Selling the Family Silver: Power, Extraction, and the False Promise of Balance in South Africa’s Political Economy
Introduction: Davos, Washington, and the Pedagogy of Humiliation
There is something quietly revealing about South Africa’s annual pilgrimage to Davos. There, amid the rituals of elite networking and the theatre of global consensus, South African leaders encounter the realities of power stripped of ceremony: conditional access, asymmetrical bargaining, and the expectation of compliance dressed up as partnership.
It is an experience uncomfortably familiar to those lower down the domestic hierarchy; mining-affected communities, the working poor, and those whose lives are shaped by decisions taken elsewhere and justified after the fact.
The irony is not that South Africa is treated poorly at Davos or in Washington, but that its political leadership appears perpetually surprised when it is. When President Ramaphosa travelled to Washington and was treated as an inconvenience rather than a partner, some commentators rushed to frame the moment as an aberration, a function of Donald Trump’s crudeness, impatience, or transactional worldview. But this reading misses the point.
Trump did not invent the hierarchy; he merely dispensed with the etiquette.
What was revealed in Washington was not a breakdown of diplomacy, but the stripping away of its courtesies. Beneath the language of partnership, mutual respect, and shared values lies a far older and more durable logic of power.
Thucydides captured it with unsettling precision: "the strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must".
Trump’s particular contribution was not cruelty, but candour. He made explicit what liberal internationalism often conceals. South Africa’s treatment in Washington was not a misreading of its importance, nor a failure of its messaging. It was an accurate assessment of its leverage.
And this is precisely where the deeper irony emerges. What South Africa endures on the global stage, conditional access, asymmetrical bargaining, thinly veiled impatience, is the very mode of governance its own political leadership routinely reproduces at home. Mining-affected communities, informal settlements, rural villages, and the working poor encounter the same pedagogy of power: consultation without consequence, engagement without leverage, and participation without the capacity to refuse.
What is endured internationally is enacted domestically.
The tragedy, then, is not that this logic exists, it always has, but that it has been normalised as governance. Rather than recognising Washington and Davos as mirrors held up to their own practice of power, South Africa’s elites treat these moments as humiliations to be managed, spun, or forgotten. The lesson is never internalised; it is displaced downward.
This pattern is not confined to minerals, nor is it limited to the abstractions of global trade. It is visible in the widening gap between South Africa’s moral performance on the international stage and its material practice at home.
Nowhere is this contradiction sharper than in the convergence of two realities: a state that positions itself as a principled actor in global justice forums, invoking Palestine and international law with moral clarity, while simultaneously presiding over the killing of poor Black working men at Stilfontein.
The point is not to equate contexts or litigate slogans, but to name a structure. Ethical posture is cheap where the political economy remains intact. International solidarity becomes a language, even as domestic governance relies on force, disposability, and extraction. What is celebrated abroad as moral courage is mirrored at home by the routine criminalisation and lethal disciplining of those rendered surplus to the economy. In this sense, the massacre at Stilfontein is not an aberration; it is the domestic underside of a political order that speaks justice upward while administering violence downward.
What these moments reveal is not inconsistency, but coherence of a particular kind. South Africa’s moral performance on the international stage and its material violence at home are not contradictory impulses; they are complementary functions of an extractive political order.
Where power is weak, ethics are spoken. Where power is strong, force is applied. International solidarity is articulated in the language of law and justice, while domestically the same state relies on coercion, disposability, and lethal discipline to manage those rendered surplus to the economy.
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| The body of a miner starved to death is retrieved by community volunteers in Stilfontein. |
This displacement does not occur in the abstract; it is organised through institutions, rituals, and crucially, through space. It becomes most visible when the geography of power shifts, not only institutionally, but spatially, when the global marketplace comes to South Africa rather than South Africa travelling to it.
Each year, Cape Town hosts the African Mining Indaba, a gathering where mining executives, financiers, consultants, and state officials convene to negotiate the future of the continent’s mineral wealth. The choice of location is not incidental. Cape Town, long configured as a colonial administrative outpost and later as a global-facing enclave, is geographically and socially removed from the mining belt, from rural extraction zones, and from the communities whose land, labour, and lives are directly implicated. It is distant enough from harm to render it abstract, yet close enough to power to make decisions feel authoritative and final.
