Citizenship and Political Education Today

Citizenship and Political Education Today Edited by Jack Demaine

Citizenship and Political Education Today

Also by Jack Demaine: BEYOND COMMUNITARIANISM: Citizenship, Politics and Education (with H. Entwistle) CONTEMPORARY THEORIES IN THE SOCIOLOGY OF EDUCATION EDUCATION POLICY AND CONTEMPORARY POLITICS SOCIOLOGY OF EDUCATION TODAY

Citizenship and Political Education Today Edited by Jack Demaine Department of Social Sciences Loughborough University, UK

Editorial matter & selection & Chapter 12 © Jack Demaine 2004 Ch 1 © Audrey Osler & Hugh Starkey 2004 Ch 2 © Nick Stevenson 2004 Ch 3 © Judith Torney-Purta & Wendy Klandl Richardson 2004 Ch 4 © Elizabeth Rata 2004 Ch 5 © Rob Gilbert 2004 Ch 6 © Kerry Kennedy & Cosmo Howard 2004 Ch 7 © Nigel Clark 2004 Ch 8 © Frank Hoffmeister 2004 Ch 9 © Barbara Thomass 2004 Ch 10 © Jo-Anne Dillabough & Madeleine Arnot 2004 Ch 11 © Ian Davies & Sylvia Hogarth 2004 Remaining material © Palgrave Macmillan Ltd 2004 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2004 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 1–4039–3553–X hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Citizenship and political education today / edited by Jack Demaine. p. cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–3553–X (cloth) 1. Citizenship–Study and teaching–Cross-cultural studies. 2. Politics and education–Cross-cultural studies. I. Demaine, Jack. LC1091.C524 2005 323.6v071–dc22 10 13

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Contents List of Tables and Figures

vii

Acknowledgements

viii

Notes on the Contributors

ix

Preface

xiii

1 Citizenship Education and Cultural Diversity in France and England Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 2 Cultural Citizenship Nick Stevenson

1 24

3 Anticipated Political Engagement among Adolescents in Australia, England, Norway and the United States Judith Torney-Purta and Wendy Klandl Richardson 4 Kaupapa Maori Education in New Zealand Elizabeth Rata 5 Great Expectations: Political Education and Political Culture in Australia Rob Gilbert 6 Elite Constructions of Civic Education in Australia Kerry J. Kennedy and Cosmo Howard

41 59

75 90

7 Citizenship and Ecological Obligations Nigel Clark

107

8 European Rights: Citizen Rights or Human Rights? Frank Hoffmeister

124

9 Citizenship and Public Broadcasting in Europe Barbara Thomass

141

10 A Magnified Image of Female Citizenship in Education: Illusions of Democracy or Liberal Challenges to Symbolic Domination? Jo-Anne Dillabough and Madeleine Arnot v

158

vi Contents

11 Political Literacy: Issues for Teachers and Learners Ian Davies and Sylvia Hogarth

181

12 Citizenship Education and Globalization Jack Demaine

200

Bibliography

212

Index

230

List of Tables and Figures Figure 1.1 Figure 1.2 Table 5.1 Table 9.1 Table 9.2 Table 9.3 Table 9.4 Table 9.5 Table 9.6 Table 9.7

Framing Questions on National Identity and Relations Between Nations Framing Questions on Social Cohesion and Social Diversity Items Measuring Concepts of Citizenship among Australian Year 9 Students The Concepts of Market and Public Sphere Audience Share for Public Service Broadcasting in France, UK and Germany Hours of Television Output in France Hours of Public Service Television Output in France 2000 Hours of Television Output in the United Kingdom Hours of BBC Television Output – 2000/2001 Television Output in Germany 2000

vii

7 7 83 145 152 153 154 155 156 157

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Jennifer Nelson, without whose efforts this book might never have appeared, and Shirley Tan and her associates, without whose attention to detail this book would not have appeared in its present form. Jack Demaine Loughborough, Autumn 2004

viii

Notes on the Contributors Madeleine Arnot is Fellow of Jesus College and Professor of Sociology of Education at the University of Cambridge, England. Her publications include Feminism and Social Justice in Education (with Kathleen Weiler) (1993), Closing the Gender Gap: post-war education and social change (with Miriam David and Gaby Weiner) (1999), Challenging Democracy: international perspectives on gender, education and citizenship (with Jo-Anne Dillabough) (2000), Reproducing Gender? Critical essays on education theory and feminist politics (2002) and Consultation in the Classroom: Developing Dialogue about Teaching and Learning (with Donald McIntyre, David Pedder and Diane Reay) (2004). She is a member of the editorial board of International Studies in Sociology of Education and an executive member of the editorial board of the British Journal of Sociology of Education. Nigel Clark is Lecturer in Human Geography at the Open University, England. His publications include articles in the journals Time & Society, Space & Culture, and Theory, Culture & Society. Ian Davies is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Educational Studies at the University of York, England. His publications include Developing European Citizens (1997), Good Citizenship and Educational Provision (1999), Teaching the Holocaust (2000), Citizenship through Secondary History (2001) and Key Debates in Education (2002). He is an editor of the International Journal of Citizenship and Teacher Education. Jack Demaine is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Social Sciences at Loughborough University, England. His publications include Contemporary Theories in the Sociology of Education (1981), Beyond Communitarianism: Citizenship, Politics and Education (1996) (with Harold Entwistle), Education Policy and Contemporary Politics (1999) and Sociology of Education Today (2001). He is an executive editor of International Studies in Sociology of Education.

ix

x Notes on the Contributors

Jo-Anne Dillabough is Assistant Professor in the Department of Educational Studies at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, Canada. Her publications include Challenging Democracy: International Perspectives on Gender, Education and Citizenship (with Madeleine Arnot) (2000) and Education, Globalization and Social Change (2005) (with Hugh Lauder, Phil Brown and A. H. Halsey). She has contributed to journals including the British Journal of Sociology of Education, Curriculum Inquiry, British Journal of Educational Studies and Theory and Research in Social Education. Rob Gilbert is Professor in the School of Education at James Cook University, Australia. His publications include The Impotent Image: Reflections of ideology in the secondary school curriculum (1984), Masculinity Goes to School (with Pam Gilbert) (1998) and Studying Society and Environment: A guide for teachers (2001). Frank Hoffmeister was formerly lecturer in law at the HumboldtUniversity, Germany, and now works for the Legal Service of the European Commission. His publications include Human Rights and Democracy Clauses in EC Agreements with Third States (1998). Sylvia Hogarth is Research Fellow in the Department of Educational Studies at the University of York, England. She has worked on a range of research projects including evaluations of citizenship and political literacy projects. Cosmo Howard is an Izaak Walton Killam Postdoctoral Fellow in the Department of Political Science, University of Alberta, Canada. His publications include Social Policy, Public Policy (with Meredith Edwards and Robin Miller) (2001). Kerry Kennedy is Professor and Head of the Department of Curriculum and Instruction at The Hong Kong Institute of Education. His publications include Citizenship Education and the Modern State (1997), Celebrating Student Learning: Assessment and Reporting (2001) (with Laurie Brady), Curriculum Construction (2003) (with Laurie Brady) and Citizenship Education in Asia and the Pacific Concepts and Issue (2004) (with David Grossman, W. O. Lee and Greg Fairbrother). He is a Consulting Editor to the Journal of Curriculum Studies and a member of the editorial boards of the International Journal of Citizenship and Teacher Education and Pacific Asian Education.

Notes on the contributors

xi

Audrey Osler is Professor of Education in the Centre for Citizenship and Human Rights Education at the University of Leeds, England. Her publications include The Education and Careers of Black Teachers (1997), Girls and Exclusion: rethinking the agenda (with Kerry Vincent) (2003) and Changing Citizenship: democracy and inclusion in education (with Hugh Starkey) (2005). Elizabeth Rata teaches in the Faculty of Education and is an Honorary Research Fellow in the Department of Political Studies at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. In 2003 she was a Fulbright Senior Scholar at the Centre for Australian and New Zealand Studies at Georgetown University, Washington DC. Her publications include A Political Economy of Neotribal Capitalism (2000). Wendy Klandl Richardson is Faculty Research Assistant in the College of Education at the University of Maryland, USA. She was formerly a social studies and history teacher, and a holder of the Harry S. Truman Scholarship. Hugh Starkey is Senior Lecturer in Education at the University of London Institute of Education. His publications include The Challenge of Human Rights Education (1991), Teaching for Citizenship in Europe (with Hanns-Fred Rathenow and Audrey Osler) (1996), Teacher Education and Human Rights (with Audrey Osler) (1996) and Changing Citizenship: democracy and inclusion in education (with Audrey Osler) (2005). Nick Stevenson is Reader in the School of Sociology and Social Policy at the University of Nottingham, England. His publications include Culture, Ideology and Socialism (1995), Culture and Citizenship (2001), Making sense of Men’s Magazines (2001) (with Peter Jackson and Kate Brooks), Understanding Media Cultures: Social Theory and Mass Communication (2002) and Cultural Citizenship: Cosmopolitan Questions (2003). Barbara Thomass is Professor of Media Studies at Ruhr University Bochum, Germany. Her publications include Arbeit im kommerziellen Fernsehen: Quantitative und qualitative Effekte neuer Anbieterformen in Deutschland, Belgien, Frankreich, Gro`britannien und Spanien (1993), Journalistic Decision-Taking in Europe: Case by Case (1997) (with Urte Sonnenberg), Journalistische Ethik. Ein Vergleich der Diskurse in Frankreich, Gro`britannien und Deutschland (1998), Medien und Medienpolitik in den Transformationsgesellschaften Ost- und Südosteuropas (2001) (with Michaela Tzankoff). She is a member of the editorial board of Ethical Space: The International Journal of Communication Ethics.

xii Notes on the Contributors

Judith Torney-Purta is Professor of Human Development in the College of Education at the University of Maryland, USA. Her publications include Development of Political Attitudes in Children (1967), Civic Education in Ten Countries (1975), Citizenship and Education in TwentyEight Countries: Civic Knowledge and Engagement at Age Fourteen (2001), Civic Knowledge and Engagement (2002) and Strengthening Democracy in the Americas through Civic Education (2004).

Preface Citizenship and Political Education Today brings together a collection of essays from around the world; including discussion of politics and education in Australia, the United States of America, New Zealand, Norway, England, France, Germany and the wider European Union as well as discussion of the notion of global citizenship. The contributors discuss vital and interesting issues involved in the engagement of citizens in politics and political institutions and the role of education in encouraging education for citizenship. The chapters of the book do not follow any pre-arranged formula; contributors have developed their own specific contribution to ongoing debates on citizenship and education. In the first chapter, titled ‘Citizenship Education and Cultural Diversity in France and England’, Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey offer a detailed analysis of the recently introduced programmes of education for citizenship in schools in England and France which are ‘aimed at reinforcing democracy in a tolerant society’. However, they conclude that there is little evidence that minority groups participated in the formulation of policy and that ‘until national curricula and discourses on citizenship are responsive to minority as well as majority perspectives they are likely to remain to some extent exclusive’. In Chapter 2, ‘Cultural Citizenship’ Nick Stevenson explores ‘the ways in which an informational or post-industrial society requires the development of genuinely cultural forms of citizenship’. Cultural citizenship has become a pressing concern; the impact of globalization and its consequences means that ‘we need to be able to develop a cultural citizenship for a cosmopolitan age’. He concludes that the way ‘collective identity becomes possible under post-industrial conditions of fragmentation and diversity means that citizenship takes on a different meaning from that which was available within an industrial age’. In Chapter 3, ‘Anticipated Political Engagement among Adolescents in Australia, England, Norway and the United States’ Judith TorneyPurta and Wendy Klandl Richardson discuss some of the data from the recent Civic Education Study survey of more than 90,000 14-yearolds in 28 countries conducted by the Amsterdam-based International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement. Their analysis highlights the importance of school and classroom processes to the development of ‘potential for future adult political engagement’. xiii

xiv Preface

In Chapter 4, Elizabeth Rata elaborates a critique of ‘Kaupapa Maori Education in New Zealand’ arguing that the difference between kaupapa Maori and modernist thought ‘has profound implications for the democratic institutions that were established as a consequence of the Enlightenment commitment to critical inquiry and the subsequent emergence of the liberal democratic political order’. She argues that the rejection of the ‘modernist commitment to objective knowledge and critical reason, and consequently to modernity’s liberal egalitarian politics, is reinforced by the strange alliance of postmodernism and neotraditionalism’. The notion that knowledge is ‘subjective and culturally determined’ has replaced the commitment to objective, rational knowledge and the ‘recognition of local, ethnic difference has replaced the commitment to a universal humanity’. In Chapter 5, ‘Great Expectations: Political Education and Political Culture in Australia’ Rob Gilbert assesses the task facing citizenship education in Australia. He argues that whilst Discovering Democracy: Civics and Citizenship Education, the policy-statement by the National Party of Australia is impressive in ‘conventional terms’ it is unlikely to engage young people in schools because it relies on a ‘deficit theory of young people’s political understanding’ and ignores the knowledge they already have. The precursory political context is elaborated in Kerry Kennedy and Cosmo Howard’s chapter six ‘Elite Constructions of Civic Education in Australia’. They show how the 1993–96 Keating Government’s civic education project was superceded by the incoming conservatives’ with a very different vision for Australia and for its schools. In Chapter 7, ‘Citizenship and Ecological Obligations’ Nigel Clark explores possibilities for new modes and practices of citizenship which might emerge from the convergence of cosmopolitanism and political ecology. Whilst cosmopolitan ecological citizenship is ‘still in the making’ his chapter demonstrates that many its constituent elements are ‘already in circulation’. In Chapter 8, ‘European Rights: Citizen Rights or Human Rights?’ Frank Hoffmeister explores the implications of recent developments in the field of political and human rights legislation envisioning the European Union not just as economic and a political union but also as a fully fledged social union. In Chapter 9, ‘Citizenship and Public Broadcasting in Europe’ Barbara Thomass examines European public service broadcasting in the context of a commercialized mediascape in which information serving the citizen is increasingly endangered by programme addressing the consumer.

Preface xv

In Chapter 10, ‘A Magnified Image of Female Citizenship in Education’ Jo-Anne Dillabough and Madeleine Arnot discuss issues posed by feminist critiques of liberal democracy and their implications for critical assessment of gender equity and the project of female citizenship. They argue that what must be privileged in the animation of such critiques is not simply a liberal defence of women’s rights or access to education or the political economy but, rather, questions about particular visions of female citizenship and agency. In Chapter 11, ‘Political Literacy: Issues for Teachers and Learners’ Ian Davies and Sylvia Hogarth argue that political literacy is ‘perhaps the most challenging’ of all the aspects of citizenship education but that there are ‘encouraging signs’ in the project organized by the Citizenship Foundation on which their chapter reports. Finally, in chapter 12, ‘Citizenship Education and Globalisation’ Jack Demaine discusses the notion of global citizenship education in an era of electronic communications in a world characterized by economic, social and political inequality. Jack Demaine Loughborough University England

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1 Citizenship Education and Cultural Diversity in France and England Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey

In 2002 over five million people in France voted in the first round of the presidential election for the candidate of the far right Front national, Jean-Marie Le Pen, and other candidates with an explicitly xenophobic agenda. The political success of the far right was attributed to feelings of insecurity fuelled by the media. From the mid-1990s, the French media featured urban violence associated with the presence of minorities (Wieviorka, 1999). Such representations included the televised shooting to death by the police of Khaled Kelkal on 29 September 1995 and fictionalized accounts such as Mathieu Kassovitz’s film La Haine, produced in the same year, which portrays the anti-social activities of marginalized youth. In Britain, although voter support for far right parties is much less than in France, the institutional racism which pervades the police force and other aspects of British life, including the education system, was highlighted in the Macpherson Report (1999) into the racist murder of Stephen Lawrence on 22 April 1993. Racism and political support for racist agendas are a continuing rather than declining feature of French and British society and a danger to democracy (Osler and Starkey, 2002). In both England and France 1999 saw moves by government to introduce new programmes of education for citizenship in schools which are aimed at reinforcing democracy in a tolerant society. The French programme is based on Republican values, particularly human rights, and emphasizes the unacceptability of racism and discrimination. The programme for England, subject to inspection from 2002, emphasizes democracy and active engagement with society. It is thus more pragmatic and less concerned with core principles. The introduction of the new French programme for education for citizenship was completed in the 1999/2000 academic year, being introduced into the 1

2 Citizenship and Political Education Today

final year of lower secondary school (collège) and the first year of high schools (lycée). The programme for England is based on a report (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998) known as the Crick Report, and consists of an outline programme of study (QCA/DfEE, 1999), followed by preliminary guidance (QCA, 2000) and schemes of work for key stages 3 and 4 (QCA, 2001, 2002). In France, a working party, the Groupe Technique Disciplinaire, éducation civique developed guidelines and a programme of study for the collège which were published in 1996. The new programme of study was introduced to year 7 (6e) in September 1996. It reached the final class of the collège in September 1999 and the lycée in the same year. Schools and teachers were provided with detailed official guidance (Ministère de l’Éducation Nationale de la Recherche et de la Technologie, 1998) and, in line with French educational traditions and expectations, a number of educational publishers (e.g., Belin, Bordas, Hatier, Hachette, Magnard) produced text-books with materials based on the programmes of study for each school year. Our present study is of these documentary sources rather than of actual practices in schools.

National contexts A new programme of citizenship education is being introduced into English schools at a time of constitutional reform, which includes the introduction of the 1998 Human Rights Act which incorporates the European Convention on Human Rights into UK law; the establishment of a Scottish Parliament and a Welsh Assembly; and a new settlement between Britain and Northern Ireland also involving devolved government. The first indications of further devolution to regional level can be seen in the creation of an assembly and elected mayor for London. These political and constitutional developments are encouraging debate about the meanings of nationality, national identity and citizenship and the extent to which individuals and groups from both majority and minority communities feel a sense of belonging to the nation and State. Until the 1988 Education Reform Act and the introduction of a national curriculum in the 1990s, the British government had no direct control over the content of the curriculum in English schools. Some initiatives to promote citizenship education were taken by local education authorities, individual schools and by teachers’ associations such as the Politics Association (Davies, 1999). Following an

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 3

unsuccessful attempt in 1990 to introduce citizenship education as a cross-curricular theme, in 1997 the then Secretary of State for Education, David Blunkett, set up an Advisory Group on Citizenship which reported in 1998. The national programme of citizenship education for English schools proposed by this group in its final report (the Crick Report) has three main strands: social and moral responsibility, community involvement and political literacy (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998). Citizenship education is being introduced partly in order to counteract a widespread feeling of disinterest in the political process and in community life as expressed by a record level of abstention in elections. The report states: There are worrying levels of apathy, ignorance and cynicism about public life. These, unless, tackled at every level, could well diminish the hoped-for benefits both of constitutional reform and of the changing nature of the welfare state (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 8). This concern is particularly for the young and their apparent apathy is seen as a threat to democracy itself. This assumption has been echoed and reinforced by both politicians and the media (for example see The Express, Daily Mail and The Birmingham Post on the day of the publication of the Report 23 September 1998). The Crick Report quotes the Lord Chancellor as saying: We should not, must not, dare not, be complacent about the health and future of British democracy. Unless we become a nation of engaged citizens, our democracy is not secure (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 8). In fact the report itself draws attention to the high abstention rate amongst young people, though in the 1997 general election this was only marginally below the average (32% compared to 29%). Given this focus on the apparent political and social apathy of the young, another aim of the citizenship education proposals is to encourage selfconfidence and social and moral responsibility (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 40). Between the publication of the Crick Report and the new statutory order for citizenship education, the Macpherson Report (1999) of the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry was published. This report highlighted the

4 Citizenship and Political Education Today

institutional racism which pervades the police force and other aspects of British life. By implication, the education service is also tainted with institutional racism (Richardson and Wood, 1999). Nevertheless, the report identified the key role which schools can play in challenging racism. The Government’s response, in the form of an Action Plan from the Home Secretary, identified citizenship education as the key curriculum area which would be able to make a significant contribution to the challenging and elimination of racism (Home Office, 1999: 33). In the light of the expectation that citizenship education should challenge racism, the conclusions drawn by the Crick Report may not be well founded. It is not self-evident that voting behaviour is an accurate indicator of political interest or engagement and other evidence suggests increasing levels of political activity, broadly defined, amongst young people in England (Roker et al., 1999). It is true, however, that young people from certain ethnic minority groups have shown higher abstention rates than their peers (CRE, 1998). One explanation may be the experience of institutional racism and social exclusion, as indicated by higher unemployment rates in these same groups, rather than low levels of political interest or engagement. Thus the very premise of the programme may risk defining young people, on flawed evidence, as less good citizens than the adult population. In this perspective the programme itself may, ironically, contribute to a feeling of exclusion. Citizenship education has traditionally been high on the political agenda in France, having its roots in the need to consolidate national support for the Third Republic when democracy was restored in 1871. The first statement of the curriculum of compulsory primary education published in Article One of the Jules Ferry law of 28 March 1882 put instruction morale et civique even before reading, writing and literature in terms of national priorities (Costa-Lascoux, 1998). Government concern that young people in France should receive an education that helps them to become good republicans persists to the present day. For instance, the introduction of education for citizenship to the lycée in 1999 was hailed as a major plank of the reform for the 21st century of this prestigious sector of French education (Ministère de l’Éducation Nationale de la Recherche et de la Technologie, 1999). Citizenship education from its origins has always been intended to help integrate a diverse population into a single national culture defined as Republican, in other words based on the principles of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité and on human rights. Its basis is the conviction that the State is responsible for transmitting basic values and that these values are those of the public sphere. Families will also bring up

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 5

children to respect certain values, but the State makes it very clear that these so-called private values must be relativized by reference to public values. There has always been an inherent tension between French citizenship education and families whose background is not necessarily Republican or French. On the one hand, students from such families may feel excluded from a form of citizenship education which defines French identity in limited or narrow terms (Osler & Starkey, 2000). On the other hand, citizenship education based on liberal values may be perceived as threatening to the authority structures of certain communities when these are based on hierarchy and tradition (Levinson, 1999). Citizenship education in France is thus crucial to the whole notion of state schooling. The school is the Republic’s primary institution for socializing its citizens. Indeed, it is the school, through its curriculum, that is entrusted with the mission of defining what it means to be a citizen and of ensuring that there is a common understanding of the rights and obligations of citizenship. The basis of state education in France is initiation into a common culture through a single curriculum. It does not recognize difference, but rather starts from the premise that, within the Republic, all citizens are equal. Inequalities are deemed to stem from family background and therefore are irrelevant to the school, which is part of the public sphere. The view of successive Republican governments, which finds expression in the education legislation in France, is based on the premise that there is a danger of society fragmenting into ghettos or ethnic minority or religious communities, referred to as communautés. Such a tendency would undermine the very basis of the French State which is to integrate all citizens into a single Republic founded on common universal values, namely human rights and the rule of law. However, the reluctance to recognize community identities has engendered conflicts and difficulties for schools, as with the various headscarf affairs since 1989 (Gaspard & Khosrokavar, 1995; Starkey, 1999). The polemic, initiated by the decision of the Conseil constitutionnel on 15 June 1999, that signing the European Charter of Regional Languages would be unconstitutional, is also testing the limits of this view of a one and indivisible France (Girard, 1999). The venerable instruction civique et morale, dating from the 19th century, was replaced, in the 1976 Haby reform of the collège unique, with éducation civique. However, it had no timetabled lessons and therefore disappeared from view (Nembrini, 1997). From 1981 the new Socialist government worked to reformulate civic education with an

6 Citizenship and Political Education Today

explicit underpinning of human rights education (Best, 1984). Detailed official instructions, programmes of study and timetable allocations were published by ministerial decrees in 1985. The programme of study was gradually introduced to successive year groups, reaching the secondary school in 1990. In spite of this long tradition of citizenship education, the introduction of a carefully constructed programme of study based on modern pedagogical principles is only about a decade ahead of England.

