The Security Principle: From Serenity to Regulation

By Frederic Gros and David Broder

The idea of security—from ancient Greece to the War on Terror

In The Security Principle, French philosopher Frédéric Gros takes a historical approach to the concept of security, looking at its evolution from the Stoics to the social network. With lucidity and rigour, Gros’s approach is fourfold, looking at security as a mental state, as developed by the Greeks; as an objective situation and absence of all danger, as prevailed in the Middle Ages; as guaranteed by the nation-state and its trio of judiciary, police, and military; and finally biosecurity, control, regulation, and protection in the flux of contemporary society. In this deeply thought-provoking account, Gros’s exploration of security shines a light both on its past meanings and its present uses, exposing the contemporary abuses of security and the pervasiveness of it in everyday life in the Global North.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verso
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781784787172

Frederic Gros

Fr�d�ric Gros is a Professor of Philosophy at the University of Paris XII and the Institute of Political Studies, Paris. He was the editor of the last lectures of Michel Foucault at the Coll�ge de France. He has written books on psychiatry, law, and war as well as the best-selling Philosophy of Walking. He lives in Paris.

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The Security Principle

The Security Principle

From Serenity to Regulation

Frédéric Gros

Translated by David Broder

This work was published with the help of the French Ministry of Culture – Centre national du livre

Ouvrage publié avec le concours du Ministère français chargé de la culture – Centre national du livre

This book is supported by the Institute français (Royaume-Uni) as part of the Burgess Programme

This English-language edition published by Verso 2019

Originally published in French as Le Principe sécurité

© Gallimard 2013

Translation © David Broder 2019

All rights reserved

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

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ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-717-2 (US EBK)

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Contents

Introduction

1 The Serenity of the Wise Man

2 The Seventh Day of History

3 The Guarantor-State

4 Biosecurity

Conclusion

Notes

Appendix

Index

Introduction

‘Security’ has today become a remarkable focus of discussion within the media and in politics. This term has invaded public debate – indeed, political leaders talk at great length about it. We complain about the increasing feeling of insecurity, we haughtily observe that security is the most fundamental freedom, we pull out opinion polls to show us that security is as much of a popular concern as unemployment or the environment, and we cast security as an indispensable condition for childhood development and fulfilment in adult life. In recent years, we have even seen the rise of new expressions such as ‘food security’, ‘energy security’ and ‘human security’. At the same time, the sector of the economy that revolves around all forms of security (from information technology to surveillance and home security) is rapidly expanding. When everything is in turmoil and fear is on the rise, those whose business it is to sell ‘security’ can line their pockets. But what actually is security? A feeling, a political programme, some material force, a smokescreen, a hope, a damnation, a pathological obsession, a commodity, a public service? We can begin by delving into a few of the existing definitions.

For the Littré dictionary, security means ‘peace of mind, however well or ill-founded, in a moment where there may be something to fear’; for the Trésor de la langue française, it is a ‘confident and calm state of mind’. Here security is not just a feeling but a balanced state of mind, a certain disposition of the soul when it is calm, tranquil and confident. In this first sense, security is what we would today call serenity. This meaning comes directly from Latin: what is securus is whatever is sine cura, or above concern, free of trouble, without worry. This term also has a long history in the French language: for Rousseau, security is the condition of pure souls like Julie in his New Heloise. Only those who have a tranquil conscience and a virtuous heart can enjoy a sense of security.

In this case, the emphasis is placed not on the absence of danger or the freedom from threats, but rather on the fact that such jeopardy is unable to trouble one’s peace of mind. Nothing can upset the sleep of the just and as long as one has a tranquil conscience, one ought not be afraid. Up till the end of the eighteenth century the dictionaries of the Académie française observed that this peace of mind was felt precisely ‘in a time and in a situation when there may indeed be something to fear’. This concept of security did not, therefore, rule out the possibility of threat. The important thing was that security depended on a wholly internal, subjective steadfastness rather than the reality of dangers actually being kept at bay. We find this same emphasis in the examples quoted from the 1762 edition of the Académie’s dictionary: ‘Amidst so many perils, you fear nothing, your security is remarkable’; ‘He slept among his enemies with incredible security’; ‘With great security of conscience’. In the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française (1935), there is a different meaning: security is the ‘absence of danger’. In the Trésor de la langue française, security is ‘an objective situation reliant on material, economic and political conditions that imply the absence of dangers to individuals or threats to goods, thus causing confidence’. And according to Larousse, security is ‘a situation in which someone or something is not exposed to any danger, any risk, and in particular the risk of physical aggression, accidents, theft or damage’. In these latter examples, things have been turned on their head: security designates not a state of mind but an objective situation. It indicates not some internal calm that even the tangible presence of danger is unable to disrupt but, rather, the absence of threats, a situation in which risks have objectively been removed and dangers ruled out. It is in this sense that we can say that an individual has been ‘secured’, finding themsleves in a situation where they are not in any way imperilled. To ‘secure’ an object is to place it somewhere beyond risk, where it cannot be carried off or damaged.