Here, South Africa’s political leadership is no longer the petitioner. The Minister of Mineral and Petroleum Resources and his entourage are received not as inconveniences, but as gatekeepers. Protocols are observed, deference is performed, and access is carefully managed. The city provides the ideal stage for a Davos-like exclusion: a controlled environment in which elites circulate, bargains are struck, and futures are decided far from those who will bear the costs.
For a brief moment, the hierarchy appears inverted.
But this inversion is precisely the problem. The Mining Indaba does not represent a recovery of sovereignty; it represents a relocation of the marketplace, and with it, a continuation of a colonial spatial logic in which extraction is decided in places of comfort and consumption, not in zones of sacrifice. Power has not changed hands; it has merely changed venue. In this setting, the same political actors who chafe at humiliation in Washington or Davos are transformed into enthusiastic brokers, presiding over the sale of assets they do not personally own and whose long-term consequences they will not personally bear, while those most affected remain physically absent, politically marginal, and structurally excluded.
This is where the normalisation of extractive power reaches its most perverse expression. Having experienced subordination abroad, the state does not return home with greater empathy or restraint. Instead, it reproduces the logic it has learned, but now from a position of relative advantage. The African Mining Indaba becomes the stage upon which South Africa’s elites perform sovereignty while practising liquidation.
What is sold in Cape Town is not merely access to mineral deposits. It is time, land, water, labour, and ecological thresholds, converted into investment opportunities and presented as development. The language is reassuring; partnership, growth, energy transition, critical minerals.
But beneath the vocabulary lies a familiar impulse: to monetise inheritance rather than to steward it. In this setting, ministers are treated like kings, courted, flattered, and deferred to, only to preside over the dispersal of the family jewels. The irony is devastating. The very assets whose reckless sale would render South Africa permanently subordinate in the global economy are traded away under the banner of competitiveness and urgency. What appears as authority is, in fact, abdication.
The African Mining Indaba thus completes the cycle begun in Washington and Davos. There, South Africa is reminded of its weakness. Here, it is encouraged to forget it, not by building power, but by selling the foundations upon which power could one day be constructed. The humiliation endured abroad is compensated for at home, not through transformation, but through extraction.
And so, the lesson of power is learned in the worst possible way. Rather than questioning a system in which dignity depends on leverage and participation is conditional on compliance, South Africa’s leadership internalises its logic and perfects its local application. Those who are treated as supplicants globally become brokers domestically. Those who suffer the market’s indifference abroad administer its discipline at home.
What renders this ritual more insidious is the growing role of select elements of civil society who now enter these spaces without mandate from the most impacted communities, consorting with capital in the language of dialogue, partnership, and inclusion. Their presence provides the Indaba with a veneer of legitimacy. Organisers and investors can point to “engagement,” to selective openness, to panels that gesture toward justice, even as the real victims of extraction remain excluded, unheard, and geographically distant from the opulence in which their futures are negotiated.
This is not inclusion; it is simulation. It is the substitution of representation with access, and of struggle with proximity. By entering elite spaces on terms set by capital, and without accountability to those who bear the costs of extraction, such participation risks laundering a fundamentally exclusionary process. It transforms civil society from a source of disruption into a mechanism of stabilisation, dulling the sharp edges of resistance and undermining struggles rooted in lived dispossession.
The danger here is profound. When exclusion is masked by selective participation, extraction becomes harder to contest, not easier. The language of openness disarms critique, while the structures of decision-making remain untouched. Those living with poisoned water, degraded land, broken promises, and lethal force are rendered invisible, their absence explained away by the presence of intermediaries who speak about them, but not from them.
The African Mining Indaba thus completes the arc of South Africa’s encounter with power. In Washington and Davos, its leaders are reminded, sometimes bluntly, of the limits of their leverage. In Cape Town, those same leaders are briefly elevated, treated as indispensable intermediaries in the global scramble for minerals. But this moment of deference does not translate into strategy. It does not produce restraint, leverage, or long-term bargaining power. Instead, it reinforces a habit: the conversion of authority into access, and access into deals. What is presented as sovereignty is, in practice, brokerage, legitimised by selective inclusion and insulated from democratic accountability.