Methodology We examine the citizenship education programmes for the secondary school in both countries using two of the 18 framing questions from the comparative study of civic education initiated by the International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA). This ambitious study, covering 24 countries in its first stage report, is concerned ‘to explore and clarify how civic education is actually conceptualized and understood within each participating country’ (IEA, 1995). The rationale for the study emphasizes fears for the future of democracy similar to those expressed in the Crick Report: The absence of a sense of social cohesion or a sense of belonging to the civic culture has been noticed in many societies. The personal commitment by individuals to shared identities that transcend ethnic, linguistic or other group affiliations and which contribute to social cohesion has weakened in many areas of the world. Countries find themselves with increasing numbers of adolescents who are disengaged from the political system, partly as a result of pessimism about finding employment. Polite expressions of opinion within traditional channels, such as writing letters to the newspaper, have little appeal among youth, many of whom distrust government deeply (Torney-Purta et al., 1999: 14). We selected Core International Framing Questions 2 and 3 from the IEA study. These deal respectively with National Identity and Relations between Nations on the one hand (Figure 1.1) and Social Cohesion and Social Diversity on the other (Figure 1.2). We applied these questions to the documentary evidence of the published programmes of study, the official guidance to teachers and, in the case of France, to textbooks. We highlight similarities and significant differences between the programmes in the two countries and note some potential weak-

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 7 Figure 1.1 Nations

Framing Questions on National Identity and Relations between

• What expectations are there about acquiring a sense of national identity or loyalty? • How important is sense of belonging to the nation, to communities, to traditions and institutions? • What symbols are introduced? • What documents (e.g. constitution), role models, historical events, ideals are considered important for citizens to know about? • What supranational structures and international organizations and subnational (e.g. ethnic or religious groups) are considered important enough to have a place in the young person’s awareness, identity or loyalty? • Are either supranational or subnational groups thought of as presenting a threat to national identity or loyalty?

nesses in what are essentially carefully constructed and well thought out programmes of study. In carrying out our research we were particularly concerned to explore the extent to which the programmes of study may be said to be inclusive of all those who may be attending school in France and England, particularly those from minority groups. Our analysis is original in that France is not included in the IEA survey and the chapter on England (Kerr, 1999) was drafted before the publication of the programmes of study. Given that educational institutions in England and France tend to reflect the social structures of the ruling strata of society (men dominating in decision-making groups; little formal representation of Figure 1.2

Framing Questions on Social Cohesion and Social Diversity

• What do young people learn about those belonging to groups that are seen as set apart or disenfranchised (e.g. by ethnicity, race, immigrant status, mother tongue, social class, religion, gender)? • What groups are viewed as subject to discrimination in contemporary society? • How are instances of past discrimination dealt with? • Are differences in participation rates or leadership roles (e.g. men and women; minorities) discussed or ignored? • Is there tension in the society between perceptions of the need for social cohesion and the need to recognize cultural, social, political or economic situation of groups? • How is conflict between groups or between groups and society dealt with? • Are attitudes of respect and tolerance between groups encouraged?

8 Citizenship and Political Education Today

ethnic minorities), we have paid particular attention to the extent to which the perspectives of minority groups are included in citizenship programmes. By definition, citizenship is an inclusive concept and the exclusion of minority perspectives would be a contradiction which might vitiate its effective implementation as a school subject.

Citizenship education and national identity In this section we examine the documentation for England in the light of the framing questions in Figure 1.1. The programme of citizenship education in England developed from the outline programme of study and the principles contained in the Crick Report (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998) to a brief formal list of skills, knowledge and understanding to be achieved and attainment targets to be met (QCA/DfEE, 1999). The Crick Report defines some extremely ambitious goals: We aim at no less than a change in the political culture of this country both nationally and locally: for people to think of themselves as active citizens, willing, able and equipped to have an influence in public life and with the critical capacities to weigh evidence before speaking and acting; to build upon and to extend radically to young people the best in existing traditions of community involvement and public service, and to make them individually confident in finding new forms of involvement and action among themselves (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 7–8). The Report makes references to the changing constitutional context in which citizenship education is being introduced, arguing that by the end of compulsory schooling at age 16 pupils should know about the changing constitution of the UK, including the relationship between the two Houses of Parliament, the changing role of the monarchy, shifting relationships between England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and Britain’s relationship with the European Union and the Commonwealth (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 51). Although British citizenship is presented here as inclusive of national and regional differences between England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and throughout the report an inclusive approach to the various nations which make up the UK is sought, the Report, nevertheless, falls

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 9

into the trap of presenting certain ethnicities as ‘other’ when it discusses ‘cultural diversity’. Certainly the general intention is to be inclusive: a main aim for the whole community should be to find or restore a sense of common citizenship, including a national identity that is secure enough to find a place in the plurality of nations, cultures, ethnic identities and religions long found in the United Kingdom. Citizenship education creates a common ground between different ethnic and religious identities (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 17). Unfortunately, this spirit of inclusion does not extend to visible ethnic minorities who, it is suggested, cannot necessarily be relied upon to conform to the laws, standards, customs and conventions of our democratic society: minorities must learn and respect the laws, codes and conventions as much as the majority – not merely because it is useful to do so, but because this process helps foster common citizenship (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 18). Thus the report assumes that visible ethnic minorities (here it is referring to black British citizens who are able to trace their ancestry from outside Europe, rather than white ethnicities such as Welsh or Scottish) need somehow to change in order to realize a common citizenship. There is an implied process of assimilation or integration which requires more effort on the part of minorities than for white British citizens, who, for their part, only need to learn to ‘tolerate’ ethnic minorities. This not only implies a deficit model of ‘minority’ cultures which are somehow less law-abiding (and possibly less democratic?) than those of whites, but is also symptomatic of a colonial approach to black British communities which runs throughout the report. Such communities, it seems to suggest, have even more need of citizenship education than the majority because they are less familiar with and accepting of ‘laws, codes and conventions’. It is argued elsewhere (Osler, 1999, 2000) that the report thus appears to be flawed by institutionalized racism. There is an implicit recognition of the multiple identities which may be held by British citizens. Yet there is the hint that the realities of ‘national identity’ and ‘common citizenship’ may in fact be fragile. While there is no direct suggestion that any subnational group may, in

10 Citizenship and Political Education Today

fact, be a threat to a common British citizenship, the report argues that: these matters of national identity in a pluralist society are complex and should never be taken for granted. We all need to learn more about each other. This should entail learning not only about the United Kingdom – including all four of its component parts – but also about the European, Commonwealth and the global dimensions of citizenship, with due regard being given to the homelands of our minority communities and to the main countries of British emigration (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 18). While issues of ethnicity are prominent in the report, it does not address these in relation to inequality or differences in power. In fact there is no discussion of any differences in the participation rates or leadership roles of citizens. Race and racism, either institutional or interpersonal, receive no mention. Similarly there is no discussion of the different experiences of citizenship, or leadership between men and women. On questions of gender the report is curiously silent. The absence of reference to racism is remedied, to a degree, in the National Curriculum booklet for Citizenship at Key Stages 3 and 4 (QCA/DfEE, 1999) and in the initial guidance for teachers. The former has a box on the cover, revealing a few words from an anonymous piece of writing apparently by a pupil. The one word that stands out is ‘racism’. Thus the cover of the official publication makes a clear link between citizenship and racism. That said, there is little help provided for teachers wanting to explore the implications of this link. The initial guidance suggests that there should be ‘consideration of local issues (such as particular manifestations of racism and its removal)’ (QCA, 2000: 5), though no example is given of how schools might help to remove such local manifestations of racism. The guidance also recommends seven ‘headings’ for organizing the study of citizenship and the first of these is ‘human rights (including anti-racism)’ (QCA, 2000: 20). Again, no example or further explanation is provided. The Crick Report developed learning outcomes for Key Stage 3 (Years 7 to 9) and anticipated that young people would study the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the European Convention on Human Rights. The context for this learning is expected to be concepts such as discrimination, equal opportunities, tribunal, ballot, trade unions for the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child and prejudice, discrimination, xenophobia, pluralism

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 11

in the section mentioning the other two human rights instruments. Human rights as a concept is also linked to overseas aid, development and charity (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 49–52). The mention of specific human rights instruments disappears in the definitive programmes of study, replaced by a more general formulation ‘the legal and human rights and responsibilities underpinning society’ (QCA/DfEE, 1999: 14). The initial guidance provides no further elaboration or help for teachers. The framing questions in Figure 1.1 ask about the ‘documents, role models, or historical events’ which might be used to illustrate the elements of the programme of study. In the Crick Report there is little in the way of documents or symbols suggested to reinforce a national identity. The documents cited are the international human rights texts. Indeed, no other documents are mentioned. If there is a hint at possible role models, it comes in the form of quotations inserted in the booklet of the programmes of study (DfEE/QCA, 1999: 13). These comments about the nature of citizenship, in addition to one by Bernard Crick, are from Doreen Lawrence, Terry Waite, Betty Boothroyd and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. One could imagine some stimulating work on citizenship being developed from the study of the lives and struggles of these figures. There is the suggestion that the programmes of study for History ‘can also lead into consideration of the international, sustainable development and the human rights aspects of our learning outcomes’, though no examples are given (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 52). The programmes of study for History in the National Curriculum for England, first introduced in the early 1990s, have been criticized for their over-emphasis on British history, for privileging a narrow British identity; and for an inadequate emphasis on the study of other cultures and peoples in their own right and from their own perspectives (Booth, 1993; Davies, 1993; Figueroa, 1993). The history curriculum has been further criticized for failing to acknowledge the critical contribution which colonial peoples made to processes of industrialization in Britain or to explore processes of inequality, oppression and exploitation (Pankhania, 1994). A number of writers have highlighted how the National Curriculum as a whole fails to exploit fully multiculturalism (Figueroa, 1999). It remains to be seen whether teachers can indeed use the current history framework to promote inclusive notions of what it means to be English or British or to promote these learning outcomes for Citizenship. The institutions referred to in the programmes of study include parliament, the criminal and civil justice systems, the European Union,

12 Citizenship and Political Education Today

the Commonwealth and the United Nations. The Crick Report also included ‘the changing role of the monarchy’ but along with other national institutions which retain a powerful role in British society, such as the Established Church, and the armed forces, the monarchy is omitted from the programmes of study. There is no reference to national symbols such as the Queen, the national flag and the national anthem. In this sense, neither the Crick Report nor the programmes of study are prescriptive of a national identity. We now examine the documentation for France in the light of the framing questions in Figure 1.1. References to elements of the programme of study are taken from the official guidance, translated by ourselves (Ministère de l’Éducation Nationale de la Recherche et de la Technolgie, 1998). There is great stress on national identity and indeed nationality within the French programmes of study. At the start of secondary school (6e) there is consideration of personal identity, but only in relation to the State (for example, birth, marriage and death certificates, driving licence and passport). There is a particular emphasis on entitlement to French nationality and a detailed description of current nationality law. The section on nationality is closely linked to knowledge of six main national symbols, representing common national values. The symbols are: the Phrygian hat, the national day (14 July), Marianne (personification of the Republic), the flag, the national motto, and the national anthem. The same topics exactly have already been covered at primary school and are revisited at the end of the lower secondary school (3e) in a more detailed consideration of the meaning of citizenship, including European citizenship. The sections on the details of acquiring French citizenship seem to be addressed essentially to those who may not have it automatically, in other words those whose parents are not French and who were born outside France. It is clear that the expectation is that citizenship is a function of nationality which is in turn defined by commitment to officially recognized shared symbols and values. This is a top down or vertical view of citizenship. The concept ‘citizenship’ does not have to be linked to nationality. Indeed belonging to a community, the essence of citizenship, is experienced primarily at local level through horizontal relationships with equals (Osler and Starkey, 1999: 212). Secondary school students are expected to study certain key documents, particularly legal and constitutional texts. In the 6e the pro-

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 13

gramme of study starts with the formal règlement intérieur, the text that governs behaviour and procedures in the school, thus demonstrating that pupils are in a rule-bound institution. In this school year there are two other national texts and two international. It may be surmised that the preamble to the Constitution of the Fourth Republic (1946–1958) is studied for several reasons: • it reaffirms a national commitment to human rights in the face of intolerance and discrimination • it refers back to a French tradition of human rights developed at the time of the 1789 Revolution • it is maintained in the constitution of the current Fifth Republic and therefore stresses continuity of commitment to these principles. The other key national document is a letter from the Minister of Education to teachers dated 1883 setting out the key importance of civic and moral education based on universal principles. These universal principles are set out in the two international texts, namely the Universal Declaration of Human Rights of 1948 and the UN Convention of the Rights of the Child of 1989. The clear implication is that French national values are universal. The principle is evident, but the experience of the way these universal values are embedded or not in the institutions of the French state, including schools, will be perceived differently by different categories of pupil. There is evidence, for instance, of differential treatment by employers, the police and even schools according to perceived origins (Bataille, 1999). The study of aspects of the French constitution and of international human rights texts, including the European Convention on Human Rights continues to underpin each year of the secondary programme of study. Towards the end of lower secondary school, pupils study the European Union, introduced as a progressive supra-national institution which is and is likely to continue to be of positive benefit to France. The programmes are quite clear about their nature and purpose, namely to provide: education for human rights and citizenship, through the acquisition of the principles and the values which underpin and organize democracy and the Republic, through knowledge of institutions and laws, through an understanding of the rules of social and political life (Ministère de Education Nationale, 1998: 37).

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This explicit statement that respect for and knowledge of human rights is a major goal of citizenship education is repeated in different forms in the official guidance. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights is designated as a ‘reference document’ for each of the four years of lower secondary school and the whole text, or extracts, are reproduced in text-books. The emphasis on human rights is thus considerably more developed in the French programme than in the English where the formulation is: Citizenship gives pupils the knowledge, skills and understanding to play an effective role in society at local, national and international levels. It helps them to become informed, thoughtful and responsible citizens who are aware of their duties and rights (QCA/DfEE, 1999). The Crick Report and subsequently the initial guidance for teachers produced in England place human rights in a legal, rather than a social or political framework (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 49; QCA, 2000: 20).

Concepts of community The IEA framing questions in Figure 1.1 are primarily about national identity, but they also introduce the notion of communities, whether these be at sub-national or supra-national level. One particularly interesting point of comparison between France and England is found in the way programmes of study approach the concept of community. The Crick Report gives strong emphasis to the local community, in particular ways in which pupils can learn about citizenship through volunteering. The report argues that: The curriculum should enable … an awareness of community and cultural diversity. It should help them see where and how they fit into the community. It should enable them to understand their community, its history, what part it has played in national life etc. (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 19). Crick contends that a key role of citizenship education is to promote political literacy at national, and especially at local or community level. This can perhaps counteract what are perceived as dangerous levels of apathy among the young. Citizenship education should encourage:

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 15

An active and politically-literate citizenry convinced that they can influence government and community affairs at all levels (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 9). Lack of involvement appears to be explained in terms of lack of knowledge or skills, rather than with any disillusionment in political processes which may have arisen through structural disadvantage, or through observation of the behaviour of certain politicians and other public figures. Perhaps surprisingly, given the considerable tradition in England of developing schools as learning communities, the community of the school is not given weight as a site through which pupils may learn about citizenship. This may be for a number of reasons. The pastoral role of English schools and the sense of community which they seek to offer, although relatively strong, may have been perceived as distinct from the curriculum. The committee which drafted the report was not made up primarily of educationists, and it may have perceived its role in relation to formal teaching rather than whole school issues. It is also the case that another parallel process was underway to produce curriculum recommendations on Personal and Social and Health Education (PSHE) which has traditionally been closely associated with the pastoral system in schools (see DfEE, 1999). The Crick Report was therefore drafted in a context where a new curriculum area of citizenship education was being developed, which at secondary level at least, was determined to form a new separate identity from the more established subject of PSHE. There is just a passing reference to the community of the school, where in quoting from a submission from the British Youth Council the report suggests that: Schools Councils [can] provide practical first-hand experience of decision-making and democratic processes (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 19). There is an emphasis on rights and responsibilities, which might be construed as implying that citizenship is not an automatic right but must be earned. This raises questions about the citizenship status of those who for whatever reason are not able to take an active part in the community, for example, those with particular disabilities. There is no acknowledgement that experiences such as poverty or unemployment may themselves lead to social exclusion and prevent full participation in the community. The danger here is that those not deemed to be active citizens, taking on their share of citizenship responsibilities, may be stigmatized.

16 Citizenship and Political Education Today

One recommendation in the Crick Report is for the establishment of Community Forums to assist involvement with the local community. These would include: All those with an interest in citizenship education: community leaders, elected representatives, faith groups, the police, teachers, parents and governors, among others, as well as young people (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 26). The notion of community leaders, however, is somewhat problematic. Such a designation is usually associated with ethnic minority communities. Majority communities are generally thought to be represented by elected representatives yet minorities are assumed to have (unelected) community leaders. This notion has colonial overtones, and certainly during Britain’s imperial history the co-operation or appeasement of colonized people was often sought through negotiations with community leaders whose only legitimacy in many cases was attributed by the colonizer. Today in modern urban society, ethnic minorities are still often thought to have such ‘community leaders’, self appointed individuals, invariably male, whose viewpoints are sought by local government officials and who may be courted by politicians. They may sometimes claim religious authority as leaders of faith groups but often their legitimacy depends on their relationship with officials and politicians from the majority community. Such individuals are assumed to speak as the voice of a supposedly homogeneous minority ethnic community. However, the term has been dropped in the initial guidance and ‘citizens advice bureaux’ added (QCA, 2000: 18). An understanding of national and ethnic identities and of the UK as a political entity and its relation with other nations such as the Republic of Ireland and the Commonwealth does, however require a study of colonial history and of independence struggles. It is unfortunate that in the existing curriculum, and in the draft proposals for the new history National Curriculum published alongside those for citizenship education, relatively little attention is given to world history. Colonial struggles are notable by their absence. It is the question of community in the French programme of study which perhaps contrasts most starkly with the programme for England. At the beginning of secondary school, the school itself, as a community and rule bound institution, is the subject of the first few lessons. The emphasis, however, is very much on understanding the school as an institution: the different roles within the school and the

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 17

people fulfilling them; the facilities, such as the library; the system of governance through class and school councils; and the school rules. Early in the term elections are held for class representatives who have a formal role in representing the views of fellow pupils at the class councils (conseil de classe) and also on the governing body (conseil d’administration). Any pupil, whatever their nationality, can stand for election and vote, unlike the situation in public elections where voting rights are dependent on nationality. There is a substantial section on local democracy, including the powers of local councils and a clear indication of who is eligible to stand for election and who can vote, namely French and EU member state nationals. A further local dimension is the environment and concern to protect local and national heritage defined in terms of: landscape; traditional customs and folklore; listed buildings; food and cooking; art and culture; prehistoric sites; historic quarters of towns and cities; industrial architecture; land and property owned by the local council. This is by definition a conservative agenda in a literal sense. The only suggestions of cultural diversity concern regional traditions of food and folklore and objects that may be held in local museums and art galleries. Many of these may link with a colonial past, though there is no indication in the programme of study or guidance that such links be made. Under this heading churches and, indeed, synagogues are regarded as historic monuments. More recently introduced places of worship, such as mosques, are omitted. At subnational level, the work of political parties, unions, pressure groups and other associations is presented as a healthy element in a democracy. At the end of lower secondary school, pupils are expected to discuss and debate issues raised by these groups and consider ways in which citizens work through them to influence decisions in a democracy. What is entirely absent from the programme of study is a consideration of religious groups and structures, in spite of the fact that the Catholic Church, for instance, is still a powerful institution. There is no equivalent to the section of the English programme of study which refers to ‘faith groups’. The very notion of ‘community leader’ is entirely foreign to the French Republican tradition and the suggestion that ‘communities’, in the sense of ethnic or religious groups, exist in France is strongly denied, and indeed resisted, by a number of mainstream political groups and well-known thinkers. The missing religious dimension, a function of the State’s constitutional commitment to neutrality in education (laïcité), is likely to limit the scope of discussions on a number of the issues raised by the programme of study, including women in society; genetic modification of

18 Citizenship and Political Education Today

plants; and issues of social justice. Each of these three topics is potentially the subject of pronouncements by religious authorities whose views may be important to the families of some pupils. Where the French and English programme of study overlap is in stressing the rights and the duties of citizens. For the French the list of duties includes: respect for the law and for public and private property; respect for the environment and for the freedoms of others, including tolerance; paying taxes; helping those in danger; being a responsible parent; participating in the political life of the country. Given the restrictions on standing for election and voting, this duty may well be very much easier to fulfil for some pupils than for others.

Social cohesion and cultural diversity This section addresses the second set of the IEA framing questions as set out in Figure 1.2. We have argued above that the Crick Report presents a very limited and limiting view of visible minorities in British society. The report implies that these citizens will need a special citizenship education if a genuine ‘common citizenship’ is to be achieved. This conceptualization of minorities is not, however, set in any broader social, economic or political context where questions of structural disadvantage and discrimination are recognized. Although the learning outcomes in the Crick Report include a reference to ‘social disparities’ it does so not within the UK context but when referring to the world community (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 50) The Crick Report gives relatively little attention to issues relating to citizenship and the impact of ‘race’, ethnicity, home language, social class, religion or gender. There is one passing reference to equality of opportunity in the report: (The curriculum) … should also enable them to gain an understanding of the diversity of community and society and an awareness of equal opportunities issues, national identity and cultural differences (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 19) The other explicit reference to exclusion or discrimination is as follows: The curriculum should consider the factors that lead to exclusion from society, such as bullying, colour and other forms of ‘difference’. It should make students aware of the difficulties such exclusion can have on the individual and society and of the reasons why

Audrey Osler and Hugh Starkey 19

some people ‘opt out’ of the moral and social set up (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 19). Thus the only reference to discrimination is set in the context of ‘bullying’ which may be interpreted as part of interpersonal interaction rather than anything related to structural disadvantage. Instances of past discrimination are not dealt with; instead, the move towards universal enfranchisement is presented as a successful and complete activity: In modern times … democratic ideas led to constant demands to broaden the franchise from a narrow citizen class of the educated and property owners, to achieve female emancipation, to lower the voting age, to achieve freedom of the press and to open up the processes of government. We now have the opportunity for a highly educated ‘citizen democracy’ (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 9). Thus the document portrays the extension of the franchise as a kind of inevitable step forward, with no sense that citizenship rights have been struggled for. The notion that for some groups this struggle is on-going is completely missing. The emphasis is on the need for cohesion, the need to get minorities on board, and on the rule of law. Conflict is portrayed as an unfortunate problem, and there are no examples of positive outcomes arising from societal conflict. In this sense the document remains conservative. On the other hand, the National Curriculum booklet contains a long section on inclusion. These are standard guidelines, repeated in identical terms for all curriculum subjects. The advice includes the following: When planning, teachers should set high expectations and provide opportunities for all pupils to achieve, including boys and girls, pupils with special educational needs, pupils with disabilities, pupils from all social and cultural backgrounds, pupils of different ethnic groups including travellers, refugees and asylum seekers, and those from diverse linguistic backgrounds. Teachers need to be aware that pupils bring to school different experiences, interests and strengths which will influence the way in which they learn. This advice is then amplified and exemplified. The following example addresses the needs of ethnic minorities. Teachers should plan their approaches to teaching and learning so that all pupils can take part in lessons fully and effectively.

