This chapter identifies and analyses the duty bearers responsible for realising the right to science, challenging claims that the inherently ‘unbounded’ nature of science is incompatible with the traditionally ‘bounded’ structure of human rights obligations. Instead, it argues that difficulties in assigning responsibilities arise from the complexity and diversity of the modern scientific ecosystem. The analysis categorises duty bearers into three main groups: states (and their agents, including universities and funding agencies), international organisations (particularly those influencing intellectual property and trade, such as WIPO and WTO) and non-state actors (comprising private corporations, individual researchers, publishers and private funding institutions). Employing a doctrinal approach rooted in international human rights law, the chapter clarifies the varying degrees of legal and moral obligations incumbent upon these actors.

What might entitle agents or agencies that are not sponsored by the state, only by some other social group or organization, to represent their people in an international forum. A state-centred approach would deny that they ever have a title to such a role, while an individual-centred approach would hold that they have as good a title as the state. Both approaches have problems and the paper presents a third, more satisfying alternative. On this approach, such bodies may claim to represent their people insofar as the state enjoys standby control over their proposals, being able to oppose them, should it wish to do so, with a radical veto or a moderate refusal to be bound. Ideally, however, the state with such standby control will be required to allow the proposals to be publicized domestically and to provide reasons for opposing them, if that is what it chooses to do. Under the arrangement proposed, state-independent representatives will be able to explore innovative ideas collaboratively with their counterparts from elsewhere, to identify imaginative solutions to common problems, and to have the opportunity to persuade their own states, under domestic pressure, to fall in line.

The final two weeks of ‘Alamgir’s life is the focus of this chapter. It highlights various themes and characters (some important, others minor) to illustrate daily life at court at the end of his long reign while reflecting back on ‘Alamgir, his reign, and the Mughal Empire. There are sections devoted to the relationship between ‘Alamgir and his three surviving sons, the tensions between his sons and grandsons, the impoverishment of the Mughal nobility, biographies of some of his favorite nobles and last surviving wife (Udaipuri Mahal), conversion to Islam, and the ill-fated Mughal struggle against the Marathas. Other sections highlight ‘Alamgir’s physical and mental frailties, his extraordinary work ethic, his attentiveness to intelligence gathering, and the deep sense of personal failure and self-recrimination at the end of his life. Together these stories offer insights on ‘Alamgir, the court, and the empire on the cusp of a new era that everyone feared might be even less settled than the one drawing to a close.

This chapter uses the twin rubrics of “state” and “sovereignty” to understand many of the most important or controversial aspects of ‘Alamgir’s forty-nine-year reign. What emerges is a portrait of a ruler who was, by turns, determined to restore law and order, protect social hierarchies, coopt or crush anyone who opposed his efforts, replenish the imperial treasury, and strengthen Mughal rule. Although ‘Alamgir mostly positioned himself as a typical Mughal emperor in terms of his sovereign self-expression, his style of renunciate sovereignty (at once Timurid and Islamic) radiated into the court and empire in distinctive ways. Ultimately, his decision to invade the Deccan in the early 1680s proved to be his and the Mughal Empire’s undoing. Against a backdrop of political and military failure, ‘Alamgir nonetheless held on to his throne. This chapter ends by arguing that his emergence as a living saint–emperor (Zinda Pir ‘Alamgir) was a key factor in his political survival.

This chapter reviews the Working Group on Arbitrary Detention’s (WGAD) approach to issues of evidence and burdens of proof. It aims to provide a useful point of comparison with the UNTBs’ evidentiary procedures. The WGAD has developed an increasingly sophisticated approach to evidence, providing strong incentives for other decision-making bodies to take up its conclusions and procedures. In this chapter, the following arguments are substantiated: first, that the Working Group’s increasingly formalised and standardised approach to evidence reflects the maturing of the Working Group and its entrenchment in the ecosystem of human rights bodies; second, that its nuanced evidentiary approach can serve to enhance its credibility with states and claimants, in order to increase compliance rates; and third, its detailed approaches to evidentiary standards and challenges could provide precedents for UNTBs with individual claims mandates to follow a similar approach.

The introduction fits the religious identities and entanglements of imperial and royal officials into recent work in critical fields of inquiry in the study of late antiquity. It sets the approaches and arguments of the book in the context of previous work on the conversion of the senatorial aristocracy, the religious identities of pagans and Christians, the development of asceticism and episcopal authority, the prevalence (or otherwise) of religious intolerance and violence, patterns of imperial churchgoing, and forms of Christian observance within the household. It also contextualises and justifies the chronology of the book and the specific definition of the ‘state’ and ‘officials’ used within it.