It is against this backdrop that South Africa’s contemporary extractive strategy must be understood. Crystallised most clearly in its Critical Minerals Strategy, it reflects not confusion or incompetence, but a deliberate political choice: to treat the country as a commodity rather than a polity, and to mistake selling for building. The result is not development, but depletion, the steady erosion of material wealth, democratic legitimacy, and future possibility in exchange for short-term liquidity, elite affirmation, and the quiet neutralisation of dissent.
Power Remembered, Not Forgotten
It is tempting to frame South Africa’s political elite as hypocritical, deferential and performative abroad, domineering at home, as if this were a failure of memory or moral consistency. But this reading is too charitable. What we are witnessing is not forgetfulness, but fluency. The political class understands power very well: where it resides, how it disciplines, and where it can be exercised with minimal resistance.
Internationally, South Africa occupies a subordinate position in a global political economy defined by capital mobility, technological monopolies, and financialised discipline.
Domestically, however, the same state presides over communities with little leverage, fragmented representation, and limited access to institutional recourse. The asymmetry is not accidental as one would assume, it is instead functional. Governance becomes the art of managing upward dependency while enforcing downward compliance.
This dual posture reveals a deeper truth: South Africa is neither fully sovereign nor powerless. It is subordinate upward and dominant downward, and its extractive strategy is calibrated precisely to that position.
Deracialisation Without Disruption
One of the most effective ways in which South Africa’s extractive political economy has insulated itself from challenge is through deracialisation without disruption. This is most clearly visible in the state’s repeated invocation of Black Economic Empowerment as evidence that mining transformation has been achieved. The Minister of Mineral and Petroleum Resources frequently points to the fact that a majority of coal mines are now Black-owned as proof that ownership patterns have shifted and that extractivism has been democratised.
This claim is revealing, not because it is entirely false, but because it mistakes representation for transformation. The racial composition of ownership has changed, but the underlying logic of extraction has not. Coal continues to be mined under the same imperatives of speed, cost minimisation, environmental externalisation, and labour disposability. Communities remain excluded from decision-making power. Ecological damage is deferred or socialised. Profits are still prioritised over reinvestment, and consent is still simulated rather than secured.
Deracialisation, in this sense, has functioned not as a rupture with the extractive model, but as its political stabiliser. By incorporating a layer of Black ownership into an unchanged structure, the system acquires legitimacy without relinquishing control. What once appeared as racial domination now presents itself as national inclusion, even as the same communities remain landless, polluted, and expendable. Extraction is no longer defended as historically necessary, but as socially inclusive, despite producing the same outcomes.
This is why deracialisation is so tempting to political elites. It promises dignity, recognition, and advancement within the existing order, without requiring confrontation with the order itself.
It offers inclusion where disruption would demand redistribution, restraint, and the reallocation of power. In this way, Black ownership becomes a shield against critique rather than a vehicle for transformation, and extractivism survives by changing its face rather than its function.
Seen in this light, claims about the racial identity of mine owners do not answer the central question confronting South Africa’s political economy. The question is not who owns the mines, but on what terms extraction occurs, who decides, who benefits, and who bears the costs. An extractive system that remains ecologically destructive, democratically exclusionary, and economically unequal does not become developmental by virtue of the race of its intermediaries. It merely becomes harder to challenge.
The Commodity Fallacy: When a Country Becomes a Product
Both the ANC and the DA increasingly approach South Africa’s place in the world as if it were a product competing in a crowded market. The language is revealing: investment attractiveness, regulatory certainty, competitiveness, ease of doing business. These are not neutral descriptors; they encode a worldview in which national endowments are assets to be monetised, and governance is reduced to salesmanship.
The assumption is simple: if the pitch is right, growth will follow. If the deals are concluded, development will emerge. If confidence is restored, prosperity will trickle down.
But this logic rests on a critical error: it collapses exchange into development, and revenue into wealth. A country is not a firm, and minerals are not inventory. They are finite endowments whose value lies not merely in their extraction, but in the social and productive structures they enable, or destroy.
To treat South Africa as just another commodity is to erase history, ecology, and obligation. It is to mistake liquidity for legacy.
The Family Jewels: Endowments, Heritage, and Intergenerational Theft
Every functioning society understands, implicitly or explicitly, that some assets must be protected, not liquidated. Family wealth is not built by selling heirlooms to cover daily expenses.
It is built by preserving endowments, investing returns, and ensuring that future generations inherit more capacity, not less.