20 Citizenship and Political Education Today

Teachers create effective learning environments in which: • stereotypical views are challenged and pupils learn to appreciate and view positively differences in others, whether arising from race, gender, ability or disability … • all forms of bullying and harassment, including racial harassment, are challenged • pupils are enabled to participate safely in clothing appropriate to their religious beliefs, particularly in subjects such as science, design and technology and physical education (QCA/DfEE, 1999: 20). There is certainly a concern that the school as an institution should not place barriers to the full participation of pupils from ethnic minorities, such as restrictions arising from clothing or a hostile atmosphere in the classroom or playground. Reference is made in the initial guidance to further guidance provided by the ministry (DfEE, 2000). In conclusion, although there is concern that the education service as a whole be inclusive and that appropriate guidance be made available, this is not integrated with the programmes of study for citizenship. It is left to schools and teachers to apply the advice to citizenship education or not. The French programme of study for the final year of lower secondary school revisits the fundamental questions of the significance of living in a Republic. Throughout the secondary school the programme of study progresses from a sense of the individual and individual identity within society to a sense of collective citizenship within the nation. We examine the portrayal of social cohesion and social diversity by reference to one of the textbooks produced to support the teaching of this programme (Lauby, 1999). All quotations from the text-book have been translated by us. Social cohesion is shown as being based on commitment to the fundamental principles of the Republic, freedom, equality and solidarity. The early pages of the book contain several colour pictures showing black people and minorities identifying with the national flag, and indeed proudly representing the nation. The multiethnic French football team’s victory in the 1998 World Cup is portrayed as demonstrating the integrative capacity of the Republic. The Republic is characterized as ‘indivisible’, which means that citizens are guaranteed equality before the law. However, it is explicitly recognized in the textbook that there is a gap between the principles and social reality. President François Mitterrand is quoted as saying in 1988: ‘Mutual respect is the basis for the pact without which national

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community would have no meaning. An unjust France is a divided France’. In other words national political action must focus on justice without which the principle of indivisibility is breached. Such a programme, according to Mitterrand, will aim to ‘democratise society, combat exclusion, actively promote equal opportunities, educate young people’ (Lauby, 1999: 15). This statement, although coming from a politician standing for a left of centre party, is presented, and likely to be accepted, as a nonpolitical statement of a Republican rather than a party political programme of action. This is in contrast to those presented explicitly by the textbook as ‘enemies of the Republic’, namely the far right, racist Front national party. The emphasis in the textbook, supported by numerous images, is of citizens actively engaged in the Republican programme of promoting justice. The cover of the book shows young people involved in a demonstration and there are a further nine photographs of demonstrations and strikes, all presented in a positive context. Active citizenship is linked explicitly in one section to demonstrations, political party membership and participating in strike action. Striking is described as ‘one of the great social achievements of workers, it is recognized by the Constitution’ (Lauby, 1999: 83). There is a section on threats to the Republic which highlights the armed Corsican independence movement, racist politicians and, as in the English programme of study, voter apathy. On the other hand the Republic is portrayed as a ‘melting pot’. France is described as ‘a country of immigration’. People have come to France from all over the world and ‘accepting the values and the symbols of the Republic they have integrated into French society. Their children have become French citizens’. However, it is also pointed out that only French nationals may vote and so ‘citizenship is linked to the possession of French nationality’ (Lauby, 1999). In the textbook there is little to suggest that minorities may be subject to discrimination, except at the hands of far right political parties. There is a reminder of the 1940 Vichy law excluding Jews from any public office or job but this is not matched with evidence or discussion of current discrimination against minorities in housing, policing and employment (Dewitte, 1999). On the other hand there is acknowledgement of social exclusion and it is represented in the textbook by the homeless and the unemployed. Women’s struggle for parity is given a section to itself and in one of the illustrations is clearly linked to the communist trade union movement. Whilst individual members of minority groups are welcome as French citizens, the text-book also makes clear that any attempt to

22 Citizenship and Political Education Today

develop a sense of community founded not on citizenship but on a sense of ethnic identity is totally alien to the values of the Republic: ‘The Republic cannot accept an inward-looking communitarianism which is likely to endanger the unity of the nation’. Communitarianism in this sense is defined as: a situation where society is split into inward-looking groups based on ethnicity, culture or religion. This often leads to the setting up of ghettos and sometimes to conflicts between groups. It is the opposite of the French Republic’s principle of indivisibility (Lauby, 1999: 15). This tension is demonstrated in the book by a picture of a large number of Muslims praying in a Paris street. The caption is ‘exercising fundamental rights’, clearly referring to freedom of religion. The commentary reads: To be a citizen is to be able to exercise one’s rights freely. Practising the religion of one’s choice is a fundamental right. However, exercising this right implies not offending other people’s religious convictions; there is no place for acts of worship in public places. Consequently all religions should have available properly appointed places of worship (Lauby, 1999). This implies that those in the picture are at fault and should be inside. It fails to take into account the attitude of local councils which have frequently denied planning consent for mosques (Hamm and Starkey, 1998). Compared to the English programme of study, the French programme is much more ready to take a positive view of political activity and recognize that social conflict can lead to progress. What it is unable to do is to accept notions of personal identity within the Republic, which relate to groups defined by ethnicity, culture or religion. Given that multiple identities are the norm in modern societies, to fail to accept the possibility of combining a group identity with a French and Republican identity appears to some pupils to be defining citizenship in terms that are too exclusive (Gaspard and Khosrokavar, 1995).

Conclusion A comparison such as we have made puts national programmes of study for citizenship education into perspective and enables us to high-

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light aspects that may potentially lead pupils following the programme to feel alienated rather than included. The French programme of study is declarative of its principles of freedom, equality, solidarity and human rights. These are presented as problematic only in that there is an on-going struggle for their implementation. Pupils are invited to join that struggle. There is a clear sense of national identity associated with the Republic. The English programme of study, like the British Constitution, relies heavily on the implicit. There is no clear sense of an existing national identity. Indeed this is presented as something yet to be created (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998: 17). The very notion of citizenship is one that has been recently introduced and which also remains to be clearly defined. In any case it is implied that citizenship will develop through consensus rather than through struggle. Young people, it is suggested, will grow as citizens through volunteering rather than through participating in strikes and demonstrations for change. Involvement with the local community is as important as awareness of national issues. Neither programme of study gives significant weight to the perspectives of minorities. The French programme of study roundly condemns racism but fails to explore it as an issue. The English programme of study recognizes both white and non-white ethnic groups. Indeed it expects understanding of diversity in society. It expects individuals to challenge prejudice and discrimination, but does not consider collective responses nor the possibility of institutional racism. Perhaps the major conclusion that applies to both national programmes of study is that there is little evidence that minority groups participated in their formulation. Until national curricula and discourses on citizenship are responsive to minority as well as majority perspectives they are likely to remain to some extent exclusive.

2 Cultural Citizenship Nick Stevenson

Recent debates within cultural studies and citizenship might suggest that culture and citizenship have little in common. The term ‘culture’ is usually associated with a mix of public and private institutions including museums, libraries, schools, cinemas and the media, while more specifically being connected with the dialogic production of meaning and aesthetics through a variety of practices. Citizenship, on the other hand, is more often thought to be about membership, belonging, rights and obligations. In institutional terms the terrain of citizenship is usually marked out by abstract legal definitions as to who is to be included and excluded from the political community. Yet increasingly ideas of symbolic challenge and exclusion remain central and defining within society. The power to name, construct meaning and exert control over the flow of information within contemporary societies is one of the central structural divisions today. Power is not solely based upon material dimensions, but also involves the capacity both to throw into question established codes and rework frameworks of common understanding (Melucci, 1996). This means that the locus of cultural citizenship will have to occupy positions both inside and outside the formal structures of administrative power. To talk of cultural citizenship means that we take questions of rights and responsibilities far beyond the technocratic agendas of mainstream politics/ media. That is we should seek to appreciate the ways in which ‘ordinary’ understandings become constructed, issues of interpretative conflict and semiotic plurality more generally. In other words, how do questions of entitlement and duty relate to the diversity of culture evident within everyday life, and what is the relationship between an increasingly ‘symbolic’ society and the practice of politics? What modes of exclusion become apparent within an information society? 24

Nick Stevenson 25

These concerns point to an age where our definitions of citizenship and society more generally are being transformed. Which community we owe our loyalties to, what foods are safe to eat, how important is the nation as opposed to more global concerns, and how I might decide upon my sexuality all increasingly involve cultural questions and concerns. How we address these issues will depend upon shifting discourses and narratives that have become available to us in a variety of social contexts. As Castells (1997: 359) puts it, the ‘sites of this power are people’s minds’. Indeed, one of the central issues this chapter will seek to address is how we might provide fertile ground for what I shall call the cosmopolitan imagination. Many in the social sciences have neglected the idea of the imagination. Castoriadis (1997) has argued that all societies are dependent upon the creation of webs of meaning that are carried by societies institutions and individuals. Society is always a self-creation that depends upon norms, values and language which helps to give diverse societies a sense of unity. The ‘imaginary’ is a social and historical creation, and serves to remind us that society must always create symbolic forms beyond the purely functional. By cosmopolitanism I mean a way of viewing the world that among other things dispenses with national exclusivity, dichotomous forms of gendered and racial thinking, and rigid separations between culture and nature. Such a sensibility would be open to the new spaces of political and ethical engagement that seek to appreciate the ways in which humanity is mixed into inter-cultural ways of life. Arguably, cosmopolitan thinking is concerned with the transgression of boundaries and markers, and the development of a genuinely inclusive cultural democracy and citizenship. Yet cosmopolitanism is not only concerned with intermixing and the ethical relations between the self and the other, but seeks an institutional and political grounding in the context of shared global problems. A concern for cosmopolitan dimensions will inevitably seek to develop an understanding of the discourses, codes and narratives that make such political understandings a possibility. As Lawrence Grossberg (1992: 64) has argued ‘no democratic political struggle can be effectively organized without the power of the popular’. However, before moving on to such questions it is important to try and understand how issues of culture and citizenship became caught up with each other. Here I will argue that the writing of T. H. Marshall and Raymond Williams are indicative of traditions of thinking which sought to connect questions of culture to the practices of citizenship. Yet as we shall see while still important such views are over-determined

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by the logic of industrialism. My argument will seek to demonstrate the ways in which an informational or post-industrial society requires the development of genuinely cultural forms of citizenship.

T. H. Marshall and Raymond Williams: a cultural citizenship? T. H. Marshall (1992), as is well known, was concerned with the historical development of civil, political and social rights in the British national context. Marshall drew attention to the contradiction between the formations of capitalism and class, and the principle of equality enshrined within the granting of basic rights. Such a view of citizenship was hardly surprising given that Marshall was writing in an age where identity and social conflicts were dominated by class. The setting up of the welfare state, the possibility of full male employment, the nuclear family, the dominance of the nation-state and the separation between an elite literary culture and a popular mass culture all inform his dimensions of citizenship. Marshall argued that the principle of civil and political rights had been granted in the eighteenth and ninetieth century, whereas the twentieth century had seen the acceptance of the idea of social rights. But as many of Marshall’s critics have pointed out, questions of civil and political rights are far from settled, and social rights became threatened once the post-war compromise between capital and labour came under attack (Roche, 1994). Further, Turner (1994) argues that the post-modernization of culture and the globalization of politics have rendered much of the literature in respect of citizenship inadequate. The attack on traditional divisions between high and low culture poses serious questions in terms of the common or national cultures that might be transmitted by public institutions. The diversification and fragmentation of public tastes and lifestyles have undermined a previously assumed ‘cultural’ consensus. Further, the development of trans-national spheres of governance, instantaneous news and global networks amongst new social movements has questioned the assumed connection between citizenship and the nation-state. These dual processes undermine, or at least call into question, the correspondence that citizenship has traditionally drawn between belonging and the nation-state. Marshall’s analysis – while still influential – fails to locate the state within a complex web of international flows and relations, while assuming that the ‘political’ works within stable national cultures. The context of increasing cultural diversity and globalization brings to the fore questions of cultural rights.

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More recently, Jan Pakulski (1997) has argued that ‘cultural’ citizenship should be viewed in terms of satisfying demands for full inclusion into the social community. Such claims should be seen in the context of the waning of the welfare state and class identities, and the formation of new social and cultural movements focusing on the question of the rights of groups from children to the disabled. Cultural rights, in this sense, herald ‘a new breed of claims for unhindered representation, recognition without marginalization, acceptance and integration without ‘normalising distortion’ (Pakulski, 1997: 80). These rights go beyond rights for welfare protection, political representation or civil justice and focus on the right to propagate a cultural identity or lifestyle. These claims, however, are likely to be as problematic as the implementation of social rights. Pakulski suggests that there is already a perceived backlash against ‘politically correct’ programs and unease about bureaucratic attempts to regulate the cultural sphere. These questions aside, Pakulski (1997) and Turner (1994) argue that any attempt to rethink models of citizenship would have to problematize questions of culture in ways that are not evident in Marshall’s initial formulation of citizenship. However, while criticisms of Marshall’s neglect of culture are well represented within citizenship studies, there have been other attempts to more systematically link cultural and political questions to an analysis of modern society. While we might point here to the early Frankfurt school and others, I think Raymond Williams outlined a more germane level of enquiry. In this context, Williams provides an interesting contrast with Marshall, given their shared context of postwar British society. What Williams (1965) termed the ‘long revolution’ was an attempt to link economic, social and political issues to cultural questions. Here Williams problematizes the development of standardized cultural products, a paternalistic state and a capitalist economic system that had stalled the possibility of a more participatory and genuinely diverse popular culture. For example, the media of mass communication had largely been developed through models provided by the market and the state. Arguing in the context of British society in the 1960s, Williams suggested an alternative democratic framework where a radically decentralized communications system would be open to the ‘challenge and view’ of a republic of voices (Williams, 1962: 134). Unlike Marshall, Williams is alive to at least some of the qualities of an ‘emergent’ consumer society, the growing importance of the notion of ‘culture’ to the study of society, and its links to the workings of a mass democracy. Williams, along with other members of the New Left,

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sought to move toward a society that saw the development of more substantial economic rights (through participation within the work place), the establishment of a genuinely democratic polity and a diverse civic and popular culture. Williams (1965) called the long revolution the historical possibility of realizing the creative and learning potential of the people. This would witness the creation of the material conditions for an enlightened, educated and participatory democracy through a socialist transformation of society. Such a society would create the conditions for free, open and authentic expression. Williams offers an ‘ideal type’ of free communication when he writes: A good society depends upon the free availability of facts and opinions, and on the growth of vision and consciousness – the articulation of what men have actually seen and known and felt. Any restriction of the freedom of individual contribution is actually a restriction of the resources of society (Williams, 1962: 124–5). The dialectic of the long revolution is constituted through the contradiction between the maintenance of capitalism and the communicative ‘potential’ of ordinary people. Capitalism has facilitated the development of new technologies, broadened access to the education system and provided the means through which ‘the people’ could communicate with one another. However the growth of a synthetic popular culture, the continued existence of class divisions and cultural elitism had prevented the possibility of the development of what Williams termed a ‘culture in common’. Unlike Marshall, Williams takes the organization of cultural production and the generation of a diversity of meanings to be central to the definition of modern society. The ways in which we communicate with one another and share cultural experiences cannot be considered a peripheral question in Williams’s analysis. In this respect, he merges an anthropological and an artistic definition of culture. For Williams, ‘culture’ signifies the dual meaning of a ‘way of life’ and the aesthetic creativity of artistic practices. Williams writes: A culture has two aspects; the known meanings and directions, which its members are trained to; the new observations and meanings, which are offered and tested. We use the culture in these two senses; to mean a whole way of life – the common meanings; to mean arts and learning – the special process of discovery and creative effort (Williams, 1988: 4).

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Hence while Marshall argues that the inclusive fabric of society depends upon the provision of rights, Williams argues for the importance of society’s communicative channels allowing a voice to those excluded from the main centre of cultural and political power. In short, Williams provides a model of a cultural democracy that links questions of society, meaning and aesthetics in ways that are absent from Marshall’s more legalistic framework. The common circulation of different artistic and political perspectives that are open to a range of popular criticism is key to the idea of the long revolution. While both Marshall and Williams perceive capitalism as the main obstacle to an inclusive society, it is Williams that more decisively links these questions to cultural concerns. For Marshall to belong is to have access to certain rights. For Williams, while rights are important, they must be supplemented with the opportunities to shape society’s common cultures. Inclusivity then is not just a matter of law, economics and politics, but is centrally defined by a cultural dimension. Yet despite his many insights, Williams remains caught up in an analysis of culture and society that placed the labour movement at its centre, viewed the development of popular culture from a specifically literary perspective, and is insufficiently concerned with questions of obligation (Stevenson, 2002). The model outlined by Williams is premised on the idea that a socialist transformation of society would be accompanied by the displacement of commercial forms of culture and by more literary and artistic alternatives. The problem here is perhaps similar to Marshall in that we have now moved into a society which is quite different from the one within which Williams formulated his ideas. Yet what remains important is the way he links questions of democracy and social justice to a cultural arena. As I have indicated the perspectives of Marshall and Williams cannot be resurrected to analytically resolve the dilemmas of the present. Both were writing in the context of a society whose central conflicts were defined by ‘industrialism’. By this I mean that both Marshall and Williams argued that society could be understood through a central conflict, and that this could be progressively transcended by a collectively constructed alternative social order. For Marshall it was the principle of equality upheld by civil, political and social rights as opposed to the dominant structure of a class society, and for Williams it was the communicative human nature of the people as opposed to the social power of state and capital. My argument is that society can no longer be defined through a master metaphor that reveals the ‘essential nature’ of the other social relations. Further, that notions of social and cultural

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progress need to be radically rethought. We need to reconnect the concerns of citizenship to the question of how social solidarity can be maintained in an era of social and cultural fragmentation.

Civil society, culture and public space As we have seen questions of inclusion and exclusion are at the heart of notions of cultural citizenship, in particular how to achieve widespread participation in questions of genuinely communal concern. For Raymond Williams (1962) this was the possibility of achieving a genuinely participative and educative democracy. These questions are usually answered through the discussion of the need to develop an inclusive civil society. Cultural inclusion, taking our lead from Marshall and Williams, should be concerned with both having access to certain rights, and the opportunity to get your voice heard, in the knowledge that you will have the ear of the community. As Cohen and Arato (1992) argue, democracy is maintained through formal institutions and procedures, and through the maintenance of civil society. Here rights of communication and dialogue have a necessary priority over all other social and economic rights. Whereas Marxism has criticized capitalist societies for instituting mere bourgeois rights, and liberalism has sought to remain agnostic in respect of the lifestyle choices of its citizens, a politics based upon a communicative civil society takes us in a different direction. Civil society should ‘institutionalize’ the everyday practice of democratic communication. Similarly, Michael Walzer (1992: 89) has identified civil society as a ‘space of uncoerced human association and also the set of relational networks – formed for the sake of family, faith, interest and ideology’. Notably the revival of interest in civil society came from dissident Eastern European intellectuals who sought to construct domains of civic association and engagement not controlled by the state. The argument here was that a free and democratic society would necessarily be underpinned by a variety of associations that had gained at least relative forms of independence from the state. These concerns also found resonance within the West where there was growing concern that privatized lifestyles encouraged by neo-liberalism were undermining a wider culture of democratic engagement (Keane, 1989). While many have noted that ideas of civil society have long and complex histories it is difficult to see how definitions of citizenship and democracy that wish to retain a participatory basis can ignore the concept (Kumar, 1993).

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In terms of more contemporary thinkers, it has been Habermas (1989) who has taken these questions most seriously. If we are breaking with the idea that social totality will become transformed through an international movement of workers that will instigate a more just and democratic society, then how we choose to communicate with each other becomes ever more important. The idea that social problems cannot be swept away through whole scale transformations fostered by revolutionaries, technologies or indeed governments reintroduces the idea of morality and ethics. For Habermas (1990) the idea of discourse ethics is based upon the notion that the rightness or the justness of the norms we uphold can only be secured by our ability to give good reasons. In turn, these norms are considered valid if they gain the consent of others within a shared community. The moral principles that we uphold must be more than the prejudices of the particular group to which we happen to belong. Such collectively held norms can only be considered valid if they are judged impartially. In this sense, our ethical claims can be said to be deontological in that their rightness cannot be secured by social conventions or appeals to tradition. The achievement of a universal ethical stance, therefore, requires that participants in practical discourse transcend their own egoistic position in order to negotiate with the horizons of other cultures and perspectives. A norm can only be considered valid if all those it would potentially affect would freely accept it. These remarks, as should be clear, represent a radical reworking of the universalistic thinking of Kant, and a forcible rejection of relativistic standpoints. Habermas’s (1996) most recent writing on the public-sphere has sought to more precisely define its dynamic and spatially complex nature. Habermas links the cognitive capacity of the self and the institutional mechanisms of society in the promotion of a critical pluralistic culture. The distinction between ethics (questions of what’s right for me) and morality (questions of what’s right for the community) means that the public sphere is continually involved in a process of deciding what can reasonably be decided by the community and what can not. The decidability of such questions presupposes a participatory democratic culture that is able to couple the increasing individualism evident in ethical decisions and dilemmas with a need for a moral discourse at the level of the community. The primary task of the public sphere, therefore, is the detection and identification of public problems that need to be fed into the procedures of parliament and the state. The public sphere in the modern media age operates as a ‘signaling

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device’ highlighting matters of public importance that have to be decided upon by the structures of representative democracy. Public opinion, in this respect, is not so much the result of opinion polls (although these are a contributing factor) but proceeds a period of proper focused debate. Habermas argues that agreement can only emerge after a period of what he calls ‘exhaustive controversy’ (Habermas, 1996: 362). However, Habermas is clear that such widespread discussions only become converted into communicative power once they pass through the institutional matrix of democratic will formation. Proceeding this we can say that public opinion has been activated once the various interactive agencies of state and civil society have become focused on a particular problem. The domain of civil society is more than a well scripted public relations exercise, but crucially involves the direct intervention of ethical communities, feminist campaigners, green networks, religious denominations, trade unions, ethnic organizations and parent’s groups. A societal wide conversation is dependent upon the emergence of an ‘energetic civil society’ which is able to force issues and perspectives onto a public agenda. A robust civil society ensures that the communicative basis of the life-world never becomes completely colonized by agencies of money and power. Civil society under certain circumstances, is able to convert itself into communicative power through the channels of public communication and the activation of public normative sentiment. For the public sphere to be socially just it must both prevent the manipulation of the public by forces with vested interests in social control and pull together an otherwise fragmented public. A widespread publicly inclusive conversation therefore would shatter attempts at ‘information processing strategies’ and substitute them with genuinely communicative interests and passions. A communicative civil society would produce a cultural citizenship where the public were capable of learning from one another’s viewpoints. The political and cultural question here is how to promote genuinely cosmopolitan definitions, practices and understandings of public space? An institutional definition of civil society (usually made up of relatively independent organizations like churches, trade unions, schools, and the media) does not go far enough. Arguably Habermas’s analysis of civil society stops short of an investigation into the ways in which civil society has become historically and culturally constructed. While he correctly emphasizes the normative importance of communicative rights for fostering civic solidarity he understates the cultural dimensions of what he calls a ‘cosmopolitan conscious-

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ness’ (Habermas, 2001: 112). For example, Jeffrey Alexander (1992) argues that civil society is not merely an institutional realm, but is constructed through symbolic codes of inclusion and exclusion. Notions of ‘civility’ depend upon definitions of incivility. All citizens make judgments between those who are deserving of exclusion from the public right to speak and who is worth hearing. Who is deemed worth listening to, which parts of the city are coded as dangerous, and whose languages and perspectives can pass as ‘normal’ are all contentious questions (Bourdieu, 1996). Indeed it has been the strength of cultural studies and post-structuralism that they have been able to highlight the ways in which civil society becomes coded through multiple and antagonistic discourses (Mouffe, 1993). Cultural understandings of citizenship are concerned not only with ‘formal’ processes such as who is entitled to vote and the maintenance of an active civil society, but with whose cultural practices are disrespected. Who is silenced, marginalized, stereotyped and rendered invisible. As Renato Rosaldo (1999: 260) argues, cultural citizenship is concerned with ‘who needs to be visible, to be heard, and to belong’. What becomes defining here is the demand for cultural respect. Whereas liberalism commonly recognizes that a political community can generate disrespect by forms of practical mistreatment (torture or rape) and by with holding formal rights (such as the right to vote), notions of cultural citizenship point to the importance of the symbolic dimension of community. Cultural citizenship is concerned with ‘the degree of self esteem accorded to his or her manner of self-realisation within a society’s inherited cultural horizon’ (Honneth, 1995: 134). These aspects might be linked to whose language is given public acceptance, whose history is taught in schools, which sexual activities are confined in the private, and who is permitted to move securely through public space. Cultural citizenship then becomes defined through a site of struggle that is concerned with the marginalization of certain social practices. Chantal Mouffe (2000) has argued that theorists like Habermas who appeal to ‘reasonableness’ or ‘rationality’ try to hide the ways in which the ‘political’ or ‘civil society’ is constituted through powerful codes and discourses. The idea that participants within dialogue and civic exchange should seek a ‘rational consensus’ obscures the role played by passion and affect. For Mouffe, a democratic politics depends upon a pluralistic civil society that is constituted through a struggle between adversaries rather than enemies. A polity that sought to homogenize energetic forms of engagement with an overly consensual framework would inevitably promote a largely passive civil society.