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Another definition has it that security is ‘an element of the material public order, characterized by the absence of dangers to an individual’s life, liberty or property rights’ (Trésor de la langue française). This third definition, which is both far-reaching and specific, integrates security into the state, understood as a centralized political unit – a public authority. When we speak of ‘public’ security, we are referring to the protection of goods and individuals against aggression and theft, but also the defence of institutions against subversion, rebellion and sedition. When we speak of ‘collective’ security, we are referring to the interplay of alliances between states, as well as other diplomatic treaties that seek to dissuade aggression by some third party. When we speak of ‘military’ security, we are referring to a combination of armed forces that can prevent the invasion of our territory. Here, the state appears as the guarantor of security: it guarantees the rights of the people, the preservation of their lives and assets, the territorial integrity of a country, the stability of the government and public order. In this example, security is the state.

Trésor de la langue française speaks of security as both concrete and abstract: ‘Security: Whatever allows the normal functioning of some activity, or for a process to play out in a normal way’. For example, to maintain ‘security’ stocks is to prepare to never run short and to be able to respond to any demand. Here, security designates a complement to some operation, allowing it to proceed without let or hindrance. More broadly, it refers to a set of measures designed to ensure the continuity of some process. This is the sense in which we can today talk of ‘information technology (IT) security’ but also ‘food security’ (ensuring a continual supply of food to a given population) or ‘energy security’ (building up reserves, diversifying supply sources, anticipating crises).

By taking a look at the most commonplace definitions of security, we can in the first instance identify four main dimensions: (1) security as a state of mind, the disposition of a given subject; (2) security as an objective situation characterized by an absence of danger and the disappearance of threat; (3) security as a guarantee of fundamental rights, underpinned by the state; and finally, (4) security as a control of supply chains. The concept of security is marked by each of these four dimensions. They determine its internal consistency and its points of tension.

What we are setting out to do here is to explore each of these four main dimensions by examining four select historical problematizations. We will study security as serenity, a state of mind, on the basis of ancient spiritual techniques and in particular those stemming from Greek and Roman philosophy. The great Stoic, Epicurean and Sceptic schools of wisdom presented themselves as veritable ‘endeavours in security’ in the sense that they promised their disciples a steadfastness of the soul and an unshakable mental calm.

Second comes security as the absence of danger and the lack of threat. We will describe this dimension by way of an examination of millenarian beliefs. Christianity constructed the utopia of a thousand-year period that would bring perfect happiness to a reunited humanity. With the disappearance of illness and suffering, the end of exertion and labour, the erasure of all forms of servitude, the absolute defeat of vice and evil, and the absence of any aggression between living beings, this age of regenerated humanity would be bathed in immanent bliss. The Church soon enough condemned this belief as heresy, yet it was nonetheless the source of a great number of political, social and religious movements throughout the Middle Ages. For these movements, fascinated by the hope of a promised age of definitive security, the task was to precipitate history and bring forth the advent of this Golden Age.

Security defined as a set of state guarantees is a construct of the modern era: the system of security, qua the institution and maintenance of a public and international order, gradually established itself through the foundational texts of political thought (from Hobbes to Locke and Rousseau), through the geopolitical concepts of Westphalian Europe (from Richelieu to Bismarck), and finally through the creation of a modern police force. Certain notions (like surveillance, the balance of forces, raison d’état, regulations and the state of exception, among others) were defined later on, and constituted the enduring inheritance, the solid bedrock of our portrayals of security as a public good.

The last meaning of security is a more diffuse one but also crucial. It lies in the control of supplies. We find it in expressions like ‘food security’, ‘energy security’, ‘health’ or ‘emotional security’ and even ‘human security’. It allows us to pin down new concepts like ‘traceability’ and ‘precautions’ but so, too, to re-interrogate others like ‘protection’ and ‘regulation’. In studying this sense of security, we can refer to systems of claims (the doctrine of human security or the precaution principle) but also to contemporary techniques and practices from CCTV cameras to radio-frequency identification (RFID) chips and biometrics.

Chapter One

The Serenity of the Wise Man

‘Security: a confident and calm state of mind’

Historically, the first meaning of the word ‘security’ referred to a certain state of mind, a subjective disposition characterized by confidence, calmness and tranquility. Security understood as serenity was an important focus of ancient Greek wisdom. The great schools of philosophy that developed from the third century BC onward made this security the principle characteristic of the wise man and, indeed, proposed the spiritual techniques appropriate to achieving it.