In political terms, South Africa’s “family jewels” are not merely minerals in the ground. They include:
• ecological thresholds that cannot be restored once breached,
• social cohesion in communities subjected to extractive violence,
• land and water systems upon which life depends,
• and the democratic legitimacy of the state itself.
The reckless extraction of minerals at ever-lower costs, justified by fiscal urgency and market pressure, amounts to intergenerational theft. It consumes tomorrow’s possibilities to stabilise today’s balance sheet, and even that stabilisation is fleeting.
Liquidation masquerades as progress because it produces motion without direction. Capital flows, contracts are signed, and announcements are made, all the visible indicators of activity are present. But activity is not accumulation, and revenue is not wealth. What distinguishes development from liquidation is not the volume of extraction, but what remains after extraction has ceased.
In South Africa’s case, the answer is increasingly bleak: degraded ecosystems, hollowed-out local economies, fractured communities, and a state more fiscally dependent, not less.
Most damning of all, liquidation forecloses the future in order to stabilise the present. It trades intergenerational capacity for short-term liquidity, consuming tomorrow’s options to manage today’s constraints. Once minerals are exhausted, landscapes altered, and social trust eroded, no amount of fiscal prudence can restore what has been lost. The country is left poorer in every sense that matters, materially diminished, democratically weakened, and structurally locked into continued dependency on the very forces that demanded liquidation in the first place.
To call this development is not merely inaccurate; it is deceptive. It confuses extraction with transformation, movement with progress, and salesmanship with stewardship. Liquidation is not a failure of implementation. It is the logical outcome of a political economy that mistakes selling for building and treats inheritance as inventory.
Extraction Without Accumulation: The Broken Development Loop
South Africa’s extractive economy follows a familiar and devastating cycle:
1. Minerals are extracted and exported.
2. Revenues enter the fiscus.
3. Funds are spent on consumption and debt servicing.
4. Structural capacity remains unchanged.
5. Dependency deepens.
This is not an accident. It is the predictable outcome of an economy that generates revenue without building productive depth. Corporate profits have expanded dramatically over the past three decades, while employment stagnation and poverty have intensified.
Even by the standards of orthodox economics, including the work of Joseph Stiglitz, whom President Ramaphosa himself frequently invokes, this model is incoherent. Extreme inequality suppresses demand, incentivises speculative investment, and corrodes democratic trust.
Redistribution is not a moral afterthought; it is a precondition for sustainable growth. In economies marked by extreme inequality, wealth concentration does not translate into productive investment or broad-based demand. Instead, it fuels speculative activity, capital flight, and asset inflation, while suppressing consumption among the majority whose incomes are insufficient to sustain economic momentum. Growth stalls not because resources are scarce, but because purchasing power is unevenly distributed and structurally constrained.
This is not a heterodox claim. It sits squarely within mainstream economic theory, including the work of Joseph Stiglitz and others who have demonstrated that high inequality undermines efficiency, weakens aggregate demand, and erodes the institutional foundations upon which markets depend. Where income and wealth are concentrated at the top, economic activity becomes increasingly decoupled from social reproduction. The economy grows more volatile, less innovative, and more reliant on extractive rents rather than productive expansion.
In the context of a mineral-dependent economy, the absence of redistribution has even more perverse effects. Extractive sectors generate high returns with limited employment, meaning that without deliberate redistribution, revenues circulate narrowly while social costs are widely dispersed.
Communities bear environmental degradation, labour precarity, and infrastructural strain, while the gains are captured elsewhere. The result is not only economic stagnation, but political instability, as those excluded from the benefits of growth withdraw consent from the system that produces it.
Redistribution, properly understood, is not merely about transfer payments or fiscal compensation after harm has been done. It is about structuring ownership, revenue flows, and decision-making power in ways that expand the economy’s internal market and deepen its productive capacity. When households are economically secure, demand stabilises. When communities have a material stake in extraction, resistance gives way to accountability.
When inequality is reduced, growth becomes self-reinforcing rather than extractive. Absent redistribution, extraction can only ever deliver temporary fiscal relief. With it, resource wealth can be transformed into durable economic foundations. To treat redistribution as an optional ethical add-on is therefore to misunderstand the mechanics of growth itself. In deeply unequal societies, redistribution is not the cost of development; it is its condition.
Yet South Africa persists with a model that extracts first and redistributes poorly, if at all.