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Democratic civil orders depend upon active forms of identification with civic values, but also the possibility of passionate encounter. When we encounter others with whom we do not agree, the temptation is portray them as ‘irrational’. What is being suggested here is that we might try and understand how different political subjects are positioned within discourses different from the ones which we currently occupy. Arguably these features become even more pressing within the contours of a global society where cultures are no longer anchored to the spot. We should interrogate our own understandings of the ‘reasonable’ and how they have become constructed, while we seek to encounter views different from our own. For example, Georgina Warnke (1993) argues that we need to try to locate our understanding of the ‘good’ in terms of a diversity of interpretations of different traditions. In our dialogue over ‘interpretation’ and ‘meaning’ we do not seek consensus. Rather we need to make space for plurality and difference at the beginning and at the end of democratic forms of communication. Within this view, we require a more reflexive understanding of different political traditions and perspectives that become activated within a dispute or conversation. The concern here is that while discourse ethics locates democratic conversation within a normative framework, we have to be careful we do not underestimate questions of cultural difference. As Iris Marion Young (1999) has warned the search for ‘consensus’ can displace the necessity of recovering ‘difference’. It is Habermas’s view that policy proposals which seek to articulate a ‘common interest’ will tend to marginalize viewpoints from less powerful sections of the community. Young asks that we make room for cultural styles and dispositions that fall outside the so-called ‘neutral’ mainstream. It is to these questions I now wish to turn. However, we can only do so by opening issues of cultural identity.

Identity, difference and cultural politics Stuart Hall (1990) has argued that there are two basic ways of speaking about identity. The first is to posit a ‘true self’ that exists beneath the artificial surfaces of culture which will emerge once these have been stripped away. Such a view emphasizes identity as a rediscovery not a cultural production. This strategy produces a view of identity as hard and solid which is either affirmed or denied by society’s dominant institutions. The other view of cultural identity is that identities are ‘increasingly fragmented and fractured; never singular but multiply across different, often intersecting and antagonistic, discourses, prac-

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tices and positions’ (Hall, 1996: 4). Identity within this analysis is never fixed and final, but constructed through the variable resources of language and culture. Such a view of identity dispenses with ‘essential’ constructions like a single black or working class culture. Rather the aim is to produce an analysis of the ways in which individuals or groups identify or indeed fail to identify with discursive formations in social contexts that are permeated by power. Here the point is to be able to locate the cultures of power that can stereotype or construct subordinate groups as ‘Other’. A political strategy that aims to resist cultural domination would do so not by seeking to preserve the ‘authenticity’ of an excluded group, but by subverting and questioning society’s dominant codes. The argument here is that social movements should seek to deconstruct dominant codes and cultures to make them more inclusive of difference. The discursive strategies of post-colonial and queer theory have criticized the ways in which dominant discourses have helped construct a number of binary oppositions that reinforce the presumed superiority of ‘Western’ or ‘hetrosexual’ life styles. The aim here is to subvert the ways that ideas of citizenship have sought to mask and normalize cultural difference. Attempts to ‘liberate’ the ‘oppressed group’ or subject by appealing to the language of oppressed versus oppressor only succeeds in displacing the complexity of contemporary social relations (Giroux, 1992). That is homosexuality, feminism and black politics are not ‘minority’ issues, but are dependent upon the deconstruction of dominant codes and discourses. The attempt to fix the identities of homosexuals and heterosexuals, men and women, and white and black people is the effect of powerful ideological discourses. Such codes and ideologies seek to impose unitary identities and thereby impose a normalized social order. Here identity is not the product of social construction, but is largely experienced as natural social facts (Seidman, 1997). The argument here seeks to question both the simple binaries between self and other and also the supposed unity of ‘oppressed’ groups in order to reveal the ways in which identities are constructed through language and culture. There has then been a shift from identity politics to a politics of difference. Whereas objectivist and interest based traditions within the social sciences sought to develop a politics based upon unitary identities, these features have been increasingly called into question. Instead identities are being represented as the site of contestation and struggle, and as multiple and fragmented rather than pre-given and natural (Calhoun, 1994). Judith Butler (1990) in this context has called for an

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anti-identity political strategy. By this she means that any attempt to base a politics upon an assumed unitary identity is necessarily exclusionary. This converts the categories of ‘woman’, ‘class’, ‘race’ or even ‘nature’ into ‘permanently moot’ points (Butler, 1990: 15). Claims to ‘identity’ are always caught up in the construction of an inside and an outside. Here it is in the cultural production of the abject and the marginal that enforces processes of cultural and symbolic exclusion. For example, the cultural production of dominant versions of heterosexual masculinity seeks to normalize and naturalize cultural difference by appealing to universality and rationality (Bhabha, 1995). The implication is that heterosexual men are genderless. Masculine self-identity emerges through the production of difference, where the fear of the homoerotic and the feminine helps reproduce a patriarchal masculinity. Masculinity, femininity and homosexuality are seen as the properties of distinct individuals and groups. Women ought not to be masculine, and men are taught to police themselves in order to expel the feminine. Heterosexual masculinity becomes defined through their opposite that is, its negative relationship with the feminine and the homosexual. These cultural features become ‘Other’ as heterosexual masculinity seeks to produce a view of itself as objective, disinterested and self-controlled. Yet as many cultural critics have remarked homophobia actually implies the existence of the homoerotic (Buchbinder, 1998). Homophobia is not just the reaction of ‘straight men’ to homosexuality, but the possibility that homoeroticism may connect the masculine to homosexuality. The allure of homoeroticism and the regulation and persecution of homosexuality presents straight masculinity with potentially troubling forms of affect and identification. Patriarchal discourses seek to protect the category of the masculine through the twin motors of misogyny and homophobia. Whereas heterosexual masculinity will seek to ‘naturalise’ the connection between men and masculinity, other social movements will aim to introduce the idea that in talking about masculinity we are not necessarily talking about men (Sedgwick, 1995). Social movements will attempt to insist that if cultures have no essential origin then they are the product of complex processes of intermixing and hybridity. In response, those seeking to defend the dominant constructions of heterosexual masculinity will seek to present its ‘performance’ as an effect of biology. However as Steven Seidman (1995) has argued these formulations require a more substantial ethics than is currently available. If the argument is that the rigid performance of sexuality, gender or ethnicity fashions a fear of difference and normative forms of constraint then

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this entails a form of politics that can deal with these questions. In this context, Butler (1990) offers a cultural politics that seeks to demonstrate that the binaries we commonly draw between men and women, different ethnic groups and straights and gays are ideological and not natural. Here our ethnicity, sexuality and gender are revealed as a performance. We can do this by revealing that the categories we took to be ‘natural’ are actually cultural. Gender is not something one is but something one does. As gender (and indeed sexuality) has no ontological status, Butler is drawn to analyze the ways it has become regulated and normalized within society. Butler’s analysis then, as we saw above, aims to uncouple biology, gender and sexuality by arguing that their supposed stability is an effect of discourse and normative regulation. Here Butler turns to ‘drag’ as having powerful political possibilities in that it reveals the ‘performed’ nature of sex and gender. If there is no ‘original’ to copy, reasons Butler, then drag is able to denaturalize the supposed ‘naturalness’ of heterosexuality by exposing all sexuality as culturally produced. While there has been much discussion on the suitability of a politics of drag, Butler’s ethical strategy is deconstructive (Lloyd, 1999; Segal, 1999). The problem remains, however, how to connect these concerns with difference to the more normative settings suggested by the workings of cultural citizenship. What sort of dialogic ethics could include both a politics of conversation as well as one of discursive interruption? The challenge remains how to reconcile a cultural politics with a politics of culture. Put differently, we need to be able to argue that cultural citizenship is simultaneously underpinned by universal norms while recognizing the need to deconstruct dominant cultures of exclusion. The destabilization of meaning needs to be connected to normative models of citizenship, and a politics of difference linked to the possibility of inter-cultural dialogue (Fraser, 1995; Touraine, 2000). I want to finish by pointing to how this might be possible by considering some contemporary currents within multi-culturalism.

Multicultural and cultural citizenship Bhikhu Parekh (2000) has argued that multicultural societies should aim to create a common culture out of difference. Such a culture, he reasons could grow out of cross-cultural conversations and intercultural dialogue. The key resource in seeking to develop such sensibilities amongst its citizens is the progressive development of a genuinely multicultural education. In terms of European liberal societies this would

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involve the enhanced questioning of Eurocentrism and monoculturalism more generally, and the development of an ‘educated’ curiosity in respect of other cultures. Simply to learn about the ‘great and glorious’ past of a particular ethnic or national society not only breeds racism, but also stultifies the creative imagination. The central aim of a multicultural education would be the fostering of sensibilities that were open to the sheer diversity of cultures that make up the general history and experience of a community. In the promotion of inter-cultural dialogue Parekh distances himself from many of the assumptions of mainstream liberalism. Rather than starting from the view that we already know what counts as civilized behaviour, Parekh argues for a transformative dialogue that respects difference. In these dialogues we need to be guided by what Parekh (2000: 267) calls ‘operative public values’. While these values are open to question they are both general and regulative and embodied within the rights and obligations of citizenship which are in turn shaped by established legal norms and practice. In this Parekh (2000: 280) argues that ‘our decision to allow a cultural practice cannot and should not be based on abstract moral principles or the right to autonomy alone but also on its cultural and historical context’. Such dialogues should have both a transformative effect upon both ‘minorities’ and ‘majorities’ alike as they critically interrogate a number of cultural practices. Parekh best illustrates the possibilities that such dialogues can have through his investigation of the Salman Rushdie dispute. For Parekh the dispute within Britain was marked by entrenched modes of thinking which failed to make use of the opportunity to gain a more informed understanding of one another. The liberal defenders of the Satanic Verses mostly failed to appreciate the sense of harm felt by the Muslim protesters, while they in turn failed to grasp the significance of ideas around freedom of speech for liberals. What the dispute actually highlights is the need to formulate new public forums and institutions designed to deal with questions of inter-cultural conflict and confusion. These dialogues would need to recognize the different cultural associations, fears, and cultural projections of both ourselves and others. Parekh argues that such deliberations are not simply the cold exchange of reasons, but would need to be informed by the spirit of compromise, curiosity and mutual respect; this would be sustained by the idea that all cultures are limited and benefit from dialogue. A multicultural society has the principles of dialogue at its centre and would privilege no particular cultural perspective including liberalism. It is the principle of inter-cultural communication and the recovery of the

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‘other’ that governs a multi-cultural society. This ethos is threatened by claims to cultural homogeneity and ethnic purity. The point here again is to foster a society that avoids the collapse into either separatism or the tyranny of the majority, while being fully inclusive of the cultural capabilities and capacities of its members. Such dialogic contexts would also, as many of the critics of multiculturalism have argued, need to address the question of unequal power relations which leads to some cultures being stereotyped and considered as ‘other’ (Yuval-Davis, 1997). Such forums would need to make sure that ‘minorities’ within ‘minority’ communities find a voice and that the diversity of the host cultures are properly represented. Multiculturalism refracted through cultural notions of citizenship represents the mutual challenge of seeking to deconstruct the ideas that ‘black’ and ‘white’ encode essential identities, and the need to help dominant groups ‘unlearn their own privilege’ (Giroux, 1994: 327). Again, multiculturalism points towards the possibility of deconstructing identities of power (primarily by making ‘whiteness’ visible) and by recovering ‘other’ voices which are often stereotyped and marginalized. These are indeed dangers and difficulties that any version of multiculturalism would inevitably have to face. A dialogic multicultural politics would have to negotiate the dangers of fundamentalist reaction, disengagement by dominant groups, and a politics of ‘otherness’ which sought security in the permanent margin (Gates, 1994). The struggle for a citizenship that created new spaces for dialogue while seeking to criticize powerful processes of normalization would encounter many obstacles. However any critical version of cultural citizenship would have to protect the voices of ‘minorities’, seek to create new public spaces for dialogue and critique powerful symbolic cultures of exclusion.

Conclusion The development of the idea of cultural citizenship seeks to link the development of energetic civil societies, the capacity to dialogue sensitively with the other, and a respect for cultural difference. This has become a pressing concern within modern societies as time/space compression disconnects cultures from places. The impact of globalization, migration, new media technologies, pollution and viruses means that we need to be able to develop a cultural citizenship for a cosmopolitan age. Arguably the central set of rights and obligations in this respect are linked to questions of communication. The question as to how

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collective identity becomes possible under post-industrial conditions of fragmentation and diversity means that citizenship takes on a different meaning from that which was available within an industrial age. That these questions are continually subject to interpretative conflict, misunderstanding and semiotic plurality more generally is reason enough to expect cultural issues to be linked to citizenship for some time to come.

3 Anticipated Political Engagement among Adolescents in Australia, England, Norway and the United States Judith Torney-Purta and Wendy Klandl Richardson In the late 1980s and early 1990s massive changes toward democratization took place across the world, and leaders in many countries began looking for guidance about what this meant for their youth and for the systems that were educating them. Little evidence from the social sciences was available to guide this process, as the study of political socialization had declined from a high point in the mid-1970s (Cook, 1985), with little research taking place during the decade and a half after 1980. The International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA), a comparative education association of nearly 60 member countries with headquarters in Amsterdam, typically initiates the exploration of topics for its massive surveys of student outcomes when several of its member countries suggest the need for information in a given area. In 1993 member countries suggested that IEA explore a Civic Education Study. Some of these countries had recently experienced massive political changes as the Communist order fell, and in other countries there was considerable dismay about declines in conventional political participation among young people. Country representatives proposed going beyond the study that IEA conducted 20 years before in Western European countries and the United States (Torney, Oppenheim, and Farnen, 1975) to develop a test and survey that could provide a current, comparative perspective on the ways in which young people are prepared to undertake their role as citizens in democracies. This was not to be limited to testing outcomes of the formal curriculum in any particular subject (especially since no course entitled ‘civic education’ was offered in most of the interested countries). The focus was to be on the school’s civic-related education in the context of family and community. The countries’ representatives 41

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were interested in how programs or policies relating to civic education were linked to knowledge, behaviour, and attitudes across democratic countries. The IEA Civic Education Study was designed in two phases, one mostly qualitative and the other mostly quantitative. In the first phase (concentrated in 1994–1996) teams of researchers in each country outlined the expectations which experts had for adolescents in civicrelated subjects. The major products of Phase 1 were a book of case studies concerning the expectations for learning about civic-related subjects by 14-year-olds within each participating nation (TorneyPurta, Schwille, and Amadeo, 1999)1 and a book looking at paradoxes in civic education as illustrated in the case studies (Steiner-Khamsi, Torney-Purta, and Schwille, 2002). During this phase relevant theories were explored. One theory was that of Janoski (1998), who looked at citizenship and civil society, providing a sociological perspective. He differentiated between four domains in which participation might take place: the state sphere (e.g., executive, judicial and legislative), the public sphere (e.g., voluntary associations and privately owned media), the market sphere (e.g., business firms and unions) and the private sphere (e.g., family and relations of love and affection). Some issues of interest lie between sectors, such as the political parties between state and public spheres. Janoski also explored ways of locating civil society within these domains. He argued that strong civil societies must have active debate and discussion within associations and organizations in the public sphere. Where civil society is weak, there is likely to be domination by the state or the market sphere. Others have noted that the public sphere has taken on new importance as organizations oriented to issues such as the environment or economic and social justice have increased in number. It is no longer true, as was assumed in early political socialization research, that the state sphere is of supreme importance. With new attention drawn to civil society, coupled with the prevalence of social movements and issue-oriented groups concerned with the environment or poverty that welcome youth participation, it is critical to consider the public sphere of activity (and perhaps parts of the private and the market sphere). Action in these spheres may also motivate a citizen to accept the responsibility to vote or exercise vigilance regarding the actions of elected officials because those acts have become more meaningful. The situated cognition approach, which emphasizes the supports and expectations within the everyday lives of adolescents and groups

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to which they belong, also helps to frame the IEA Civic Education Study (Lave and Wenger, 1991). The role of peer groups has rarely been adequately considered in the research on citizenship and political development (exceptions being Bhavnani, 1991 and Sherrod, Flanagan, and Youniss, 2002). Young people’s social identities, cooperative behaviour, perspective taking or empathy, and capacity for constructive dissent are constructed within friendship and peers groups both in formal settings (classrooms in schools and organized group activities in and outside school) and informal settings. Sociocultural theories, such as the situated cognition view of Lave and Wenger (1991), speak of the various groups to which young people are related as ‘situating’ their learning or cognition. They use the term ‘legitimate peripheral participation’ to describe the observation by or partial participation of individuals who are young, relative newcomers or apprentices. In a more recent formulation, Wenger (1998) has detailed some ramifications of the notion of ‘communities of practice,’ or overlapping membership in groups ranging from work teams to community organizations to classrooms. In these groups, individuals negotiate identities, acquire knowledge and skills that are meaningful as defined by the group and are engaged in practice. Through experience that is either intentionally or unintentionally shaped and ‘scaffolded’ by older group members, they gradually move away from peripheral participation to more central involvement. Both adolescents’ current activities and behaviours that serve as developmental precursors to or incipient forms of adult behaviour deserve attention. Connections between experiences in adolescence and the attitudes and behaviours of later adulthood have been documented. Continuities can be traced in orientations toward legitimate authority, civil behaviour including tolerance and cooperation, perceptions of the ideal role of government on the right/left continuum and the way individuals view protest or social movement activities and involvement in them. Some recent evidence of these connections has been provided in panel or longitudinal studies of groups first tested in the 1960s (Jennings and Niemi, 1974; Jennings, 1990), of those involved in voluntary service (Hart, Atkins, and Ford, 1998), of members of high school student councils (Verba, Schlozmann, and Brady, 1995), of civil rights workers during the ‘freedom summer’ (McAdam, 1998) and of participants and close observers of protest activities during the late 1960s at the University of Michigan (Cole, Zucker, and Ostrove, 1998; Stewart, Settles, and Winter, 1998).

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A sense of political efficacy, defined as a feeling of confidence in one’s own abilities to influence both individuals and institutions (and sometimes including the readiness of those institutions to respond), was also a focus in planning the IEA survey. This concept is important in the psychological theory of Bandura (2001), who has discussed the ‘sense of self-efficacy’ and, more recently, ‘collective efficacy’. The common core of efficacy is a judgment about one’s ability to accomplish goals one has chosen. (In the case of political efficacy, the goal is improving the community or influencing governmental or political action.) The concept of collective efficacy adds the idea that joining with a group to take action is often more effective than taking action by oneself (Yeich and Levine, 1994). Studies about political efficacy are especially likely to be valuable when they are situated in the everyday worlds of adolescents, including their schools. In addition to theory development, another purpose of Phase 1 of the IEA study was to reach consensus among member countries about a common core of content concerned with the fundamental principles of democracy and citizenship that might be assessed. In arriving at this consensus, representatives discussed knowledge about democracy and its principles, sense of engagement and willingness to participate, attitudes of trust in government, and attitudes about the rights of various groups to participate. These concepts formed the basis for the test and survey. Phase 2 of the IEA Civic Education Study began in 1996 when researchers initiated a three-year process of development involving co-ordinators from more than 20 countries and two pilot tests to arrive at an instrument suitable for administration in classrooms including clearly formulated items for translation into 20 languages. These testing materials were elaborated and final choices made during meetings of National Research Co-ordinators. The instrument included three core domains: Democracy, Democratic Institutions, and Citizenhip; National Identity and International Relations; and Social Cohesion and Diversity. These domains were based on the Content Framework developed using the Phase 1 national case study documents (found in the Appendix of Torney-Purta, Lehmann, Oswald, and Schulz, 2001). The test items (with correct and incorrect answers) concentrated on concepts and principles drawn from debates about building, consolidating, and maintaining democracies, such as incentives to participate in democracy, problems in transitions of government, characteristics and functions of elections and parties, citizens’ rights, civic duties and obligations, and the role of organizations in civil society.

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The final knowledge test for 14-year-olds was selected from a pool of 140 items and included 38 items measuring content knowledge (in the three domains described). This test was developed with Item Response Theory (IRT scaling) and it meets both classical and more recently developed standards for test quality. Twenty-five of these test items measured content knowledge (relating to democratic governmental structures, citizenship, international organizations, and social diversity), while 13 measured skills in interpreting civic information (e.g., a political leaflet, political cartoons, a mock newspaper article). All the items were suitable for use across countries. The National Research Co-ordinators, however, decided that only about half the testing time should be devoted to questions keyed with right and wrong answers. The IEA instrument also included unkeyed measures covering concepts of democracy, concepts of the good adult citizen and concepts of the social and economic responsibilities of government (as well as attitudinal scales and items about the intent to participate in civic and political activities). The test and survey were administered in 1999 to nationally representative samples of students in the modal grade for 14-year-olds; totalling 90,000 students (see IEA standards in Martin, Rust, and Adams, 1999).2 The European countries participating in Phase 2 were: Belgium (French), Bulgaria, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Denmark, England, Estonia, Finland, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, the Russian Federation, the Slovak Republic, Slovenia, Sweden, and Switzerland. Australia, Chile, Colombia, Hong Kong (SAR), and the United States also participated. The report of the results of Phase 2 (Torney-Purta, Lehmann, Oswald, and Schulz, 2001) presents figures that detail the position of each country’s students as ‘significantly above,’ ‘at’ or ‘below’ the international mean. A testing of older students, aged 16–19, took place (mainly in 2000) in 16 countries (not including the United States, Australia, or England). The test was augmented to include some harder items, including a measure of economic literacy. Otherwise, the survey was substantially the same as for the 14-years-olds. Those results, including differences between age groups, appear in Amadeo, Torney-Purta, Lehmann, Husfeldt, and Nikolova, 2002 (see also www.wam.umd.edu/~iea/). This data set is not included in this chapter’s analysis. In summary, the distinctions between domains of political participation, sociocultural theory, and the concept of collective efficacy, were central in developing the IEA Civic Education Study, a 1999 test and survey of more than 90,000 14-year-olds in 28 countries and a sample

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of their teachers (Torney-Purta, Lehmann, Oswald, and Schulz, 2001; Torney-Purta, 2002). This chapter will use these data to address gaps in existing research on socialization in democracy especially the absence of a comprehensive set of variables in previous research (in particular multiple aspects of types of civic participation and engagement, moderating factors, and distinct aspects of the school or of organizational participation). This analysis begins by identifying four types of potential future adult participation and continues to investigate the following question in four of the countries that participated in the IEA Civic Education Study: Are specific types of experiences in school and in informal organizations related to specific types of participation, or is this process general, non-differentiated and implicit?