The Stoics: the Security of Self-Control

We can begin to explore this source of meaning by looking to the techniques of the Stoics. Such was Seneca’s famous statement, addressed to Lucilius: ‘securitas autem proprium bonum sapientis est’ (‘security is the peculiar blessing of the wise’).¹ The Greek equivalent of this idea is ataraxia, as for example in Epictetus: ‘If you want to achieve indifference, freedom and security [ataraxia], head toward philosophy’.² In Seneca’s thinking, securitas was combined with the notions of tranquillitas (tranquillity), quies (rest), but also magnitudo (being magnanimous). For instance, ‘What is the happy life? It is peace of mind and lasting tranquillity (securitas et perpetua tranquillitas). This will be yours if you possess greatness of soul; it will be yours if you possess the steadfastness that resolutely clings to a good judgement just reached’.³ In Epictetus, ataraxia goes hand-in-hand with eleutheria (freedom) and sometimes apatheia (indifference).

The Stoic ethic was essentially an ethic of perfect self-control, the development of a strong self totally able to deal with the world’s furious assaults. Faced with the hazards of time and confronted with the ills and the great tragedies of life, the wise Stoic stuck to his course, firm and true. He did not vacillate; he coped with everything that he faced without flinching. Hence the famous image of the wise man standing strong, his head held high, amidst the storms of existence. Achieving this ideal of control and strength, this ideal of maintaining one’s serenity amidst all possible torments, remaining utterly imperturbable even as the whirlwind tries to drag us in – in a word, conquering this securitas or ataraxia as a permanent state of mind – demands enormous discipline, constant application and regular, repeated exercises. As we shall see, the sceptics’ ataraxia presupposed a first, cognitive decision, a foundational conversion, an abrupt spiritual move. And all this would then have to be nourished and maintained, given that the sceptics were running against well-anchored habits of the mind. For its part, Epicurean ataraxia would base itself on a continual cultivation of simplicity: renouncing false pleasures, dissolving the illusion of social recognition and chucking out the poison of vain satisfactions. Of the three, the Stoics’ ataraxia was the most demanding, for it presupposed long and difficult training. If the sceptic wise man paraded his amused detachment and his smile amidst the dogmatics, and if the Epicurean sage kept sheltered from the world and the baying of the wolves – sharing his time and his bread with but a few friends – the Stoic sage confronted the disorder of the world and waged a struggle. He was an active force in the city, he advised the powerful and engaged in political combat. More precisely, he ceaselessly proved his inner strength and security through contact with the populace, in political struggles, in the assemblies. His inner life was constructed as a trial. The repeated fire of political action forged the steel of a sovereign serenity. Stoicism, an ethic of courage, of action, of perseverance supposed an inner discipline and a perpetual confrontation with the outside world, constantly diving into its affairs.⁴

As we have said, this meant holding firm amidst the fracas of the world, retaining one’s self-control, sticking to one’s course amidst the storm, and maintaining one’s exemplary conduct even when faced with the most powerful torments.⁵ Amidst the generalized insecurity of the world, it was necessary to maintain an absolute inner security. To achieve such a strong self required a slow and gradual effort. It called for preparatory exercises. Most importantly, it was necessary to continually return to the fray of struggle, standing up for one’s rights in the face of disaster and taking the blows as they rained down, if one was to avoid becoming a weakling.

There are four kinds of threat to this self-control upon which the quest for security thus rests. First are events, accidents, dramas or even divine interventions. In a word: anything that might arise (be it a pleasure or a catastrophe) and provoke irrepressible emotions and a restless agitation in the soul. So, the first kind of security must concern the images coming from the outside which tell us what is happening. Second, the destabilizing factor might not be something going on outside us, but rather what takes form within: the surges of desire, the inner troubles born of fear or hope and the agitation of ambition. I may be troubled by any of those movements of the soul that push me toward a crazy desire for one thing, the desperate aversion from or the passionate quest for something else. But as well as being a man that something could happen to, a man who feels in his deepest soul the contradictory movement of fears and desires, I am nonetheless also a man of action: I act, I endeavour, I build. So, what threatens my stability in this third type of insecurity is quite simply the setback, the defeat, the derailing of my endeavours as my plans fall apart. Finally, the last great source of insecurity is the perspective of death, the void that inexorably lies in store. Even if I manage to stop myself being impressed by my own imagination, no longer being carried away by my desires or letting anything discourage me in my endeavours, there remains a final, vast, definitive reservoir of insecurity: my coming death. Here it is worth remembering the ancient maxim (albeit a clearly Epicurean one): as far as death is concerned, we men all live in a city without walls.⁶