The Democratic Deficit: Extraction Without Consent
Perhaps the most corrosive failure of South Africa’s extractive strategy lies not in economics, but in democracy. The dominant policy response treats mining-affected communities as stakeholders to be managed rather than as rights-bearing political actors. Consultation is conducted, boxes are ticked, and processes are followed, yet the fundamental distribution of power remains untouched.
In South Africa’s extractive regime, communities may attend meetings, submit objections, and engage in social and labour plan processes, but they are structurally denied the capacity to refuse, renegotiate, or impose binding conditions. The outcome of engagement is therefore predetermined. What is presented as democratic inclusion functions, in practice, as administrative containment.
This democratic deficit is not confined to the formal relationship between the state and mining-affected communities. It is increasingly reproduced through forms of participation that substitute access for mandate and proximity for accountability. In these arrangements, inclusion becomes performative rather than political: a limited set of voices is elevated into decision-making spaces without the authority to bind outcomes or to speak from collective consent.
Such participation can soften conflict, humanise process, and reassure investors and officials alike, while leaving the underlying distribution of power intact. When representation is detached from those who bear the costs of extraction, participation itself becomes a mechanism of containment rather than transformation, a way of managing dissent while preserving extraction as the organising principle.
True local power would require a qualitatively different architecture of governance. It would mean communities possessing veto rights over extraction that threatens their land, water, or livelihoods, rather than being confined to consultative forums whose outcomes are non-binding. It would mean guaranteed fiscal claims on mineral rents, through royalties, equity stakes, or direct revenue-sharing, rather than reliance on discretionary development projects that can be withdrawn, delayed, or repackaged at will. And it would mean enforceable legal obligations, backed by penalties and termination clauses, rather than voluntary social compacts whose primary function is reputational management rather than accountability.
Critics will argue that such arrangements are impractical, that they would deter investment, slow development, and introduce uncertainty into an already fragile economy. This objection is revealing. It assumes that speed is synonymous with progress, that certainty for capital outweighs security for communities, and that democracy must be subordinated to efficiency. But this is not a technical argument; it is a political preference. Slower extraction, more complex negotiations, and constrained elite discretion are not unintended consequences of democratic control, they are its defining features.
Centralised extractivism persists precisely because it is politically efficient for those who benefit from it. It concentrates decision-making authority, simplifies bargaining with capital, and minimises the number of actors whose consent must be secured. But efficiency achieved through exclusion is not legitimacy. It produces compliance, not consent; acquiescence, not agreement. Over time, this hollowing out of democratic substance erodes trust in institutions, fuels resistance and conflict, and transforms mining regions into sites of chronic instability rather than shared prosperity.
Growth without consent is not development. It is imposition. Development, properly understood, requires not only the mobilisation of resources, but the democratic authorisation of their use.
Without that authorisation, extraction becomes a form of internal colonialism, administered through law, justified by growth statistics, and resisted through protest rather than participation.
The democratic deficit at the heart of South Africa’s extractive strategy is therefore not a secondary flaw to be corrected through better communication or improved consultation. It is a foundational failure. Until communities are recognised as co-owners of mineral wealth rather than obstacles to its extraction, the country will continue to mistake procedural inclusion for democracy, efficiency for legitimacy, and extraction for development.
The Critical Minerals Strategy: Strategy or Surrender?
In substance, however, it is a sales document with weak sovereign content.
The Strategy’s operative thrust is not control, restraint, or leverage, but accele
rated market access. Its core implementation logic prioritises rapid licensing, streamlined approvals, and the removal of regulatory “bottlenecks” to improve South Africa’s attractiveness as a supplier of critical minerals . The emphasis on first-mover advantage in a global scramble for minerals, repeated throughout the document, treats speed as a proxy for strategy and urgency as a substitute for power.
Its defining features are telling. The Strategy promotes faster permitting and a “one-stop shop” licensing regime, explicitly to reduce turnaround times for prospecting and mining rights . It places heavy emphasis on investor confidence, competitive incentives, and fiscal concessions to attract capital into exploration, extraction, and processing . While beneficiation and localisation are repeatedly invoked, they are framed largely as aspirational outcomes to be enabled through incentives, partnerships, and voluntary alignment rather than through binding obligations.
Community protections, similarly, are present mainly as references to ESG principles and consultation processes, without enforceable consent rights, revenue guarantees, or ownership thresholds . The Strategy assumes that inclusion will follow investment, rather than recognising that exclusion is structurally embedded in how extraction is currently governed.
