields are green
with corn, clover, and other crops. The following table shows the
different crops, and the acreage devoted to them at the different
seasons in Upper Egypt:
Season. Acreage. Crops.
Summer 372,500 Sugar, cotton, vegetables, melons,
summer sorghum (or millet).
Flood 530,000 Flood sorghum, rice.
Winter 2,120,000 Wheat, beans, clover, barley, lentils, flax
(little), onions, vetches.
Lower Egypt.
Season. Acreage. Crops.
Summer 1,674,000 Cotton, sugar, vegetables, rice.
Flood 980,000 Maize (nearly all), rice.
Winter 2,139,000 Wheat, barley, clover, beans,
vegetables, flax.
On Rich Soils.
Winter. Summer or Flood.
First year Clover Cotton.
Second year Beans or wheat Indian corn.
On Poor Soils.
Winter. Summer or Flood.
First year Clover Cotton.
Second year Clover Cotton.
Third year Barley Rice or fallow.
Rice and barley have their place, because they are less affected
by the injurious salts, which are the great enemies of the soil’s
fertility.
In Lower Egypt cotton is sown from the end of February to the
beginning of April. The land is well watered before it is ploughed for
the seed, and again when the seed is sown. From then until the
beginning of the flood it is watered on the average about once in
twenty days. The harvest lasts from August 20 to November 10, and
the cotton is picked two or three times over. During this time the crop
is watered about once in every fifteen days, but as the water is now
abundant there is nothing to fear. Indian corn is sown from July 5 to
August 30, and October 15 to November 30 is the period of harvest.
It is irrigated at the time of sowing, twenty days after, and then once
in ten or twelve days. The first two of these waterings are, of course,
the important ones. The earlier it is sown, the better the crop will be,
because it will have better weather for maturing; but if the flood is
late, and consequently the water-supply is low, the Government may
have to resort to a system of rotations in sending water down the
canals, and then the Indian corn crop may be sacrificed to the
interests of the cotton. Rice is the wettest of all the crops; the kind
(called ‘sultâni’) sown in May and reaped in November is watered
once in ten days before the flood, but during the flood is given as
much water as the drains can carry off. The other kind (called
‘sabaini’) is sown in August, and also reaped in November. Both in
Lower and Upper Egypt it is purely a flood crop, and takes all the
water it can get. The winter crops, wheat, beans, barley, and clover,
are sown in November and December. Wheat and beans are
irrigated twice, barley once, but clover goes on growing up till June,
and takes more water according to the number of crops, sometimes
three or four, that are taken off it.
In Upper Egypt cotton-sowing begins at the same time, but the
harvest is earlier. Sugar-cane is sown in March, and the canes are
cut from December 15 to March 15. Sometimes the same roots are
left in the ground, and produce another crop in the second year; but
this is never of such quality as the first, and the land has probably to
be left fallow after it. Sugar, therefore, though nominally more
valuable than cotton per acre, is more costly in the long-run. It is
watered every twelve or fifteen days. The other crops are the
summer and flood sorghum, grown on the berms or in tracts within
the basins, and irrigated by shadoofs and water-wheels about once
every ten days; and the wheat, beans, clover, and barley, in the
basins. The cereals are usually not watered at all, but the clover
follows the same course as in Lower Egypt.
Summing up these results, we find that the principal crops in
Lower Egypt are cotton and rice. The cotton needs irrigation about
once in twenty days, the rice once in ten days. To provide this
amount of water, a canal should discharge (after allowance has been
made for wastage) 22 cubic metres in twenty-four hours per acre of
cotton, and 40 cubic metres per acre of rice. That is to say, 1 cubic
metre per second will suffice for 4,000 acres of cotton and 2,150
acres of rice. In Upper Egypt rice is only a flood crop, and cotton and
sugar need about 25 to 30 per cent. more water than in the Delta,
owing to the greater loss from evaporation—that is to say, 1 cubic
metre per second will only suffice for 3,000 acres of cotton or sugar.
During the winter the land throughout Egypt requires on the average
a watering once in forty days. But, as we have seen, it is the summer
supply for the cotton that is the really important thing. We shall see
later what the effect of the reservoir is likely to be in safeguarding
and extending these interests.