The whole Stoic ethic consists of constructing great forms of security: in our imaginations, in our desires, in our actions and, lastly, in our security when faced with death. Through a programme that takes him through the appropriate spiritual training and exercise, the wise man, according to some of the most popular portrayals, will gradually be able to make his self, his soul, an invincible fortress,⁷ a rock that stands strong amidst troubled waters.⁸

So, first comes security in the imagination. When some harmful, destabilizing, dramatic or upsetting image reaches us from the outside (news of a death, a loss, a house going up in flames, wealth being confiscated or stolen, someone close to us dying), we risk being deprived of our serenity and being plunged into a storm of distress. This is the moment in which we must immediately get to work: in other words, not allow ourselves to be fascinated by the image or remain prisoner of its dramatic power, but oppose it absolutely with an activity of the soul capable of deflating this impression and overcoming it. For the Stoic school, our primary focus should be trained on the ‘inner discourse’⁹ that this image awakens within us. This is highly important work, for – according to Stoic teachings – our emotions always secretly depend on some judgement. If I am unhappy, it is because I have judged that ‘what is happening to me is a misfortune’; if I am anxious, it is because I have judged that ‘what I have just learned is terrible news’; if I am feeling fearful, it is because I believe that ‘something really bad is coming’. We have to be able to control and mould this inner discourse. Indeed, these implicit judgements are always the trigger, the root, the cause of our emotions, our sources of sadness and fear. We need to rid our imagination of all drama and protect ourselves from news in the outside world that might throw us off course. This work begins with a first effort to mobilize a series of ethical barriers capable of strengthening our soul and preventing it from being overwhelmed. Any unwanted and uncontrolled thoughts will only deepen our hardship and any secret discourse will only cast a shadow over our hearts. This inner discourse stirs our souls and in every sense we need to define the techniques needed for structuring it, thus ensuring that our soul will remain fixed on its axis.

The first imperative, here, is to categorize the impressions that do indeed come to mind. At root, this simply consists of classifying them by the single criterion of whether this ‘depends on me’ or not. This is the famous golden rule of Stoicism so tirelessly repeated by Epictetus: we have to be able to distinguish what depends on us from what does not. When I look at everything that comes along in the outside world (the succession of events, twists of fate, encounters, bad luck and any unfortunate coincidences), in the materiality of bodies (illness, corruption, decomposition, exhaustion and so on), in societal arrangements (recognition, promotion and all hierarchies) or finally in everything that concerns material wealth, social status and the health of the body, I see that none of this strictly and absolutely depends on me. Fundamentally, everything that happens to bodies, to things, to one’s status is linked to a combination of circumstances that largely stand outside of me. So, when something bad happens to me, rather than reacting by crying ‘what misfortune!’ I should classify this image in the category of ‘does not depend on me’, thus allowing me to respond by saying, for example, ‘all this is of no importance to me’. What is happening to me depends on chains of causality that are clearly beyond my control, and I should thus respond by admitting my powerlessness. And this itself produces a certain bedrock of serenity. This first very negative stage consists of simply neutralizing a given image such as to maintain my own inner security. I detach myself from its content by declaring it foreign to me: ‘that does not depend on me’, ‘it is a matter of indifference’.¹⁰

Once one finds that one is strong enough to respond with disdain to mere worldly ills, a second technique of admitting one’s own powerlessness can be deployed in order to secure oneself against impressions coming from the outside. But this also requires a more active way of dealing with worldly developments. Going no further than the first stage will ultimately lead us to a rather feeble sense of security. But, rather than cowardly turning away from the content of a given image – insisting ‘I can’t do anything about it’ and kicking it into touch (in other words, a security based on resignation) – the wise man would soon more directly pose the question of how to make best use of all that befalls him.

The problem then posed is the following: what should I do about all that is happening to me, everything inflicted upon me from the outside? What is the most elevated, most noble, most philosophical use of these developments, the strategy most consistent with the rules that I have set myself, and the most faithful to the deeper Nature of the world? How should I respond to what is happening to me? With tears and despair? With calm steadfastness? With the search for a solution? With courage, derision, a reasoned evasiveness? Here, my relationship to reality becomes a technical question. Rather than sink into difficulty, I should respond to each external representation with a catalogue of duties. I lose a friend, I am ruined, I wake up in agony: on each occasion, I consult the repertoire of attitudes that can be adopted in this or that situation. In seeing other people’s misfortunes, I should show solidarity rather than pity, and help them without allowing myself to be overwhelmed by the appeal of tears. In every situation, I have to be able to cope with what happens to me and respond to each event by asking what is the most noble use of what has happened to me? In this case, the content of the image is very much taken into