What is absent is more revealing than what is included.
Despite explicitly defining critical minerals as strategically important to national security and industrial development, the Strategy draws no meaningful distinction between minerals that should be conserved as long-term strategic reserves and those to be extracted immediately for export .
There are no extraction ceilings, depletion timelines, or intergenerational safeguards to ensure that non-renewable resources are not exhausted in response to short-term market signals.
There are no enforceable downstream industrial targets tied to licensing, no requirements that a defined share of output be processed domestically, no mandatory technology transfer, and no penalties for failure to deliver promised beneficiation.
Community ownership is absent as a structural principle; fiscal benefits flow upward to the national fiscus and outward to capital, with local redistribution left discretionary and contingent.
Most critically, the Strategy lacks any statutory national-interest screening mechanism. Unlike jurisdictions such as Canada, which subject critical minerals transactions to binding “net benefit” and national security tests, South Africa relies on policy coordination without legal teeth . There is no sovereign wealth framework to convert depleted mineral assets into durable public capital, nor any mechanism to prevent capital flight, corporate restructuring, or offshore relocation once extraction has occurred .
In this sense, the Strategy reflects a deeper failure of political imagination. While it correctly diagnoses the geopolitical scramble for critical minerals, it responds by offering South Africa’s endowment to that scramble rather than by using it as leverage to reshape the terms of engagement. It seeks relevance through availability, not power through restraint.
This is not strategy in the classical sense of securing long-term advantage under conditions of scarcity. It is surrender dressed in the language of competitiveness, or, more cynically, a short-term accumulation framework that benefits a narrow class while externalising ecological, social, and intergenerational costs. The result is a country that appears indispensable in the present moment while quietly liquidating the foundations of its future.
Conclusion: Building Is Not Selling
Taken together, these dynamics reveal an extractive order that has learned how to survive critique by absorbing it symbolically while preserving itself materially. Moral language is deployed where leverage is absent, inclusion is extended where disruption would be costly, and ownership is reshuffled where power remains untouched.
From Washington to Cape Town, from Palestine to Stilfontein, the pattern is consistent: ethics travel upward as speech, while extraction and coercion are managed downward as practice.
South Africa does not therefore face a choice between isolation and engagement, between growth and justice, or between development and democracy. These are false binaries, carefully manufactured to foreclose debate and to present liquidation as inevitability. They serve those who benefit from speed, discretion, and asymmetry, not those who must live with the consequences.
The real choice is simpler, and more profound.
It is the choice between building and selling.
Selling converts endowments into cash flow and calls it progress. It treats mineral wealth as inventory, democracy as procedure, and inclusion as proof of legitimacy. It changes faces at the table while leaving the table itself intact. In doing so, it stabilises an extractive economy by deracialising it, professionalising it, and insulating it from the people whose land, labour, and lives are consumed in the process.
Building, by contrast, converts endowments into capacity and calls it a future. It begins from the recognition that representation without power is not transformation, and that ownership without obligation does not constitute justice.
Building demands restraint, where selling demands urgency. It requires redistribution where accumulation is defended. It insists on democratic consent where extraction has long relied on administrative compliance and force. Above all, it relocates power, away from elite spaces of deal-making and toward the communities and ecosystems that bear extraction’s costs.
If the present trajectory continues, South Africa will not merely fail to develop; it will be systematically diminished. Ecological thresholds will be breached beyond repair.
Communities will be left with neither land nor livelihoods. Democratic institutions will harden into procedural shells, and the state will grow ever more dependent on the very forces that demand continued liquidation.
And it will not be only this generation that pays the price.
They will ask “ukudayisa ngefa lamakhosi”/ why we sold the family silver, and why we called it strategy, when the choice was clear, why we mistook selling for strategy and inclusion for transformation.
For those committed to justice, democracy, and genuine development, the task is therefore not to secure a more representative place within an extractive economy, but to dismantle the logic that treats inheritance as inventory and democracy as a procedural hurdle.
The struggle ahead is not only against extraction, but against the idea that selling is the highest form of governance. It is a struggle to reassert stewardship over liquidation, consent over compliance, and building over brokerage.
That is not an abstract ideal. It is a political programme, and a responsibility owed to those who come after us.
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