Modes of civic engagement among 14-year-olds in 28 countries Early research on political socialization employed a limited number of measures of conventional political participation related to what Janoski (1998) calls the ‘state sphere’. By the early 1990s it was becoming clear that there are multiple modes through which engaged citizenship can be expressed, although only a few previous studies attempted to make these distinctions empirically. The focus of some research can be traced to the disciplinary affiliation of the researchers. Many political scientists focus on voting or conventional activities. Seeking information during campaigns may be mentioned, but turning out individuals at the polls is usually seen as the most critical. Other political scientists focus on social capital and believe that organizational participation is key. Often, educators focus on willingness to participate in community betterment activities. Still another group of educators is focused on information or knowledge. Not only are there differences between disciplines, but there are also differences in the views that predominate in different countries. Many educators from the United States are convinced about the value of community service, for example. Finally, in some parts of the world the sine qua non of civic engagement is willingness to protest against injustice (Barnes, Kaase et al., 1979). Empirical data cannot provide answers to questions about the relative value to society of different types of participation, but can provide a basis for an informed debate. One distinction that is becoming accepted is between political engagement, usually meaning the activities conventionally associated with adult citizenship in relation to formal political institutions of the state,

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and civic engagement, which is a broader term including participation in activities to benefit the community without any necessary connection to political institutions. A few types of engagement include voting, voting after seeking information about candidates or issues, participating in discussion of political issues, affiliating with a political party or a wider range of participation (including both activities conventionally associated with adults who are engaged in politics and also what is called social movement participation). These activities also vary in the extent to which there is a potential for conflicting opinions (most substantial in protest and partisan activities, a little less likely for voting and least likely for volunteering in the local community, which usually consists of pro-social behaviour to benefit children, the elderly, or the poor not debates with local officials about remedying the causes of poverty). Even though multiple modes of participation are technically available to adolescents, the range of activities and levels of involvement accessible to them are somewhat limited. For example, adolescents may participate in an adult election campaign but are unlikely to hold decision-making positions. It is therefore important to analyze membership in organizations where adolescents can engage in leadership activities such as a student council or parliament. In some countries voluntary service organizations may also present these opportunities. The IEA Civic Education Study’s basic analysis found that many of these aspects of participation were related, but the differences between them were also worth examining (Torney-Purta, 2002). This chapter will focus on these multiple modes of citizen engagement, and a regression analyses will explore differential prediction of four types of engagement in four countries chosen from the 28 participating in the study. Before moving to this analysis of a limited set of countries, we will review data about ideals of citizenship in the full group of countries using questions about the norms 14-year-olds hold concerning the importance of various political activities for adults who are good citizens. Measures of students’ conceptualizations of norms for the good citizen in conventional political terms (voting, participating in political parties or discussions) and in terms of participation in social movement activities or civic activities (belonging to environmental groups or volunteering to benefit the community) were developed. It was clear that young people growing up in these democracies in the late 1990s believed that citizens should vote and obey the law. However, apart from those activities, they were more supportive of social movement activities than of conventional political activities such as political party

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membership or discussing issues (see Torney-Purta, Lehmann, Oswald, and Schulz, 2001). Ratings of the importance for adult citizens of voting, discussing political issues, and joining parties formed a measure of Conventional Citizenship. The countries where scores on this measure were above the international mean included about half the participating postCommunist countries (Bulgaria, Lithuania, Poland, Romania and the Slovak Republic), all of the countries in southern Europe (Cyprus, Greece, Italy, and Portugal), and the Western Hemisphere (Chile, Colombia and the United States). In contrast, respondents in several other post-Communist countries (Czech Republic, Estonia, Russian Federation, and Slovenia) as well as all the Northern European countries (Belgium [French-speaking], Denmark, England, Finland, Germany, Norway and Switzerland and also Australia) were below the international mean on the belief that it is important for adults to participate in conventional citizenship activities. In short, adolescents in some of the post-Communist countries ranked high while in others they ranked low in subscribing to the norms relating to political engagement as conventionally defined. As a group, however, adolescents in the countries from Southern Europe and the Western Hemisphere appeared to have relatively strong commitments to conventional citizenship, while those from Northern Europe and Australia believed these activities less important. For nuanced analysis contrasting types of participation, it is unmanageable to deal with the data from all twenty-eight countries. The four countries chosen for analysis in this chapter were Australia, England, Norway and the United States. These include the three Englishspeaking countries that participated and one Nordic country. These nations bear many similarities to each other. They all benefit from a generally high standard of living, a high level of adult literacy, a longstanding democratic government, and a high ranking on the UN Human Development Index. All have civil society organizations available for students to join, which was not the case in many of the postCommunist countries. These nations differ, however, in the extent to which the preparation of citizens was an explicit aim of the schools during the 1990s and in the degree of curricular centralization. In the United States, for example, the curriculum is decentralized, and civic preparation is a long-recognized aim of schools, especially in the social studies (Hahn, 1999). Many students at the eighth- and ninth-grade level have instruction in social studies at least three times a week (Baldi et al., 2001). Although the Nordic countries emphasize schooling as a

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contributor to democracy, the amount of time in the schedule for civic-related subjects is often relatively modest. There is often an explicit emphasis on students having opportunities to participating in decision-making and school governance. In England during the years leading up to and including the IEA testing, education for citizenship was a cross-curricular theme (Kerr, 1999). This has subsequently changed to make citizenship education a statutory entitlement for students (starting in 2002). Likewise, in Australia there has been a recent national debate followed by curricular reform in this area (beginning in the early 1990s but implemented after the IEA testing in 1999).

The school’s role as a framework for examining data from four countries Schools and teachers are a likely source for much of the meaningful knowledge of civic and political processes acquired by young people and for beliefs about how citizens should behave. This is a nuanced picture, however. The school is expected to provide content instruction about democracy, political history, voting, and government structures. Schools in most democratic countries are unlikely to provide information about candidates or parties and they are unlikely to try to organize activities protesting government actions. The strongest previous research on schools was Niemi and Junn’s (1998) reanalysis of the 1988 NAEP (National Assessment of Education Progress) civic data for twelfth graders in the United States. They concluded that taking civics classes made a difference, but also found that whether the students intended to continue schooling past upper secondary school was an extremely strong predictor. A recent review (Galston, 2001) also shows that within the United States civic knowledge relates to participation. The Phase 1 national cases studies of IEA indicated a variety of patterns in the offering of civic education content to 14-year-olds, sometimes in a separate course but quite frequently integrated into other courses, or sometimes without a coherent plan (Schwille and Amadeo, 2002). In IEA’s Phase 2 survey for teachers, most responded that civic education was most meaningful and effective when it was integrated into courses such as social studies or history. This position was very prominent in Australia, England, Norway, and the United States, where 86% or more of teachers held this view. The actual instructional methods reported by teachers across countries show an emphasis on transmitting civic and political knowledge.

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In the picture given by Norwegian teachers, this was accomplished using textbooks and worksheets. Although recitation and worksheets were prominent in England and Australia, textbooks were used less frequently and group work more frequently. In the United States, there are data from students who were asked about the instructional methods used in their classrooms. The U.S. national report (Baldi et al., 2001) indicates that reading from the textbook and filling out worksheets were the most frequent activities, with role playing, debates, discussions and more interactive lessons much less frequent according to students. One set of identical questions about what is taught (learned) in school was asked internationally to both students and teachers. Similar percentages of teachers and students within a given country agreed that students learned how to cooperate in groups with other students, to understand people who had different ideas, and to contribute to solving social problems in the community. In contrast, the proportion of teachers within each country who believed that students learned about voting in school tended to be quite a bit higher than the proportion of students in that country who believed they had learned about this topic. For example, although 90% of Norwegian teachers thought they were teaching about the importance of elections and voting, only 48% of students reported that they had learned about this topic. There are many aspects of schooling that were not fully explored prior to this study. Among them are the role of schools as model democracies and the influence of different emphases in the curriculum and modes of instruction. The context for studying schools in the analysis reported in this chapter also includes individual factors (political interest and trust) as well as the impact of parents who discuss issues with their children and thereby present models of political activity or inactivity.

Four types of civic engagement In order to explore these issues, four different aspects of expected adult participation were chosen for this analysis: one distinctly related to political institutions and likely to be encouraged by schools (voting after getting information about candidates), one distinctly political and conflictual but not likely to be discussed in school (joining a political party), one with civic rather than political dimensions and likely to be encouraged by schools in some countries (volunteering time to help the community) and one with considerable conflict potential and not

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likely to be encouraged in schools in most countries (participating in a non-violent protest march). To give perspective, the proportion of these 14-year-old respondents saying that they planned to vote in national elections was about 80% across countries. In most (but not all) countries, this figure is higher than the proportion of the youngest members of the electorate who actually have been voting in recent years. In contrast, only about 20% of the students expected to join a political party, with slightly more expecting to protest and considerable variability across countries in the likelihood of volunteering. In summary, the following four variables were chosen as predicted (criterion) variables for the regression analyses, each asking about the likelihood of engaging in the activity as an adult: • Voting in national elections and getting information about candidates before voting • Joining a political party • Volunteering in the community • Participating in a non-violent protest march

School-related and individual correlates of four types of civic participation within four countries After considering the variety of school-related items and scales in the IEA instrument, the following predictor variables were chosen to explore links between aspects of school and the likelihood of electoral, partisan, volunteer and protest participation within these four countries. First, political information has been found in previous studies to be a predictor of participation (for example, Delli Carpini and Keeter, 1996 and Milner, 2002). Therefore, civic content knowledge and interpretive skills – a scale based on 38 items concentrating on the domains of democracy and citizenship based on Item Response Theory (therefore called an IRT scale) was selected. The four countries used in this analysis all had scores either at or above the international mean for 28 countries on the total civic knowledge measure. Second, an important aspect of school culture is whether respondents believe that students in their school can get together to effect change or solve problems. School climate in this study deals mainly with students’ perception of the efficacy of participating with other students in solving school problems or joining together in a school council that debates and takes action on important issues. This follows

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the lead of Yeich and Levine, 1994, and Bandura, 2001, in their focus on collective efficacy. This IRT scale was called ‘Confidence in Participation at School’ and could also be considered a school efficacy measure. The four countries had scores at or just above the international mean on this scale. Third, an important aspect of culture within the classroom is whether students perceive that they are encouraged to engage in discussion in their classrooms and whether the teacher and other students respect their opinions (Hahn, 1998). An open classroom climate measure, including the extent to which students perceived that they can disagree with each other and with the teacher and that controversial issues can be considered, was a predictor of both knowledge and participation in the earlier IEA study (Torney, Oppenheim, and Farnen, 1975). Highly similar items were included in the 1999 study. The IRT scale was called ‘Open Classroom Climate for Discussion,’ and all four countries had scores at or above the international mean although, as with all of these variables, there were variations within countries and schools. Fourth, in the absence of teachers’ reports on ‘opportunity to learn’ (such as those included in some other IEA studies), students were asked how much they agreed that in school they had ‘learned about the importance of elections and voting’ and about ‘how to contribute to solving problems in the community’. The first item was used as a predictor for likelihood of informed voting and for likelihood of joining a party; the second item was used as a predictor for ‘likelihood of volunteering in the community’ and ‘likelihood of participating in a nonviolent protest march’. The following scores related to family and individual factors were also included as predictors. First, discussion with parents has been found in research to be related to civic engagement (Burns, Schlozman and Verba, 2001; Keeter, Zukin, Andolina and Jenkins, 2002). Two questions about the frequency of discussion of national and international issues (respectively) were the only questions about home political atmosphere in the instrument (due to privacy restrictions in countries such as Germany and the United States). These items were averaged to produce a ‘Discussion with Parents’ variable. Second, a single item asking the respondents to rate their political interest was included. Third, there has been considerable debate about the role of trust in government in stimulating (or constraining) political engagement (Norris, 1999). Therefore, IRT-scaled items relating to trust in government-related institutions, very similar to those in adult

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instruments, were used in the IEA instrument and selected for this analysis. Young people in these stable/durable democracies tended to have higher levels of trust than those in countries where democracy is recent (or has been frequently disrupted), replicating results in a number of adult studies (Inglehart, 1997). The research on political socialization has shown that formal aspects of schooling and individual factors are important, but there has also been considerable recent interest in participation in voluntary organizations.

Organizational-participation correlates of four types of civic participation within four countries It is frequently argued that participation in voluntary organizations (both in and outside school) is valuable for individuals and for the creation of social capital in the societies in which they live. Although these issues receive special impetus from the work of Putnam and his colleagues in Italy (1993) and by Putnam in the United States (2000), a more wide ranging set of discussions may be found in van Deth, Maraffi, Newton, and Whiteley (1999) and Dekker and Uslander (2001). Burns, Schlozman, and Verba (2001) also make an argument for participation in school activities serving a function in reducing the gap in adult participation between men and women because these activities appear to enhance civic skills (especially functioning in a group). An important issue for analysis is the extent to which pre-adult organizational participation (either extracurricularly in school or outside of school) is important (Yates and Youniss, 1998). Second is the question whether this is likely to be a specific effect or a general one. Is participating in a sports team or an art or science club likely to have the same effect as participating in an organization with more explicit political dimensions? This analysis explores the influence of young people’s organizational membership on four types of future participation in the context of various general and specific school and organizational factors. In the analysis reported in this chapter, three types of organizational participation were entered as predictors. First, a different specific organizational participation item was chosen as a predictor for each of the four criterion (predicted) variables. For likelihood of informed voting, whether the student reported belonging to a school council/parliament was the specific organizational measure used. For likelihood of joining a political party, whether the student reported belong to a politically

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affiliated youth organization was used. For likelihood of volunteering, whether the student reported belonging to a group conducting voluntary activities to help the community was used. For likelihood of marching in a non-violent protest, whether the student reported belonging to an environment organization was used. All came from a measure asking students to check to which of 15 organizations they belonged. Second, participation in a religious organization was one item from this measure and was used separately as a predictor. Third, a general organizational participation measure consisted of a sum of answers to the 10 questions regarding organizations other than the five organizations mentioned in the previous paragraphs.

Results concerning the correlates of four types of civic engagement We now look at the predictors of the four different aspects of participation within Australia, England, Norway and the United States (four types of participation in each of four countries, requiring sixteen regression analyses). The patterns of statistically significant predictors in these four countries were very similar (notations are made in the text when an effect was significant in one or two countries and not in the others, however statistical comparisons across regressions were not made). Within each paragraph, the predictors are listed from most to least important. The likelihood of informed voting is influenced by all aspects of the school included in this analysis: civic knowledge (much of which may be acquired through education), the confidence students gain about their ability to participate, and the emphasis on elections and voting implemented as part of the curriculum. Discussion with parents and open classroom climate are also important. General organizational participation makes a small contribution, while participation specifically in a school parliament/council is positive but relatively weak. Participation in a religious organization makes a small positive contribution only in the United States. Trust in government-related institutions and political interest make moderate significant contributions. In summary, school-related factors play an important role in promoting students’ stated willingness to vote in an informed way. The predictors of future partisanship are somewhat different. Bear in mind that only about 20% of students think it is even moderately likely that they will join a party (while several times that many expect to vote). There was also considerably more variability between coun-

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tries in the view of political parties (which was quite negative in most) than in the view of voting (which was generally positive across countries). The only really strong correlate of expected party membership is current political interest. Discussion with parents is important in predicting likelihood of party affiliation in some countries, along with trust in government-related institutions. The civic knowledge score has very minor predictive power (and is actually negative in Australia). Learning about voting and elections at schools has a modest influence in the United States and England, but the influence is much smaller in Norway and not statistically significant in Australia. The number of organizations of all kinds to which the student belongs and also specifically politically partisan youth organizations are moderately important in Norway and Australia. Students who are already interested in politics at age fourteen and who have already become part of an affiliated organization (or organizations in general) are the ones likely to think of themselves as future party members. In summary, expected party membership appears to be influenced primarily by out of school factors, political interest and in some countries the availability of party-related organizations designed to appeal to young people. The intent to volunteer time is somewhat more prevalent but also less predictable (using these variables) than either informed voting or political party membership. Here again, learning in school, in this case about community problems that might be addressed by volunteering, impacts the perceived likelihood of involvement as an adult volunteer across countries. Specific current experience with an organization giving service to the community as well as general confidence in the efficacy of getting together to take action in groups that are close to them (e.g., with other students in their schools) are both important. Discussions with parents also play a role, as do opportunities to participate in classroom discussion and in organizations generally. There is little evidence that volunteering has much connection to political issues or interests. Notably, neither trust in government nor expressed interest in politics have much relationship to participation through volunteering. In summary, some aspects of schooling (though not political knowledge per se) and out-of-school community experiences are important in promoting willingness to be an adult volunteer. The variables we have included from school, home, and organizations do not correlate very highly with the likelihood of participating in non-violent protests. This may be because such participation is not a clearly developed predisposition in 14-year-olds. Discussion with parents is the variable included in this analysis with the strongest positive

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impact on willingness to participate in non-violent protests as an adult. Schools do not appear to be doing much to orient students toward protest activity in these four countries, although learning about problems in the community and confidence in school participation have some influence. In Australia, students who are less trusting of government-related institutions are more likely to think of themselves as potential protestors, as we might expect. This relationship is not significant in the other countries. In summary, among 14-year-olds the intent to be an informed voter seems primarily to be a product of school curricular emphasis and civic knowledge. Intent to become a strong partisan appears to be primarily the product of out-of-school experience and general interest in the topics on which parties take positions. Intent to volunteer time in order to help people in the community seems to have roots both outside and inside the school (at least to the extent that students get a sense of efficacy from activities there and study community problems). There is modest support for the value of specific organizational participation, strongest for organizations that conduct voluntary activities in the community and least for school councils or parliaments. Religious organizations seem to vary considerably across countries in their impact. It may be that students see obvious connections between volunteer activities as adolescents and adult volunteering, while such connections between participation in a school council and voting in national elections may not be as obvious. General organizational participation has some influence (though further analysis will be undertaken on this issue taking into account the different structures and functions of youth organizations in different countries). Likewise, trust in government was a significant but modest positive predictor of three types of engagement (strongest for informed voting), a relationship that also needs further exploration.

Reflections Between-country and within-country patterns indicate multiple modes of engaged citizenship resulting from the political socialization process inside and outside school. By teaching knowledge, emphasizing civic topics in the curriculum and imparting beliefs in the importance of various adult activities and by ensuring a participatory culture, schools can make a difference in preparing students for citizenship. A role for

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organizations, both in general and those specifically related to political and voluntary activities, is also indicated. These operate within overlapping sets of peer and community cultures. That the political socialization process takes place both inside and outside schools is consistent with the sociocultural approach. As Wenger (1998) has noted, the notion of ‘legitimate peripheral participation’ suggests that students who participate in organizations that are similar to adult organizations may develop nascent skills to join an adult community of civic and political practice. Adolescents may, however, need explicit guidance in ways to connect current organizational participation with future adult activity, especially in the political realm. Whether one uses the term culture, ethos, atmosphere, environment or climate as a way of describing schools or classrooms, it is clear that this has become an important focus of researchers and those interested in school reform (Gordon, Holland, and Lahelma, 2000a; Prosser, 1999; Reynolds et al., 2002). The analysis reported here confirms its importance at both the school and classroom levels. This matches the views of many educators of the importance of a classroom process that emphasizes opportunities for active participation in discussion in an open and respectful climate, and the democratic climate of the school as a whole, usually emphasizing students holding power over decisions within the school structure (see an extensive discussion of these issues in Torney-Purta, Hahn, and Amadeo, 2001). As Freiberg and Stein (1999) speculate, ‘climate is a real factor in the lives of learners and… it is measurable, malleable and material to those who work in schools’ (p. 17). How schools’ structures, teachers’ pedagogies or communities’ understandings of education would have to change in order to achieve an atmosphere conducive to participation is an important issue for further investigation. Future research on citizenship and political education should also take seriously the differences in the domains of citizenship action delineated by Janoski (1998). In this chapter we have highlighted the state domain (voting), the intersection between the state and public domains (political parties), the public domain (protest) and the intersection between the public and private domains (volunteering). Different patterns of factors in schools, families and organizations relate to each of these different activities, but, perhaps surprisingly, these patterns are quite similar in the four countries studied. This suggests the value of future common action to implement and evaluate political education programs internationally.

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Notes 1. The following countries had chapters in the case study book: Australia, Belgium (French), Bulgaria, Canada, Colombia, Cyprus, Czech Republic, England, Finland, Germany, Greece, Hong Kong (SAR), Hungary, Israel, Italy, Lithuania, the Netherlands, Poland, Portugal, Romania, the Russian Federation, Slovenia, Switzerland, and the United States. 2. The age of fourteen was selected because that was the last year of compulsory school in some countries wishing to participate.

Acknowledgements Parts of this chapter were presented at the American Political Science Association in Boston, Massachusetts (August 2002) and at a conference on political socialization held at McGill University (June 2002). Major support for Phase 1 of the IEA Study came from the Pew Charitable Trusts. Major support for Phase 2 of the IEA Study came from the DFG (German Science Foundation) to the Humboldt University of Berlin and from the William T. Grant Foundation to the University of Maryland. A small grant from CIRCLE (the Center for Information and Research on Civic Learning and Engagement) at the School of Public Affairs at the University of Maryland was instrumental in some of the analysis reported. Assistance from Jo-Ann Amadeo and Rainer Lehmann in conducting the research and analysis is gratefully acknowledged, as well as assistance in preparing the manuscript from Susan Kling.