This chapter treats the aesthetics of human action. It begins by taking up athletic contest in particular, for insofar as the performance of athletic action serves to make conspicuous how an otherwise given, natural body becomes the vehicle for a striking realization of spirit’s freedom and autonomy, its eventful unfolding can serve as a kind of aesthetic standard for assessing the other forms of action as well. However, most of our actions prove to be rather lackluster in comparison, and when Hegel turns to the aesthetic prospects of practical life in the context of modern civil society and the state, he finds only what is prosaic, action here being defined on all sides by contingency, dependence, and exposure to external forces. Hegel would have us see that the aesthetic limitations of practical life are rooted in inherent, ontological limitations of practical life itself – what this chapter calls the tragedy of the practical – implying that there is no question of seeking a higher form of practical life that would be free of such limitation. This limitation is surpassed only by redefining ourselves, not exclusively in practical terms but in the terms of “absolute spirit,” whose first form is art.

Chapter 1 considers the evolving significance of a putative ideal of religious uniformity for the makeup of political institutions in late antiquity. It suggests that we have the chronology of the Christianisation of late ancient bureaucracies back to front. It was only when those elites became predominantly Christian that religious uniformity within the state became a feasible goal for individual regimes. In that sense, for the Christianisation of the Roman state, the conversion of the Roman aristocracy only represents the beginning of the story. This chapter thus pursues the question of religious uniformity further into late antiquity, by considering the developing understanding of what was required to ensure an appropriately (orthodox) Christian state in the fifth and sixth centuries. It argues that requirements for (orthodox) Christian administrators were not simply an axiomatic assumption of late (and post-)Roman regimes, but a product of shifts in institutional norms and wider cultural assumptions across the fourth to sixth centuries.

A popular belief in democracy as the core value of the Constitution has contributed to several innovations that circumvent the Framers’ constraints on democracy. Primary elections for selecting candidates including for the president have empowered the political parties and their core constituencies. The Supreme Court’s one-person-one-vote mandate for all state legislative elections has disempowered local communities, gerrymandering has become the norm for the creation of representative districts, and the 17th Amendment has diminished the influence of states as distinct political entities. Direct democracy in the form of referenda and initiative has compromised the filtering benefits of representation.

From the founding of the Constitution, there has been a steady expansion of national power and an erosion of state powers. Notwithstanding the enumeration of its powers, Congress has enacted legislation impacting almost every aspect of American life. The Supreme Court has, with rare exceptions, accommodated the Congress’ intrusions on the powers of the state governments.

As the Framers anticipated, factions remain a powerful force in American politics. The founding generation disagreed about much, but there was a broad consensus that factions, the inevitable companions of democracy, lead to democratic excess and the abuse of power. Ironically, the factor most responsible for the continued influence of factions and particularly for the dominant influence of majority faction has been the steady democratization of the American constitutional system. The Framers would not be surprised. The best prospects of constraining the negative influences of faction are restoration of the balance between state and national powers and acceptance of the need for constraints on simple majority-rules democracy.

The Framers’ overarching theories for the control of faction included representation as a filter of popular passions, union, and an extended republic to limit the influence of factions by multiplying the number of distinct and competing interests, and divided sovereignty between the state and national governments. The theory of representation was familiar from their British heritage, but their theories of an extended republic and divided sovereignty between the national and state governments diverged from accepted political principles of the eighteenth century.

Failure to adequately constrain factions is reflected most prominently in partisan gridlock in Congress, Congressional abdication of constitutional authorities and responsibilities, the political divide in the appointment of federal judges, the perception of partisan influence on judicial decisions, and the growth of the administrative state.

Although Thomas Hobbes is often portrayed as an egoistic and atomistic thinker, his political philosophy has a great deal to say about vulnerability and relational equality. This chapter draws out four insights from his political philosophy to apply to contemporary political philosophy. First, he outlines a compelling psychological theory that connects our ontological and social vulnerability. Second, he argues the best strategy for minimising our ontological and social vulnerability is to establish a society of equals, thus asserting a vital connection between vulnerability and relational equality. Third, he identifies some key powers that states must possess to establish and maintain equal relations among people and assuage our vulnerabilities. Fourth, he offers a unique justification for relational equality arguing that it is valuable not so much because it represents an authentic expression of our basic human equality as because it is instrumentally necessary to tamp down our anxieties and promote peace.

This chapter moves from low- and mid-ranking bureaucrats to higher-ranking officials and their ‘great projects’ (al-masharī‘ al-kubra) – the revolution’s signal achievements in governmental media. The chapter describes how this type of achievement was considered extraordinary, given the struggle to coordinate across fragmented and conflicting state institutions. Moreover, the chapter analyses one of the Ministry of Culture’s greatest and longest-lasting projects: to build a new Egyptian human being (binā’ al-insān al-miṣri). I argue that the need to cultivate the Egyptian masses was not purely born from a desire to civilise, but by a political imperative to build a new people to be governed by the revolutionary command. In contrast with Younis’s pejorative description of the people envisaged by the Revolution as a ‘mass’ (gumū‘) or a ‘herd’ (qatī‘), this chapter presents the meliorative side of the same project: the yet-to-exist People as a collection of ‘righteous citizens’ (muwaṭinīn ṣāliḥīn).