4 Kaupapa Maori Education in New Zealand Elizabeth Rata

In the past two decades an indigenous form of education, from early childhood to tertiary, known as kaupapa Maori, has been developed in New Zealand. It is an approach that has been celebrated internationally as an innovative and emancipatory response to Maori educational underachievement and as an important contribution to indigenous self-determination. The explanation and justification for kaupapa Maori education that is codified in a body of writing referred to as kaupapa Maori theory relies substantially on the writings of Graham Hingangaroa Smith (1995, 1996, 1997) and Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1994, 1995, 1996, 1999). This explanatory writing has become the orthodox academic approach for the teaching of Maori issues in New Zealand social science programmes and provides the academic justification and the discourse for the development of a kaupapa Maori pedagogy and a specific indigenous research approach. My purpose in this chapter is to provide a critique of the ideas of kaupapa Maori education by explaining its emergence and strength within the local – global dialectic of the anti-modernism that characterized late capitalism. According to kaupapa Maori theory, the Maori revival of the past three decades is an organic response emerging from the colonial circumstances of Maori impoverishment and dispossession in order to revive traditional ‘more humane’ communities. The impoverished material circumstances and the putative disturbed psychological states or ‘post-colonial trauma’ experienced by many Maori are considered to be the consequences of colonization. Accordingly, the rejection of this colonial inheritance is, therefore, the cause of the revival. Kaupapa Maori theory urges Maori to replace the Western culture of the Pakeha or European system with traditional Maori ways of thinking and being in the world. The writings of Maori educationists, such as Pita Sharples 59

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(1994), Graham Smith and Linda Smith (Smith, G. H. and Smith, L. T. 1995, 1996; L. T. Smith, 1999), Russell Bishop (1996), Kathy Irwin (1990), Kuni Jenkins and Tania Ka’ai (1994), Tuakana Nepe (1991), Sidney Mead (1997), Leonie Pihama (1997) and others have been highly influential in promoting this approach, particularly in the disciplines of education, cultural studies, anthropology and sociology. Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s (1999: 175) writing exemplifies the construction of a Western – indigenous duality that permeates kaupapa Maori ideas. She argues that kaupapa Maori theory is based upon ‘a strong belief held by many Maori people that there is a uniquely “Maori” way of looking at the world and learning. The different ways in which knowledge is perceived by indigenous and non-indigenous is complicated further by the intersection with imperial power. The colonization of Maori culture has threatened the maintenance of that knowledge and the transmission of knowledge that is “exclusively” or particularly Maori. “Traditional” world views provide an historical example of the complexity of Maori beliefs and understandings of the world. They also provide ample examples of Maori efforts to seek knowledge, to organize it and to learn from it. It might be said that this historical knowledge is irrelevant in a contemporary context. But from a Maori perspective, it is only as irrelevant as the thoughts of Western philosophers such as Plato or St Augustine, whose ideas have been of such central importance to Western epistemology. Maori knowledge represents the body of knowledge which, in today’s society, can be extended, alongside that of existing Western knowledge’. In contrast, I argue that, rather than an organic response to Western knowledge, kaupapa Maori is the academic discourse of a neotraditionalist ideology that is best understood as a localized response to fundamental changes in late capitalism (Rata, 2003). This is the ‘ideological traditionalism’ that Habermas refers to as ‘self-conscious traditionalism’. It ‘is itself a thoroughly modern movement of renewal’ and can be distinguished from ‘unself-conscious traditionalism, which is a force tending to reproduce, more or less faithfully, whatever exists’ (Barry, 2001: 259). Examples of other localized responses to globalization throughout the world are found in various forms of ethnic revivalism, religious fundamentalism, new age movements and primitivism. This integral link between local movements and global economic forces has been identified by a number of writers. Turton (1997: 26) refers to globalization ‘as a precondition of localization’ (italics in the original) while Jonathan Friedman (1994: 169) refers to ‘a strong functional relation

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between changes in the flows of and accumulation of capital in the world arena and changes in identity construction and cultural production’ that characterize such revivalism. The tendency to neotraditionalism is a response to the psychological crisis of modernity created by the fundamental changes of global accumulation. Friedman (1994: 243) describes the ‘security and even salvation provided by traditionalist identity in times of crisis. It is fixed and ascribed, provides a medium for engagement in a larger collectivity, and provides a set of standards, values and rules for living. In such periods, traditionalism is expressed in the desire for roots, the ethnification of the world, the rise of the fourth world, the return to religion and stable values’. Elsewhere (Rata, 2003), I have argued that the ‘New Middle Age’ described by Alain Minc as an ‘age of tribalism in which individualism is declining and being replaced by increasingly strong collective pressures’ (quoted in Friedman, 1994: vii) maintains the unequal capitalist relations of production that characterize the modern period and recreates the unequal and reactionary social and political relations of the pre-modern period. This process actually doubles the forces for inequality. Despite the universal emancipatory ideals of the Enlightenment and its political expression in liberal democratic politics over a period of several centuries, support for pre-modern reactionary beliefs and politics has remained strong. Counter-Enlightenment forces have taken a variety of forms; in romantic nationalisms, and in religious and ethnic fundamentalisms. The breakdown of the liberal democratic settlement in the late 1960s and early 1970s has fuelled those CounterEnlightenment forces into contemporary forms of neotraditionalisms and fundamentalisms. Despite the rejection by kaupapa Maori adherents of the ‘Eurocentric approach to knowledge, the influence of the Counter-Enlightenment on kaupapa Maori beliefs is substantial and can be traced from such thinkers as Joseph de Maistre [referred to by Barry (2000: 265), as ‘the standard Counter-Enlightenment line’] to contemporary post-modern writers. Peter Munz (1992: 334), supports the link between de Maistre’s views and postmodernism’s commitment to cultural difference with his claim that de Maistre ‘inaugurated the postmodern frame of mind by insisting that all people are different, cannot communicate with each other, and that there can be no overarching metanarrative to explain these differences’. In contrast to the Counter-Enlightenment position, Touraine (1995: 32) reminds us of what modernity rejected – and, more importantly,

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the dangers in forgetting the reasons for the overthrow of tradition. ‘Today’s advanced industrial societies are far removed from this initial liberation [to escape political and cultural controls …, to proclaim their right to satisfy their needs, to criticize princes and priests and to defend their own ideas and preferences], and feel trapped by their products rather than by traditional privations, but they are also in danger of being drawn to the dream of a closed communitarianisn society which is protected from change. A critique of the modernist ideology must not lead to the return of what it destroyed’. Significantly (and with echoes of Minc’s ‘New Middle Age’), Touraine (1995: 33) warns that ‘a critique of modernity must not stray into irrationalism and traditionalism’. The following examples show how the anti-modernism of kaupapa Maori may well lead to the ‘closed communitarian society’ that Touraine warns against. The first example is from a kaupapa Maori teacher education science course. It demonstrates the extent to which kaupapa Maori ‘closed’ beliefs or mythologies have, in a contemporary New Zealand educational curriculum, replaced modern scientific beliefs, that is, beliefs that are rational knowledge, because they are subject to critical scrutiny and change. ‘Within this content area Kaupapa Maori knowledge is studied in depth and related to ancient manuscripts, ancient stories and ancient song. Further the “lore” of Tangaroa (the god of the sea – author’s note) is studied, its rules of conservation, its ancient rituals and ancient customs. Then would follow a study of the children of Tangaroa, their habitat, and distinctively Maori classifications and knowledge of their respective features and peculiarities. After acquiring content knowledge the student educator would be required to learn and perform the necessary skills studied. For example for this Tangaroa paper the trainee is required to lead … appropriate karakia (prayers) and rituals of thanksgiving to pronounce to Tangaroa. They must also know how to fish, spear eels, dive and collect seafood. The last area … specifically promotes Kaupapa Maori attitudes and values. Essentially it is in this area that Kaupapa Maori pedagogical practices are implemented. Regarding assessment procedures very stringent kaupapa Maori codes of discipline, cooperation and reciprocal support would be advanced.’ (Nepe, 1991: 22). A second example of the anti-modernist, ‘closed’ knowledge system of kaupapa Maori is provided by an incident that occurred during an exhibition of aspects of Moriori history at Te Papa, the National Museum of New Zealand in Wellington. (Moriori are the indigenous people of the Chatham Islands situated to the west of New Zealand).

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The protests of four professors of history against the omission of the genocide and cannibalism of Moriori in 1835 by invading Maori was rejected by the museum’s director who claimed that the portrayal was ‘justified’ in terms of the museum’s ‘commitment to the recognition of different knowledge bases’ (Munz, 2000: 14). Rejecting the kaupapa or matauranga Maori approach (one supported by the museum’s director) that ‘what scholars call “the truth” is simply yet another myth nursed in a culture we call “western”’, Munz (2000: 14) argues that such a cultural relativist position ‘is especially deplorable because it obscures the name of the entire process of modernization, which has consisted in the gradual emancipation from myth and myth-based social organization, that is, consisted of the substitution of knowledge for myth’. A third example concerns kaupapa Maori research and the belief that research is tied to the cultural imperative of group solidarity. Cram (2001: 39) demonstrates this aspect of the anti-modernist and antidemocratic nature of kaupapa Maori beliefs. ‘(p)art of matauranga Maori (Maori knowledge – author’s note) is also accepting that there will be knowledge that is off-limits. This will inevitably bring Maori research into conflict with the Western view that set no limits on what can be researched and/or explored’. Not only is Maori knowledge unavailable for critical scrutiny but even its availability in an uncritical form is limited to certain individuals in a hierarchical social structure (Jahnke and Taiapa, 1999). Of even greater concern for the modernist view of open and available knowledge as a crucial democratizing force is the comment that ‘(o)ne growing opinion is that non-Maori cannot conduct Kaupapa Maori research but non-Maori researchers can support a Maori research kaupapa’ (Cram, 2001: 38). Research about Maori must now be for Maori, and if possible, by Maori. ‘Kaupapa Maori research is research by Maori, for Maori and with Maori … it comes from tangata whenua, hapu and iwi.’ (L. T. Smith, 1994: 1–2) (people of the land, sub-tribe and tribe – author’s note). Smith (G. Smith quoted in L. T. Smith, 1994: 8) has advocated three types of models applicable in Maori research, ‘a Tiaki (mentor model) where authoritative Maori mentor a researcher; a whangai model where researchers are adopted by a whanau or community and a powersharing model where the community takes greater charge over the research from its conception to its outcomes’. The researcher is required to be politically involved in the group’s project, and politically committed to the group’s purposes (whose motives are considered to be, by definition, the motives of an oppressed group, both emancipatory and unquestionable). ‘Within Kaupapa Maori

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theory, the knowledge managers must be whanau, hapu, iwi (extended family, sub-tribe and tribe – author’s note). Maori people must have control over knowledge and culture transmitted, pedagogy, language of transmission and methodologies. It is a reclaiming of Maori culturallypreferred notions of knowledge control as was the case prior to colonization’. Kaupapa Maori theory is not solely an academic exercise but is about a relationship of action and practice.’ (Johnson, 1997: 88).

Anti-Western or anti-modern? The anti-Western discourse demonstrated in these examples is a recurring feature of kaupapa Maori research discourse. According to Jenkins and Ka’ai (1994: 167) kaupapa Maori ‘is an emancipatory’ pedagogy ‘because it liberates Maori from being assimilated or colonized into Western ways’. The distinct methods of kaupapa Maori knowledge are a rejection by Maori of Eurocentric interpretations of Maori knowledge and world views. However, this collapse of the concept of modernity into that of Western culture is a fundamental conceptual error. Although modernity emerged in the West and Western culture was the first to be colonized by the modernization process, modernity is not the same as Western culture. The conditions for the appearance of modernity are based in large-scale economic expansion and in the dissolution of kinship based societies. Jonathan Friedman (1994) has found that the link between the economic conditions of early capitalism (the period of land dispossession, proletarianization and economic expansion described so thoroughly by Marx (1867, 1976) and the characteristics of modernity: individualism, the decline of kinshipbased organization, ‘the difference between the private self and social roles’ (Friedman, 1994: 26) were present to a greater or lesser extent in fifth and fourth century Greece, during various periods in China and medieval India and among the Arab empire of the Middle Ages. He (1994: 229) refers to these as ‘clear examples of a systemic relation between commercial empire building and the secular individualizing processes common to the formation of modernities’. The most pervasive and long-lasting period of modernity is that which arose in the West in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The conditions for this emergence were established by the detribalization which accompanied the Roman colonization of France, Britain and Germany in the first centuries A.D. and the subsequent decolonization of the fourth and fifth centuries. Following Europe’s own colonization of itself, the conditions which led to modernity were transplanted

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throughout the world by external colonization in subsequent centuries. Marx (1867, 1976: 891) provides a particularly vivid account of the severity and cruelty of Britain’s internal colonization in his description of the dispossession of Scottish tenant farmers from huge tracts of land by the Duchess of Sutherland. The destruction of indigenous tribal organization during the period of the West’s colonization and decolonization is the process which established the conditions for modernity. ‘The general law (is) that colonization is beneficial and a precondition for growth, not because of the positive advantages it bestows but because of the corrosive effects it has on traditions’. Munz (1991: 262). ‘When the decolonization of Europe in the fourth and fifth century took place, there were a great many options, though not an unlimited number, for the next step. By the time we get to the Enlightenment, there were very few options and the next step, the move towards industrialization and modernity, had become well-nigh predictable. Looking back the emergence of modernity is linked to the Enlightenment and the Enlightenment, distantly, to the decolonisation of Europe’ (Munz, 1991: 270). The distinction between modernity and traditional Western (or any other traditional culture for that matter) is fundamental a distinction between kinship and individualized societies. ‘The Roman colonisation of France, England and Germany proved, as all colonisation always have done, erosive of tribal life. (Munz, 1991: 268). Modernity has been as corrosive of Western culture as of any other culture. Yet the tendency of kaupapa Maori writers to equate one with the other is gives the mistaken impression that modernity is one of many cultural possibilities rather than a universalizing force that challenges the oppression and inequalities of traditional cultures. The actual break between Western culture and modernity was the period of the Enlightenment. ‘Enlightenment is man’s release from his self-incurred tutelage. Tutelage is man’s inability to make use of his understanding without direction from another. Self-incurred is this tutelage when its cause lies not in lack of reason but in lack of resolution and courage to use it without direction from another. Sapere aude! “have courage to use your own reason!” – that is the motto of enlightenment. (Footnote in the original Sapere aude – “dare to be wise” [Horace Ars poetica]. This was the motto adopted by the Society of the Friends of truth, and important circle in the German Enlightenment.)’ (Kant, 1784, 1990: 83). The open approach to knowledge celebrated by Kant and other Enlightenment thinkers is one of the crucial differences between

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modernity and traditionalism. In the liberal-democratic politics of modernity, access to knowledge and the right of all researchers to subject knowledge to critical scrutiny is a fundamental human right. Indeed, the ideal of open and critical inquiry and debate is central to New Zealand’s expansion of tertiary education and to the concept of a ‘knowledge wave’ which is available to all citizens. In conflict with this modernist ideal however, is the neotraditionalist concept of knowledge as the ‘social cement’ of an enclosed community defined by kinship and ethnicity. Friedman (1994: 228) theorises the emergence of the three types of identity spaces as responses to the insecurity of a changing world: traditionalism, post-modernism, and primitivism. My interest here is in the first of these three identity spaces, ‘traditionalism’ which Friedman describes as ‘by far the most popular alternative since it offers roots and fixed identities to those who cannot abide failure in a modernism where moving to new heights is the only ontological security.’ Of particular interest is the success of kaupapa Maori adherents in campaigning for support for a traditionalist ‘identity space’ in contemporary New Zealand despite the fundamental ontological difference between neotraditionalism and modernity. This success is demonstrated by the rapid acceptance of kaupapa Maori as the accepted, and even preferred, preferred pedagogy for Maori students by those in the mainstream New Zealand education system.

Constructing an ethnic boundary The methods used to create kaupapa Maori as the ideology of neotraditional revivalism include the creation of closed ethnic boundaries, the development of a neotraditionalist discourse and its academic justification in kaupapa Maori theory, the control of research, and the rejection of critical scrutiny of that research. Given the fundamental differences between neotraditionalism and modernity and the closed and hierarchical nature of tribal revivalism how can the rapid acceptance of kaupapa Maori within such bastions of modernity such as the academy be explained? The explanation provided by Turton (1997: 11) for the ‘unexpected resilience of ethnic identity, as an idiom for the pursuit of political and economic interests’ in one supported by my research (Rata, 2000) into the emergence of neotribal capitalism. Elsewhere I have argued that this localized form of capitalism originated in the pan-Maori revivalism that was, in turn, a response to the 1970s’ contraction of the global

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economy. A range of research studies demonstrated the ways in which the Maori revival and the subsequent retribalization were responses to larger economic forces. The studies included an extended Maori family’s revival and retribalization and its establishment of a marine farm on tribal lands, the establishment of the kaupapa Maori education movement, the establishment of the national tribal fisheries, and the revival of a tribe. Neotraditionalism is the ideology of the emergent neotribal capitalism, an ideology that represents the exploitative class nature of the new tribes as revived communal social relations. Glazer and Moyihan (1979) (quoted in Turton, 1997: 33) have explained the resilience of localized ethnicity and its ability to mobilize ‘groups around common material interests precisely because of its nonmaterial, that is, symbolic, content, which masks or “mystifies” those interests for the group members themselves. In the words of Daniel Bell (1975: 38) “Ethnicity has become more salient [than class] because it can combine an interest with an affective tie”.’ The symbolic and affective functions are vividly demonstrated in kaupapa Maori pedagogy. Advice from a teacher (Cormack, 1997: 165) urges others to follow the communitarian approach of kaupapa Maori and ‘establish a cohesive whole’ by ‘planning lessons and activities that make the class work together as a unit, a cohesive whole. The aim is to create an esprit de corps, a corporate spirit’. This type of class will readily band together against any perceived threat from outside (my italics). The aim is to get the class to function as a whole, as a unit or, in business terms, as an organization or corporate body; in Maori terms as a waka (canoe) or iwi (tribal) unit. Maori children generally work best as individuals when they know that they are part of a group which in turn is part of a larger group, ‘a secure hapu (sub-tribe) and iwi (tribe) base in the classroom’. The use of ethnicity as a boundary marker to include those who are linked to the group (particularly through biology) and to exclude others is reinforced by those ‘political leaders and intellectuals who make the primordial (that is the symbolic, non-material) claim credible’ by ‘construct(ing) a plausible history for the group – plausible because it is based upon the re-ordering and selective interpretation of actual historical events’. Turton (1997: 12 with reference to Hobsbawm, 1992) discusses the ways in which a ‘historical narrative is linked to legitimate ethnic claims and then to separatist politics. The result is what has occurred in Europe since the late nineteenth century’. I would argue that this process of ethnic boundary marking is now occurring at a remarkedly rapid pace in New Zealand. Kaupapa Maori is the academic discourse of this neotraditionalist ideology.

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Despite claiming links with the emancipatory goals of critical theory (Pihama, 1997), kaupapa Maori writers, looking backwards for salvation find support in the anti-universalism and intellectual relativity of postmodernity. In The Condition of Postmodernity, Lyotard (1984: xxiv) makes the statement that has become synonymous with postmodernism. ‘Postmodernism rejects the idea of objective truth in favour of local versions, the metanarrative in favour of local versions’. ‘Simplifying to the extreme, I define postmodern as incredulity towards metanarratives’ (1984: 60). In a further statement reminiscent of CounterEnlightenment romanticism, he claims that ‘(w)e no longer have recourse to the grand narratives – we can resort neither to … the emancipation of humanity as a validation for postmodern scientific discourse. But … the little narrative (petit recit) remains the quintessential form of imaginative invention …’ The rejection of ‘the Enlightenment narrative … in which the hero of knowledge works toward a good ethico-political end – universal peace’ (Lyotard, 1984: xxiv) has been extremely influential in postcolonial theory (as one derivative of postmodernism) and supportive of the neotraditionalist political ideology of the kaupapa Maori approach. Lyotard justifies that legitimation for local stories. ‘That is what the postmodern world is all about. Most people have lost the nostalgia for the lost narrative. It in no way follows that they are reduced to barbarity. What saves them from it is their knowledge that legitimation can only spring from their own linguistic practice and communicational interaction’ (1984: 41). Foucault’s (2001: 71) concept of ‘genealogy’ as ‘the union of erudite knowledge and local memories which allow us to establish a historical knowledge of struggles and to make use of this knowledge tactically today’ have been used to justify the reduction of all knowledge to political manoeuvring. In this view, knowledge is reduced to knowledge-power, one of capitalism’s main productive forces, to be understood in terms of who benefits from the ownership and control of knowledge. With this deeply pessimistic approach, knowledge is stripped of its emancipatory Enlightenment purpose (Kant, 1784). Foucault (2001: 71) was clear that the knowledge of the Enlightenment, the scientific method of doubt and reason in its links with the institutions of knowledge was the enemy. It was against the metanarratives and the institutions of modernist concepts that ‘genealogy must wage its struggle’. Such romanticization of the local, such moral nihilism, and such pessimism are profoundly anti-intellectual. And yet postmodernists such as Foucault have been hugely influential in

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New Zealand educational studies, particularly in the academic support for kaupapa Maori education. Foucault’s romanticization of the local carries with it the naïve implication that the local popular knowledge is without its power elites. Arguing (2001: 72) that ‘(g)enealogy … is based on a reactivation of local knowledges … in opposition to the scientific hierarchization of knowledges and the effects intrinsic to their power’, Foucault denies the vested interests of local power elites and the function of local knowledge as ‘social cement for a closed society (Munz, 1999)’. In contrast to the romanticization of local elites as leaders of self-determination movements, Friedman (1994) identifies the anti-modernist objectives of intellectual leaders of such movements as kaupapa Maori despite their appeals to modernism’s emancipatory rhetoric. The ‘revivalist’ movements (whether ethnic, religious or traditional) are led by ‘those Western-educated third world scholars who today, after years of engagement in modernity, argue for a re-establishment of other forms of knowledge production and rules of discourse’ Friedman (1994: 122). The anthropologist, David Turton (1997: 37) acknowledges the role played by scholars in creating ideologies. ‘Whether we like it or not, our disciplines – especially, perhaps, history and anthropology provide what Hobsbawm calls the “raw material” of nationalist and ethnic ideologies’. In the New Zealand case, I would add education to the list of disciplines that are contemporary political resources for anti-modernist ideologies. Ethnic revivalism is the ‘assertion of political and economic selfinterest’ (Turton, 1997: 28). Although New Zealand has not (yet) experienced ethnic violence on the horrendous scale that has occurred in other parts of the world, it is familiar with the techniques described by Gallagher (1997: 47–75) that were used by Serbian and Croatian political and intellectual elites to whip up ethnic hatred and violence. These techniques include the assertion of inalienable historical rights, the cultivation of a persecution complex by reminding people of past wrongs committed by ethnic opponents and an insistence that guilt for past wrongs is both hereditary and collective. Indeed, Turton’s (1997: 37) assertion that ‘ethnicity is unlikely to become a lethal force in human affairs except through the deliberate calculation of political elites’ sounds a warning for New Zealand which requires public discussion. The creation of an essentialist ethnic boundary between Maori and Pakeha has provided the conditions for the emergence of a privileged tribal elite. The maintenance of that boundary through the promotion of neotraditionalist ideology and the silencing of critical scrutiny is in

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the interests of this elite. In New Zealand (on a much smaller and nonviolent scale), the practices of silencing critical scrutiny are supported by a culture of political correctness or intellectual dogmatism. Attacks are made on the motives and ethnicity of the critic rather than in free and open debate about the actual issue. For example: the chairman of the Waitangi Fisheries Commission, Shane Jones, in rejecting the right of a Pakeha lawyer to criticize the tribal fisheries allocation process, commented, ‘If a Pakeha QC wants to embroil themselves (sic) in Maori politics of a parliamentary nature, then that individual needs to get a blood transfusion. He needs to know his place’. (Young, 2000). The difference between kaupapa Maori and modernist thought is much more than a difference of intellectual opinion. It is a difference that has profound implications for the democratic institutions that were established as a consequence of the Enlightenment commitment to critical inquiry and the subsequent emergence of the liberal democratic political order. The basic tenets of liberalism: the rule of law, the equality of individuals as citizens before the law, democratic government, and the freedom to inquiry critically are fundamental requirements of an open society. Members are not defined ‘by common biological or social substance, but through a common political relationship’ (Rosel, 1997: 148). In contrast, the closed and ethnic nation is defined through ‘a common biological or social bond, one derived through common descent, religion, language, culture or history’. These are ‘perceived as the external manifestations of an ageless, unique and primordial community’ (Rosel, 1997: 148). The following extract from an influential leader of the kaupapa Maori schooling movement demonstrates this primordialism. It shows the emphasis on the uniqueness of Maori society and the commitment to the revival of kinship bonds and obligations. ‘The beliefs [that is, of the] cooperative and reciprocal commitments of kinship relationships such as iwi, hapu, and whanau; tipuna, matua and uri [tribe, sub-tribe, extended family; ancestor, parent, descendant] are formed from a distinctive Maori metaphysical base, and the knowledge that is borne out of those beliefs is shaped and reshaped by the shared experiences of Maori people. As such, this kaupapa Maori knowledge is substantially different to the knowledge codes of other societies including the Pakeha society that has colonized Maori society. Despite the clear intention of Pakeha policies to undermine tribal cohesion; to dispossess the Maori of their tangata whenua [indigenous] status and turangawaewae [place of tribal identification] to destroy kaupapa Maori knowledge; and to suppress the Maori language; one hundred and fifty

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years after the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi this has not been totally achieved. Within Maori society today, a degree of structural cohesion still exists. It is not possible also, to destroy totally the tangata whenua [indigenous] status and turangawaewae of the Maori for this is validated by genealogical declarations of origin, and reaffirmed through whanau, hapu and iwi [extended family, sub-tribe and tribe] territorial land claims. These genealogical declarations of origin, and reaffirmations of tangata whenua sovereignty, also validate kaupapa Maori knowledge. Additionally because of the very existence today of kaupapa Maori knowledge code types the validity of kaupapa Maori knowledge persists.’ Education and language have radically different functions in the open nation and the closed nation. In the open nation, education should impart ‘the historical knowledge, political competence and language skills for social and political life’ (Rosel 1997: 149). Language is essentially a practical, open and changing medium for communication. In contrast the function of education in the closed nation is to mould the child ‘with the fixed concepts and canons of the group’s unique history, tradition and culture’. Language ‘is a repository of ethnic uniqueness and a means of demarcation’. Rosel argues (1997: 150) that ‘the concepts of the open and the closed nation are not only incompatible but are also in constant competition.’ Kaupapa Maori education demonstrates the features of a closed society. Its discourse draws increasingly upon the ‘clash of cultures’ approach and the subsequent need to reject Western knowledge and methods of critique in favour of kaupapa Maori knowledge. Its objectives are the restoration of tribal ties and kinship relations through a pedagogy based upon kaupapa Maori knowledge and cultural practices. Kaupapa Maori pedagogy is concerned with identity formation of the subject as a communal-self and the rejection of the concept of individual autonomy. The belief that Maori students are different in fundamental ways and require a different pedagogy is fundamental to kaupapa Maori education. Arapera Royal Tangaere, an influential Maori early childhood educationist states that the role of kohanga reo (Maori early childhood centers) is to develop a ‘Maori cultural capital’. Her description of the development of kohanga reo from its inception in 1982 illustrates the extent to which the movement has focussed upon the reintroduction of infants and young children into the social relations of the tribe and the formation of the communal-self. ‘The pathway for Kohanga Reo is about whanau (extended family) development. It is not just about the

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revival of the Maori language anymore’ (Royal Tangaere, 1996: 18). The guiding principles of the Te Kohanga Reo National Trust are clearly concerned with the reproduction of kinship relations within the tribal structure. These principles are: 1. It is the right of the Maori child to enjoy learning the Maori language within the bosom of the whanau [extended family]. 2. It is the right of the whanau to nurture and care for the mokopuna [grandchildren]. 3. It is the obligation of the Hapu [sub-tribe] to ensure that the whanau is strengthened to carry out its responsibilities. 4. It is the obligation of the Iwi [tribe] to advocate, negotiate and resource the hapu and whanau. 5. It is the obligation of the Government under Te Tiriti o Waitangi [the Treaty of Waitangi] to fulfil the aspirations of the Maori people for its future generations.

The Citizen: individual or group-self? The commitment to tribal kinship social relations and traditional forms of knowledge places kaupapa Maori in direct conflict with the modernist values of individual autonomy and the freedom to engage in critical reasoning that underpin New Zealand’s democratic society. Modernity is the rejection of kinship, tribalism and traditionalism. It is the recognition of the individual as separate from the kin group. In its most sophisticated form, it is the recognition of the individual as a citizen, whose rights are not derived from ethnic group rights but from his or her universal human rights. The modern individual exists in the ‘strife of the dialectic (which) is a necessity of reason’ (Kant, 1781, 1993: 488). He or she is turned to face the world, still linked through affective bonds of varying strengths to the family, but able to mediate the relationship between the world and the family through the development of his or her own identity as separate and individual. By contrast, in traditional societies, the family or clan or tribe is the world writ large. The individual is not the mediator between the world and the kin-group. This means that the existence of a world outside the kinship is a conceptual problem for kinship-based societies. How can a common universal humanity be acknowledged? There is the world conceptualized on the basis of kin to which only kin can belong and there is the world conceptualized on the basis of individuals who

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share a common humanity (which ironically does have its origin in shared kinship, however remote and unacknowledged). The concept of the individual as someone who can be simultaneously attached and separated from the kin-group enables the concept of a common universal humanity. This enables people to belong to and identify with nonkin groups as well as with the kinship-group. Kaupapa Maori’s advocacy for an identity formation based upon a kin-based communal-self rather than an individualized-self has consequences both for the maintenance of liberal democracy and for the continuation of the critical reasoning that such a political system requires. There are certain pedagogical (teaching and learning) principles that are fundamental to education systems in democratic societies. These include the principle that rational thought must be acquired through the critical reasoning (‘the reason that “puts itself on trial” [Habermas, 2001: 30]) of the autonomous individual’. This integral link between the autonomous individual and critical reasoning is reflected in the link between democratic politics and the pedagogy of mainstream education in New Zealand. However it is a pedagogy that kaupapa Maori rejects. The ability to reason critically (an ability developed within the pedagogic relation) is the power of individuals who may choose to accept or reject the ideas of their teachers. The student who ‘knows only what has been told him, (whose) judgments are only those which he has received from his teachers … has formed his mind on another’s. His knowledge has not been drawn from reason. He is merely the plaster-cast of a man’. Kant (1781, 1993: 534) describes the critical thinker as one who has developed cognitio ex principiis. This is rational knowledge that comes from the ‘sources of reason, that is, from principles’. Kaupapa Maori explicitly rejects the modernist commitment to the objective and rational status of conceptual knowledge and to the principle that objective knowledge and critical reason are universal characteristics of the human condition. ‘All rational knowledge is based either on concepts, or on the construction of concepts’ (Kant, 1781, 1993: 535). In addition, kaupapa Maori rejects the modernist autonomous individual who unites reasoning and criticism in ‘the freedom to make public use of one’s reason at every point’ (Kant, 1784, 1990: 84). Kaupapa Maori’s rejection of the modernist commitment to objective knowledge and critical reason, and consequently to modernity’s liberal egalitarian politics is reinforced by the strange alliance of postmodernism and neotraditionalism. The notion that knowledge is subjective and culturally determined has replaced the commitment to objective,

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rational knowledge. The recognition of local, ethnic difference has replaced the commitment to a universal humanity. My critique of kaupapa Maori is an argument for the reassertion of Kantian universal objective knowledge and critical reason in New Zealand education. Its justification lies in the claim that the pedagogical principles of critical reasoning, objective conceptual knowledge and the autonomous individual are essential to the political principles of democracy. In the present heyday of postmodernism and neotraditionalism, appeals to Kant may have a decidedly old-fashioned flavour. It is worth noting however (ironically in a chapter that criticizes neotraditionalism), Leslie Stephenson’s (Stephenson and Haberman, 1998) advice. ‘In our rush toward the future, there is surely a danger of a parochialism of the present that forgets the wisdom of the past’. The past worth remembering in this case is modernism.

5 Great Expectations: Political Education and Political Culture in Australia Rob Gilbert

Politics was power, it was the hunt, the game, a way to the unrivalled pleasure of destroying his enemies – but it was, as well, always an act of creation. The media determine the form, and very often, the subject of debate. It is because of the media … that Question Time in the House is seen as a window onto a despised breed. The democratic political process works according to a system of relatively benign corruption – relative to an undemocratic political process, that is. The corruption exists in the dissemination of information by the media and in the efforts of governments and oppositions to manipulate the process to suit themselves. (Watson, 2002, p. ix, 51, 355) These words, describing the last Australian Prime Minister and his government, and written by his speechwriter and close confidant, offer a rare inside glimpse of Australian political culture. They crystallize an important challenge to citizenship educators involved in introducing the political system to young people. While the practices they describe are unlikely to be unique to Australia, the attention recently given to citizenship education in Australia makes them particularly pertinent. Political education in the form of civics and citizenship education has been the subject of extensive curriculum debate and development in Australia in recent years. The landmark event of these developments was the 1997 launching of a major federal government project entitled Discovering Democracy, a national programme of curriculum materials, professional development for teachers and related activities. The Discovering Democracy programme aims to develop student understandings of how government works and affects citizens, the rights and responsibilities of citizens and the opportunities for exercising them, 75

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how participation and decision-making operate in contemporary Australia, and how the nation’s civic life might change in the future. The impetus for this project arose from concerns about the political knowledge and attitudes of young people (Civics Expert Group, 1994). Since such knowledge and attitudes are seen to be a responsibility of schools, the implication was that schools were failing to meet their obligations. Discovering Democracy was intended to put things right, to create through education a public compatible with a liberal democratic vision (Print, Kennedy and Hughes, 1999). However, while educational policy is inevitably and quite properly motivated by social ideals, the success of curriculum programmes will be strongly influenced by the compatibility of their goals with the practices of the wider society. In this case, it is relevant to ask how the great expectations of citizenship education match the broader context of Australian political culture, and to view political knowledge and attitudes among the young in the context of the political culture at large. Seen in this light, the problem of political education takes on a different hue. One aspect of this perspective is the significance of the generational relationship between young people, the targets of political education, and the adult population whom the young are being prepared to join. This generational relationship is often a contradictory one. On the one hand, young people are viewed with some optimism as the hope of the future, the leaders who will determine the direction and well-being of the society. On the other hand, an opposing stereotype represents young people as aimless, self-centred, materialistic, even anti-social. The discussions around Discovering Democracy illustrate both sides of this opposition. Young people are seen as taking up the baton of the valuable political tradition they have inherited and which will be theirs to direct. Yet there are also concerns that their lack of knowledge and interest will make them incapable of this responsibility and privilege. It is interesting to note that the young people who, a generation ago, (as the myths of the sixties and seventies would have it), were said to be leading the way to a better world, may now be the very generation lamenting the state of contemporary youth. It may also be relevant that the average age of the teaching force in most Australian states is in the late forties, so the generational gap may have a more direct educational significance. These issues provide a backdrop to this discussion of the political knowledge and attitudes of young people, and their relation to those of the community at large. The paper proceeds by identifying key aspects of Australian political culture which are relevant to notions of citizenship and citizenship

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education. It then reviews a range of similarly relevant studies of the political knowledge and attitudes of young Australians. The two sets of evidence are then compared, and the implications for citizenship education are discussed.

Political culture and education in Australia Australia is a parliamentary democracy comprising a federal government, six state and two territory governments, with a third tier of local government established within the state jurisdictions. It has strong links, both formal and informal, to the traditions of the Westminster system of government, though its bicameral federal parliament is closer to that of the US Congress in the way the houses are elected. One important distinction in terms of citizen involvement in Australian politics is the fact that voting at state and federal elections is compulsory. It is in the context of this formal system that this discussion of civics and citizenship education takes place. Analyses of political culture in Australia have usually taken one of two contrasting paths. First, there is a tradition of pointing to the achievements of Australia’s political history, where progressive and even radical forms of parliamentary democracy were established in the late nineteenth century. Second, comments on contemporary political culture are much more bleak, pointing to the foibles of party politics and public alienation from and even contempt for much of the parliamentary system. The first of these views has been widely used to promote the Discovering Democracy initiative itself. Launching the project, the responsible Minister David Kemp (1997, p. 2) identified the key elements of this tradition and its significance for Australian citizenship: Today’s students are the heirs of one of the most remarkable democratic initiatives of the nineteenth century. Just after 1850, hundreds of thousands of people began to pour into this country in the great gold rushes. Among them were many who were frustrated at the slow development of democracy in Britain and who were determined to establish a new fully democratic society in their new land. They joined with and gave momentum to those already pushing towards representative institutions of government. Australia provided these people with unique opportunities to translate their reforming spirit and egalitarian principles into the democratic framework we enjoy today …

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An impressive record in democratic and social progress began: Australia was one of the first countries in the world to abolish the property requirement for voting for the popular assembly, to give first all men and later all women the vote, to pay salaries to members of Parliament (so that those without independent incomes could seek office), to provide public education and old age pensions, to introduce the 8-hour day, and to establish the secret ballot – known throughout the world as the Australian ballot – so that everyone could cast their vote free from intimidation. By the second half of last century, Australia had some of the most radically democratic political institutions in the world. The Minister also acknowledged that there is unfinished business if this laudable democratic tradition is to be continued. He mentioned in particular the need to right the wrongs of the dispossession of Indigenous people and the history of discriminatory immigration policies, and generally to abolish discrimination on the grounds of race, ethnicity and gender. These issues are continuing challenges to the ideals of the Discovering Democracy project (Print, Kennedy and Hughes, 1999). These past achievements in the system of government are laudable, and are a rallying point for academic historians and political leaders in their attempts to generate respect for the current system. This approach can be contrasted with what has been called the ‘black arm band’ view of history, which emphasizes the exclusion of many Australians from this glorious past, and in particular the oppression of its Indigenous people. These historical debates are important, and they resonate with continuing policy issues in immigration, multiculturalism and Indigenous rights. However, another problem for citizenship education is reflected in the second aspect of Australian political culture: that most Australians are ignorant about and hold a negative image of the political system and the people who run it. Repeated surveys of the political knowledge and attitudes of Australian citizens reveal a low level of knowledge of the formal system of government and a critical and even contemptuous attitude to politicians and their political behaviour. The original government inquiry from which Discovering Democracy arose (Civics Expert Group, 1994) conducted a survey of community knowledge and understanding of government, the constitution, citizenship and civics. The general conclusion of this study was that there was a high level of community ignorance about Australia’s system of government and its origins. Respondents admitted to having low levels

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of knowledge, but even then they claimed greater knowledge than their responses to the survey demonstrated. Greatest familiarity was with the mechanics of voting, followed by the functions of government and how the Prime Minister is chosen. The report stated that ‘there is negligible understanding of the underlying principles of the system of government, and how the separate elements fit together’ (Civics Expert Group, 1994, p. 132). Similarly low levels were found in a test of the political knowledge of 1793 respondents in the 1996 Australian Election Study survey (McAllister, 1998). Of seven questions about the nature of Australia’s parliamentary and electoral systems, 64% were able to answer only two correctly; only 13% were correct on six or more questions. Critics are skeptical of the importance and relevance to political practice of such tests of concrete knowledge about the details of the system (Colebatch, 1995; Goot, 1995). However, they do have greater significance when combined with other aspects of the public’s views and experience of politics. For instance, in McAllister’s study, a relatively high 82% said they discussed politics with others, but only 35% talked to others about how they should vote, and only 2% attended meetings or rallies or donated to or worked for a party or candidate. McAllister noted that respondents with a high level of knowledge were only marginally more likely to report greater participation. The Civics Expert Group report noted that most people were not concerned that they were not better informed, and had no interest in finding out more. The knowledge items tested were seen to be uninteresting and irrelevant, and there was a degree of cynicism and alienation in relation to politics and politicians. This very low level of respect for politicians is widely noted in Australian political culture. In a recent Morgan Gallop Poll, Federal members of parliament were ranked 21st of 28 occupations in terms of having high or very high levels of ethics and honesty (Roy Morgan Research, 2001). Only 16% of respondents placed Federal MPs in one of these categories. State MPs were 23rd at 14%. Both figures were a slight rise on recent years but a little lower than they were 20 years ago. (School teachers ranked fourth at 74%.) This negative view is clearly evident in the media, which typically presents politics as a battle of personal ambition among individual politicians. The war metaphor here is significant: the reporting of politics is replete with language of fighting in the ranks, opposing camps, the drawing of battle lines, and leaders being ‘under fire’. This adversarial image is frequently combined with an emphasis on scandal, the

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private lives and interests of politicians, and the bitter and often dishonest factional contests of party politics. The regular diet of such accounts can only create or confirm the negative images held by the public. In short, adult Australians are not well informed about the mechanics of their political system, and have a very negative image of important aspects of it. They are uninterested in information about the system itself, and disdainful of those who work in it. The representation of the system in the media is correspondingly negative. This situation stands in stark contrast to the hopes of the Discovering Democracy programme, its visions of the democratic ideal entrenched in the parliamentary system, and its depiction of a progressive Australian political system of earlier times. The challenge for citizenship education is obvious.

The political knowledge and attitudes of young Australians The Discovering Democracy initiative has led to a significant increase in Australian research activity on civics, citizenship and political education. A greater store of research has been generated over the last seven or so years than at any earlier time. This research has studied the development of political knowledge and attitudes among young people from childhood to the post-school years, and offers an interesting opportunity to compare the views of young people with those the general public described above. The following review of these studies aims to identify aspects of the political culture of young people as represented in their views about politics. The largest of these studies is that of the International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA) (Mellor, Kennedy and Greenwood, 2001). This international comparative study of 28 countries surveyed the political knowledge, skills, concepts, attitudes and actions of 3331 Australian Year 9 students (the year in which most students turn 14). The results provide a comprehensive and fascinating picture of young people’s understandings of civics and citizenship in an international context.

Political knowledge On the test of content knowledge, overall differences among countries were small. These questions tested understanding of the defining char-

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acteristics of democracy (who ought to govern, what makes a government non-democratic, etc.), the institutions and practices of democracy (the functions of party systems, elections, legislatures, a constitution) and rights and duties (the role of citizen in a democracy, purposes of statements of rights, the role of the media and other organizations). Australian students fell in the middle group on this content knowledge (not statistically different from the mean), along with the US, Denmark and Germany, Russia and Bulgaria. England was significantly below the mean on this measure. On the other hand, Australian students were significantly above the mean on interpretative skills (ranking fourth of 28 countries behind the US, Finland and Cyprus). These items included tasks like identifying messages in cartoons, political leaflets and news articles, and distinguishing fact from opinion. The report concluded that students were being well prepared to deal with the critical thinking and judgment involved in negotiating civic contexts and issues (Mellor et al., 2001, p. 132). Despite being in the middle group on content knowledge, the performance of the Australian students was, in the view of the authors of the Australian report of the IEA study, a cause for concern: Only half of the Australian students have a grasp of the essential pre-conditions for a properly working democracy. It seems that Australian students are not strong in their understandings of what constitute their civil rights. The Civic Knowledge items with which Australian students had the most difficulty were those which deal with the forms and purposes of Democracy. Australian students have a strong sense of ‘natural justice’ and equity, but they lack clarity about the theoretical precepts of democratic models and structures. (For example: the role of criticism in a democracy, civil rights, function of periodic elections, the content (and by implication the purpose of) a constitution, legitimate media influence in a democracy and problems in a government moving from dictatorship to democracy.) … (Mellor et al., 2001, p. xviii) This lack of knowledge of the principles of democratic government is matched by a low level of knowledge of the detailed workings of the system. Another study of secondary school and university students and young people in full time employment (Lean, 1996) found that knowledge of information about the political system was low. Forty-two

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per cent of secondary students could not name their Federal electorate; 85% could not name their local member; and over 90% did not know the difference between the House of Representatives and the Senate. Only 24% of respondents could correctly match tiers of government with their corresponding responsibilities, though the complexity of the division of powers across the three levels probably makes this quite understandable. It seems that the low level of knowledge among adults found in the Civics Expert Group survey is shared with young people. Along with civic knowledge, the IEA study also tested attitudes such as students’ views of democratic citizenship, feelings of trust about the government, and students’ expectations of their own participatory actions relating to politics.

Democratic citizenship When asked to identify things that are good and bad for democracy from a list of 25 items, Australian students gave highest priority to freedom of expression and free elections, with the next most highly ranked item being the provision of rules in political parties to support women to become political leaders. They also rated highly the need for diversity of public organizations and the right of peaceful protest. On all these items, the mean response by Australian students was higher than the international mean. When considering these and other responses in this section of the survey, the authors conclude that students see as essential to democracy ‘the equity issues of undue influence of power, family or wealth over positions in government, media outlets and the judiciary’, and ‘the importance of public free speech of individuals and, by implication, a free press’ (Mellor et al., 2001, p. 84). In comparison with the notions of what is good and bad for democracy, there was much less international consensus on the concept of the good citizen. When asked to rate the importance of 15 activities (from 1: totally unimportant to 4: very important), Australian students responded as shown in Table 5.1. These responses suggest an earnest image of the law-abiding citizen who nonetheless is ready to act on improving the world in social and environmental matters. It is difficult to say whether this is a view with which the students themselves identify or to which they might aspire, or whether it is simply a statement of the image which students believe the community at large would associate with the idea of a good citizen.

Rob Gilbert 83 Table 5.1 Items Measuring Concepts of Citizenship among Australian Year 9 Students (Adapted from Mellor et al., 2001, p. 85) An adult who is a good citizen … (1 = totally unimportant; 2 = fairly unimportant; 3 = fairly important; 4 = very important) 3.60 3.40 3.22 3.14 3.00

Obeys the law Votes in every election Works hard Is patriotic and loyal to the country Participates in activities to benefit the people in the community

2.96 2.86 2.76 2.62

Takes part in activities to protect the environment Takes part in activities promoting human rights Shows respect for government representatives Would participate in a peaceful protest against a law believed to be unjust Would be willing to serve in the military to defend the country Knows about the country’s history Would be willing to ignore a law that violated human rights Follows political issues in the newspaper, on the radio or on TV Engages in political discussions

2.59 2.55 2.51 2.42 2.23

1.81 Joins a political party

Political participation Either way, from the point of view of the political system, there are troubling findings in other aspects of the results: the low rating given to engaging in political discussion, and the extremely low rating given to joining a political party. Students rated as fairly or totally unimportant joining a political party (83% of respondents), and engaging in political discussion (66%). Fifty per cent said the same about following political issues in the newspaper, radio or television. These low ratings of political activity sit oddly with the preparedness to take part in activities for human rights and environmental causes, where the corresponding percentages for unimportance are only 32% and 26% respectively. It is clear that students do not see that political discussion or political parties are appropriate or desirable ways to promote causes which they endorse as important. On the students’ responses to the attitudinal items, Mellor et al. (2001) concluded that:

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… Australian students have well developed attitudes on a range of topics and issues. They see an important role for governments and government related institutions but they do not trust politicians. They have some commitment to equity principles but this is stronger for girls than it is for boys. They are patriotic but not unquestioningly so. They do not see themselves having a great deal of space for discussing and debating social and political issues in classrooms. Yet, overall, they do not seem greatly impassioned about anything in particular and this is perhaps also reflected in the civic engagement scales. (Mellor et al., 2001, p. 139) Similar results were found in an earlier study of 633 year 11 students (16 year olds) in the State of Victoria (Mellor, 1998). Mellor applied a questionnaire developed as part of an international study in England, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands and the USA (Hahn, 1998). When asked to indicate activities they would be prepared to engage in to support their viewpoint on a controversial issue, almost 20% did not respond at all, and 44% indicated that they would not act, or did not know how they would act (p. 38). Students were also strongly negative about the likelihood of their engaging in political activities such as running for public office, working for a candidate or political party, or joining a political organization. Comparing Australian students with those of other countries in the study, Mellor (1998, p. 48) observed that ‘No other cohort is so negative about possible engagement through the party political process’. On the other hand, 39% of students said that it was somewhat or very likely that they would join a pressure, protest or interest group, and 56% said they would let their parliamentary representatives know what they thought about a public issue. (p. 46). These more positive responses again indicate the distinction between what might be called community action, which students seem willing to contemplate, and involvement in the party political process, which they strongly reject. Saha (2000) discusses the extent of participation among youth in his study of political activism among Australian secondary students. Saha found in a survey of students in years 10, 11 and 12 that over 60% of them had signed a petition, and that 85% would do so in the future. Twenty per cent said they had taken part in a rally or demonstration, with 57% saying they would do so in the future. Saha’s study distinguishes normative from non-normative forms of political activity. In the former, which include signing petitions, letter

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writing, and peaceful protest, student experience of and attitudes to participation are related to higher status family background, an interest in politics, sympathy for current social movements, and positive attitudes towards government. This form of political orientation is more common for girls than for boys. On the other hand, non-normative forms of political activity, including more radical and violent forms of protest, are more likely to involve ‘males who are disengaged from things political, … are alienated from politics and the government … do not interact with teachers and have exclusionary views about human rights’ (Saha, 2000, p. 171). Saha’s study again reflects a considerable level of actual and expected participation in community action, and the fact that different types of activity are envisaged by different groups of students is an interesting finding. However, the activism does not extend to involvement in the political system itself, and in some cases seems antagonistic to it. While Saha found that the degree of normative involvement was influenced, as might be expected, by the level of interest in politics, other studies have shown that this level is generally very low among Australian young people, at least as it applies to the formal political system.

Interest in politics In Mellor’s 1998 study, students’ responses to items aimed at measuring political interest were generally very negative. A majority of students disagreed or strongly disagreed with the statements that they were usually interested in political matters (55%), that they would enjoy having lessons where politics and government are discussed (55%), that they thought hearing or watching news about politics is interesting (57%), or that they thought they would enjoy participating in political groups (66%) (Mellor, 1998, p. 42). The Lean study also found that interest in politics was low. When asked to rate the interest of their friends in politics on a scale from one (interest) to ten (apathy), 46% indicated ten and no students entered a rating higher than four (Lean, 1996, p. 55). Fifty per cent of students surveyed believed they would become more involved in politics once they were earning a wage (p. 54). An interview study by Aveling (2001), involving 48 students ranging in age from 15 to 24, found that, while 82% of students said that they thought that voting in an election could make a difference, the same proportion said that they were not really interested in politics. On the

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other hand, Aveling comments that they were interested in and often cared passionately about social issues, the most frequently mentioned being environmental, equity and youth issues. Aveling concludes that young people generally are uninterested in party politics and disdainful of politicians, but are committed to a more egalitarian society.

Political trust This raises again a troubling aspect of a number of these studies: the low level of political trust indicated by Australian young people. In Mellor’s study, students disagreed or strongly disagreed with such statements as: most people in government are honest (68%); they care a lot about what people like us think (66%); or they can be trusted to do what is right for the country (64%) (Mellor, 1998, p. 52). Similar views were found in Lean’s study of attitudes towards politics and politicians. These young people believed that, for politicians, ‘Retaining power becomes an end in itself rather than a means to an end’ (Lean, 1996, p. 53). As a result, politicians are believed to make promises they are unable to keep or have no intention of keeping. Young people interviewed commented that ‘They always make promises they can’t keep’ and that ‘Very few are trustworthy and do what they say’ (Lean, 1996, p. 53). They lamented the tendency among politicians to engage in power games and ‘political point scoring’: ‘It almost seems like they can’t stop fighting long enough to run the country’ (Lean, 1996, p. 53). While students saw voting in elections to be important to democracy, the conduct of politicians was a different matter. Similarly, Aveling’s study (2001) found that only 11 respondents (23%) thought that politicians were doing a reasonable job. Another recent study has found similar views among much younger students. Gill and Howard (2000, p. 48) report 11 year old students saying that politicians ‘make promises but they break them’, ‘they break them, they twist them’. The authors report that this view and the media images that sustain it even coloured students’ attitudes to student representative councils. The evidence of a range of studies is therefore that the report card is mixed on the knowledge and attitudes of Australian students relevant to citizenship and engagement with the political system. Their knowledge of the mechanics of the political system and the principles on which it is based is regarded as poor. However, they are competent in the thinking skills required for a critical approach to issues. They are committed to the protection of rights, justice and the environment,

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and seem moderately well disposed to socially acceptable public action in support of them. However, apart from voting, they reject any thought of participation in the party political system. They have little interest in issues as they appear in the formal political system, or the media reporting of them, and they hold strongly negative views of the trustworthiness of politicians. These views should not be surprising, as they are quite compatible with the prevailing political culture among adult Australians. While the young may be more positive in expressing concern for social and political issues, they are equally strongly critical of politicians and uninterested in the party political system. To the extent that public support for and involvement in the parliamentary system are important requirements of a parliamentary democracy, the implications of these views for citizenship education are serious.

Addressing the challenge The significance of these findings will depend to some extent on one’s vision of a healthy democracy, and their implications for citizenship education will depend on one’s views of the role of education in achieving this vision. One view is that the negative image of the political system is valid, and that the only solution to this problem is for the system itself to change. While much of the public negativity may well be justified, the electoral system and the act of voting are clearly valued by the electorate, and appreciated by students, suggesting that there is some willingness to engage with the system. The commitment of students to improving social and environmental conditions and to values of equity and social justice offers similar potential. Further engagement may be possible if it includes consideration of how the system might be made more open and responsive, and more reflective of the integrity it claims. A programme in citizenship education would need to incorporate such an approach if it is to connect with the views of young people as reflected in the studies reviewed here. However, a more radical approach would be needed to bridge the gap revealed here, involving a conception of the place of young people in the political culture, and the nature of their current and impending relations with it. However, the Discovering Democracy project is silent on such matters. Its aims are to develop student understandings of government, the rights and responsibilities of citizens and the opportunities for exercising them, how participation and decision-making operate in contemporary

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Australia, and how the nation’s civic life might change in the future. The dominant emphases of the project teaching materials are civics (knowing the formal structures and functions of government) and history (the development of the nation and its institutions). However, this focus on understanding seems quite inadequate as a response to the situation described above. It cannot seriously be expected that understanding alone will change the negative attitudes to the system, much less one based in events and personalities of the past. It is more plausible that the aim should be to deal with the motivation issue first, and that the key to greater knowledge is greater interest. In line with these comments, the Discovering Democracy initiative and the views which prompted it have met with considerable criticism. One objection has been to the presumptuousness of the attempt to replace what are depicted as inadequate understandings of the public with an abstract, idealized and even dishonest picture of the system: It is not that people do not participate in politics because they do not know enough about the Constitution, and instructing people about the Constitution will neither give them a better understanding of our political process nor make them more disposed to participate in it. The model of the political process which the reformers are trying to foist on the citizenry makes no sense to them and is refuted by their own limited experience of political life … if it is considered important that citizens do know more about the processes of government, then any attempt to achieve this must be grounded in the realities of government rather than in institutional myths. (Colebatch, 1995, p. 23) Another problem has been the perceived emphasis on knowledge and understanding to the exclusion of active engagement. In a review of a major publication of the Discovering Democracy project, Smee (2000) evaluated the book in terms of five criteria which, based on a review of research, would be important benchmarks of effective civics education. The benchmarks were: coverage of theoretical and comparative perspectives; content that included contentious issues and the status of minorities; topics which are meaningful to students; direct engagement in social and political experience; and an open classroom climate. Smee concludes that the book is an important contribution to the first two of these requirements, but that the remaining criteria are crucial, and are not likely to be met by the historical approach to civic content which characterizes the materials.

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The historical approach to citizenship risks promoting an idealized view of progress of the institutions of parliament, and a sanguine attitude to current needs – a risk to which the Discovering Democracy materials seem to have succumbed (Gill and Reid, 1999b). The motivational issues raised by the research discussed here seem to have been largely ignored in favour of an optimistic view that knowing the history of the system is the chief need. The Discovering Democracy initiative lacks a foundation in a view of citizenship and citizenship education which would address the cynicism about politics so evident in the public psyche. It makes no attempt to link the formal system with the experience of young people, or their developing sense of their own place in the political system. Without a political conception of their interests, for example, students will simply not understand how their interests, broadly defined, are situated in and affected by the pattern of social interdependencies that links their interests to the interests of others or to the broader institutional context. And lacking such a conception of their interests, the motivation and ability of students to effectively protect their interests, or to protect and improve the institutions of democratic self-determination that protect their interests, will be significantly compromised. (Hogan and Fearnley-Sander, 1999, p. 58) The task facing citizenship education in Australia is therefore a daunting one, but Discovering Democracy, however impressive it might be in its approach to conventional civics education, seem unlikely to affect the attitudinal issues described above. Correcting a deficit in formal knowledge is an admirable goal, but in the bigger picture of Australian political culture it seems strangely misdirected. This brings us back to the generational issue mentioned earlier, since the dominance of the deficit theory of young people’s political understanding leads us to ignore the knowledge they already have. The experiences young people have at home, at school, with their friends, in the community or with the media and leisure industries, all have messages about how people relate to each other, make decisions, and negotiate and wield power. This power is also manifest in the decisions about broader issues which they indicate are important to them. This is a key starting point if we are to demonstrate that the more formal system of politics is relevant to their concerns, for formal politics provides another important means to the same ends, however complex, frustrating and disappointing these means might be. Australian schools are yet to see a form of citizenship education which will achieve this connection and engage young people in it.

6 Elite Constructions of Civic Education in Australia Kerry J. Kennedy and Cosmo Howard

Civic education has been the subject of a good deal of debate and discussion in Australia over the past decade. For some writers the reemergence of civic education in the early 1990s, after an absence of more than 40 years, was enough to generate talk about a ‘new renaissance in civic education’ (Print, 1997). Others have gone further and analyzed the new civics initiatives within broader theoretical frameworks such as feminism (Foster, 1997; Smith, 2001), postmodernism (Gilbert, 1997) and political theory (Hogan, 1997). Yet others have sought to examine specific curriculum exemplars in terms of particular social theories (Meredyth and Thomas, 1999; Gill and Reid, 1999a). It is also clear that civic education continues to be shaped by current social and political environments, and that its rationale does not remain static (Holton, 1997; Walsh, 2000). There can be no doubting the contribution of civic education to the current discourse about the school curriculum in Australia. Despite the level of this discourse, of which the previous references are but a small selection, the origins of this renewed interest in civic education remain relatively unexamined. There is general agreement that the current interest started with the release of Whereas the People … (Civics Expert Group, 1994), a government commissioned report, and that the Prime Minister of the day, The Hon. Paul Keating, responded positively to the report’s recommendations (Office of the Prime Minister, 1995). These are matters of public record. Yet little is known about why the Prime Minister was supportive and why this aspect of school curriculum policy featured in his second, and last, government. Some preliminary attempts have been made to explore these issues (Kennedy and Connor, 1999) and link them to broader 90

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policy objectives (Kennedy, 1997; Kennedy and Howard, 2000). Apart from this work, the origins of the new civics in Australia have not been explored in any depth. The purpose of this chapter, therefore, is to extend the work referred to above and to focus on the policy inputs that led to a revival of civic education in Australia in the early 1990s. The aim is to move beyond the public record to try and understand how and why that record was constructed and why it took the form that it did. The research is set in a theoretical framework related to the role of policy elites and the influence that they exert on public policy. This research emphasis has not been applied to civic education policy to date.

Policy elites and policy making The role of policy elites in both decision-making and the power structure of organizations and the community has been a topic of interest to social scientists for at least the last half century. Classic works by sociologists such as Mills (1956) and political scientists such as Dahl (1961) staked out the territory within their disciplinary boundaries. The role of elites in policy making is still a topic of interest to researchers in these disciplines (Considine, 1998). At the same time there has recently been some specific interest in the role of policy elites in education (Walford, 1994; Batteson and Ball, 1995; Ozga and Gewirtz, 1994; Marshall, Mitchell and Wirt, 1985). Some of this work has moved the study of policy elites outside of a functionalist framework to explore the possibilities of post-structuralist approaches (Batteson and Ball, 1995) and approaches informed by critical theory (Ozga and Gewirtz, 1994). The current study of policy elites in civic education is set against this broad background. The new civic education in Australia has been characterized as neoconservative text (Kennedy, 1997), but this represents only one level of analysis. Knight, Smith and Sachs have made the point that ‘a critical and productive educational policy studies … has the task of producing new meaning around such policies that expand the multiplicity of voices in it’. They go on: only when the ‘official’ authority of the text as knowledge and its source as guarantor of its truth are transcended, can the construction of really useful knowledge begin. (Knight, Smith and Sachs, 1990, p. 149)

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Official policy texts, therefore, need to be the subject of investigation in order to uncover the ‘multiplicity of voices’ within them. This process seems to be akin to what Foucault had in mind when discussing the relationship between philosophy and power: it is these games of power [jeux de pouvoir] that one must study in terms of tactics and strategy, in terms of order and of chance, in terms of stakes and objective. (Quoted in Davidson, 1997, p. 4) ‘Jeux de pouvoir’ maybe too strong a metaphor to be generalized to all policymaking. Yet it does serve to highlight power as a construct that is integrally connected with policymaking. Hunter, drawing on Goffman (1959), reinforced this point when he drew attention to the ‘frontstage’ and ‘backstage’ of elite decision making: The frontstages of local community elites are often the very basis and substance of their power, for the power structure is often directly reflected in the steel and glass buildings and impressed in the concrete and the physical development of the local community … (yet) it is in the backstages where the power itself is most often wielded. The backstages of elites are carefully guarded from public view, and they have the power to protect them. (Hunter, 1995, p. 154) Official texts tell one story, but they are a starting point for unmasking the complexity of the policy production process. Who influenced the text? Why was it constructed? Whose purpose and interests did it serve? These are key questions for any study of policy and civic education is no exception. Considine (1998, p. 298) has identified two basic approaches to studying policymaking when the aim is to attribute influence to different elite actors in the construction of policy. One is the ‘primal soup’ approach that assumes ‘agenda-setting … is made up of a wide variety of factors to do with elite composition, institutional structure, timing, expertise, media influence and pressure of other work’. The other is a ‘structured influence’ approach ‘which posits that, over time, a relatively small group of policy influentials in each policy field will be responsible for answering the questions raised by external events and internal institutional opportunities’. The current study adopted the ‘structured influence’ approach, although it was always open for the results of the research to suggest that such an approach was inappropriate in this case. The choice of a ‘structured influence’ approach was suggested by the observation that the development of civic education policy appeared

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to fit what Considine (1998, p. 298) has called an ‘inside-initiative model’. This model ‘proposes that politicians originate agenda items and then use them to build support among key elites and the media’. A fundamental issue to be addressed in the use of such a model is why the policy was thought to be important enough in the first place to be placed on the agenda. Initially, however, it is important to have some understanding of the political context that led to civic education being placed on the national education agenda.

The political contexts supporting civic education The political context in which civic education emerged as a policy issue is related to Australian political history in the early 1990s. This context was shaped in multiple ways but few would disagree with the claim that Paul Keating was a dominant figure on the political landscape throughout the 1980s and early 1990s. He ascended to the Prime Ministership in 1991 having defeated the incumbent Prime Minister, Bob Hawke, in a party room ballot. He entered the ‘unwinnable’ 1993 election as the under-dog in the context of economic recession and high unemployment. Yet Keating defied the pundits and won. Significantly, the win not only legitimized Keating as Prime Minister but also furnished him with an opportunity to construct a reform agenda that went beyond the economic liberalism that characterized his policy emphasis as Treasurer. From the time of his election victory, Keating turned his mind to ‘big picture’ issues, encompassing questions of Australia’s national identity and the nation’s future in the region and the world (Edwards, 1996; Gordon, 1996; Singleton, 1997). Given the preoccupation of the second Keating government with the ‘big picture’, it remains to account for his interest very soon after his reelection in what appears to be a relatively minor policy matter related to the school curriculum. At the end of the first year of his second term as Prime Minister, Keating set up the Civics Expert Group (CEG) to make recommendations on civic education in Australian schools. Interestingly, the impetus and support for this initiative came not from the relevant line department (Employment, Education and Training), but from the Prime Minister’s own department. Why was this so? Why did Paul Keating take an interest in the issue of civic education after his re-election, why did he set up an inquiry into civic education, and what did he intend his civic education initiative to achieve? These questions will be addressed in the next section of the paper that will reconstruct and contextualize the policy priorities of the second Keating government.1 The following section will attempt to examine the

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‘backstage’ of the policy process by focusing on the influence that policy elites brought to bear on the development of civic education policy. Together, the two sections will provide a picture of the contexts in which civic education emerged as it did at this particular point of time in Australia’s history and the ideas and individuals who influenced the new initiatives.

Civic education and Keating’s ‘big picture’ politics Keating’s foray into the field of civic education does not seem to have stemmed from a general or intrinsic interest in schools’ policy on his part. As one of his biographers, Fia Cumming, has suggested, Keating shared with his ‘mates’ in the Right Wing of the NSW Labor Party an eschewal of ‘academic and intellectualist pursuits and honours because such things [did] not fit with their anti-elitist mores, or their careers as down-to-earth labour leaders’ (Cumming, 1991, p. 4). Keating’s early exit from secondary school and lack of university education might be cited as further cause for disinterest in schools policy (p. 6). Also, before the emergence of the civics issue, the Keating Government’s activity in curriculum policy could not be said to have deviated significantly from preceding policies (Kennedy, Watts and McDonald, 1993). Apart from his exhortations on civic education following 1993, Keating did not emphasize citizenship education and curriculum policy issues in his public addresses (Ryan, 1995). Indeed, Edwards (1996) has pointed out that the major policy issues for the second Keating government were the economy, industrial relations, employment and APEC. Yet when the Civics Expert Group delivered its report, Keating embraced the recommendations of this ‘outstanding report’ vigorously: The Commonwealth’s proposed civics and citizenship education program will ensure that Australians have the opportunity to become informed about our system of government, our Constitution, and other civics and citizenship issues … the program will aim to improve our understanding of what citizenship means in a modern society, and thereby encourage practical participation in our nation’s civic life. (Office of the Prime Minister, 1995, p. iii) Keating backed up this public endorsement with a financial package of approximately $25 million of new Commonwealth funding for civic education. The initiative was centered around the development of new strategies and curricula for teaching school students and the general community about the Australian system of government, its constitu-

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tion and the role of particular individuals, groups and cultures in Australia’s social and political history. How does this fit with ‘the big picture’? There is a considerable consensus among commentators that Keating’s second government was dominated, at least rhetorically, by ‘big picture’ issues, encompassing his ‘vision’ for the nation developing in the 21st Century (Singleton, 1997). These issues appear to have been distinguished from other policy questions by the fact that they privileged long-term, strategic or symbolic concerns over short-term electoral, partisan or material questions. Several writers have documented the shifts in Keating’s outlook over his career, including his conversion to a more principled and programmatic stance ‘on the road to the lodge’ (Thompson, 1999). Others have gone further, suggesting that Keating’s big picture, and his specific initiatives in civic education, represented an attempt to divert attention from economic problems (Crane, 1998). Yet it does seem possible to draw links between Keating’s promotion of big picture issues, including the need for a re-emphasis on civics education policy, and his concern to both succeed electorally and improve the material position of Australians. Part of the reason for Keating’s emphasis on big picture issues stemmed from his desire to bring a distinctive style to his office. According to Campbell and Halligan (1992), upon becoming Prime Minister Paul Keating sought to differentiate his approach from his time as Treasurer during the 1980s. Keating abandoned the explicit focus on deregulatory economic reform that dominated his agenda in Treasury and adopted a more positive neo-Keynesian agenda that stressed social democratic objectives and priorities and proposed a more interventionary role for government. Further, Keating made a point of explicitly differentiating his leadership style from his predecessor’s. In rejecting Hawke’s consensus-based approach, Keating affirmed the view that political leadership was not about being popular, but about being ‘right’ (Carew, 1992, p. 285). In addition, Keating was also beginning to move away from his emphasis on parliamentary combat and aggressive confrontation with his political opponents. By the time of his re-election in 1993, Keating’s growing boredom with the day to day routines of politics (Gordon, 1996, p. 287) led him to prefer a ‘loftier approach to office’, in which he would be ‘above the ruck – not down in it’ (Edwards, 1996, pp. 515–516). Thus, Keating’s emphasis on the big picture can be seen partly to reflect his attempt to follow a different approach to leadership as prime minister. Keating’s post election agenda was also shaped by the fact that he had to differentiate his party’s agenda from the policies of the Opposition during the election. At his formal campaign launch in

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February 1993, Keating contrasted Labor’s approach, and its loyalty to national traditions, with the reform proposals of his opponents: There really never has been a clearer choice: between the Australian traditions of fairness and equity and the economic and social jungle of Reaganism and Thatcherism which other countries have just abandoned. We believe in change. To meet the national necessity we instigated it. But we believe it should be managed: we believe it should be moderated by supportive social policies. (Tingle, 1994, p. 218) Here, Keating was responding to an electoral imperative to distance the ALP from the neo-liberal reform agenda that characterized the Opposition’s election policies. According to Morris (1992, p. 66), he was successful in this: … when his achievements as Treasurer appeared to be selfdestructing, he could switch smoothly from playing the public face of the only ‘real’ rationalist revolution Australia has yet experienced into his other role as the one Man of Action capable of saving our social democracy from rationalist revolutionaries. Thus, part of the reason behind Keating’s attempt to move away from the ‘economic ideological passion’ of the 1980s was that the recession of the early 1990s had both threatened his economic credentials and rendered the government’s economic objectives less feasible and credible in the short term (Gordon, 1996, p. 192). It was also a clear reflection of an emerging governmental perception that the possibilities for government-led economic reform had been exhausted – that following the recession, broader cultural changes in the population would need to be accomplished in order for further reforms to be accepted, and that the impetus for this could not come only from government (Tingle, 1994, p. 17). It is in the context of this ‘post-recessionary politics’ of cultural change (Tingle, 1994) that Paul Keating’s big picture emerged. Throughout this period, Keating frequently spoke of the importance of innovative ideas and ambitious reform proposals in politics. He declared in 1994 that politics was a ‘contest of ideas’, played out between those who had ideas and accepted the necessity of reform, and those who would take the easy political option of obstructing change (Ryan, 1995, p. 31). In his discussion and promotion of big picture

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ideas, Keating saw himself as taking on difficult political and policy challenges with little short term reward (Ryan, 1995, pp. 31, 56). In this respect, Keating considered himself to be carrying forward a Labor tradition, which was centred on an aspiration to ‘shape Australia in the image of modern Labor’ (Keating, 1993, p. 7). Keating’s big picture encompassed issues with national symbolic dimensions, for which he had a personal passion (Singleton, 1997, p. 1). Several issues comprised this big picture. The reconciliation of white and indigenous Australians became a policy priority. Keating also pursued an expansion of Australia’s engagement with Asia, promoting trade and diplomatic links through the APEC forum. Further, Keating showed a keen interest in the development of the arts and the cultural industries, using cultural policy to foster a ‘creative nation’. The most important element of Keating’s big picture however was his vision for an Australian republic. Keating argued that constitutional reform to create an Australian republic was necessary not only because links with Britain had lost importance and the British monarchy had lost relevance, but also because Australia needed to establish a unique, unified sense of national identity. In the context of a multicultural society, the maintenance of formal constitutional links with Britain could ultimately hinder efforts to achieve unity. Developing a unified identity would not only help Australia to achieve reconciliation between indigenous and white Australians, but also to reduce unemployment and facilitate the transition to a more competitive economy. In his ‘New Visions’ speech given to the Evatt Foundation in April 1993, Keating argued that: We can do all these things – but we will do them better if we are united as a people, confident of our identity and what we stand for. That is why we need to be in every sense, including a symbolic one, our own masters. It is why the affirmation of our nationhood is central to our psychology. (Keating, 1993, p. 12) Specifically, this ‘affirmation of our nationhood’ would help Australian attempts to expand into Asia: … we should not underestimate the importance this also has for Australia’s engagement with the Asia-Pacific region. The fact is Australia will be taken more seriously as a player in regional affairs if we are clear about our identity and demonstrate that we really mean to stand on our own two feet practically and psychologically. (Keating, 1993, p. 13)

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Thus Keating wanted a republic, and significantly, he felt that this would further Australia’s strategic and economic goals. This is the insight of Carol Johnson (2000), who rejects those interpretations of Keating’s agenda that suggest that he had subordinated economic concerns to his personal cultural interests. She argues that underlying Keating’s big picture initiatives, including the republic, multiculturalism and engagement with Asia, was a firm commitment to economic reform and progress. In her account, Johnson suggests that Labor under Keating tried to ‘marry the social and the economic’, and to do so in a way that shaped the nation and national culture in order that they be more consistent with the Labor government’s economic agenda (Johnson, 2000, p. 24). Keating himself alluded to this point in July 1992, referring to cultural policy: Those who still reach for the gun when they hear the word culture might be more easily persuaded if they think of it as an extension of the argument for value-added industries … The economic imperative and the cultural one can’t be separated – they have the same conclusion … That’s why in the 1990s I think we should be seeing our cultural development as an integral part of national development: resourcefulness, prizes in achievement and identity woven into a strand of national endeavour. (Ryan, 1995, pp. 45–46) Here it is possible to find close links with Tingle’s observations about post-recessionary politics and the importance of broad cultural change as a prerequisite for further economic reform. Importantly however, in Johnson’s account of Keating, cultural change driven by economic ‘imperatives’ is clearly government-led (Johnson, 2000, p. 24). Thus, from this perspective, the emergence of Keating’s big picture can be explained with reference to a changing perception of the requirements for national economic reform and economic security. Accepting that Keating’s big picture was consistent with Labor’s broader economic agenda, it is still necessary to establish the ways in which Keating’s exhortations suggested the need for a re-emphasis on civic education. Speaking in 1992 about the resistance evident in some sections of the Australian community to the objective of redefining Australian culture and identity, Keating reflected that Australia had in the past behaved like a dependent child, relying on Britain to provide parental guidance (Ryan, 1995, p. 40). Lamenting the Australian tendency to dismiss or ignore domestic achievements, Keating suggested that ‘our ignorance of these things comes from that same abdication of respons-

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ibility for our own destiny, and our own history’ (Ryan, 1995, p. 41). Citing historian Stuart Macintyre (who was later to become the chair of the Civics Expert Group), Keating made the point that Australians demonstrated a greater knowledge of influential social and political figures in other countries than our own. Further, Keating reiterated the argument that the domestic history that we did practice and consume was not civic history (Ryan, 1995, p. 42). Speaking at the National Library in August 1992, Keating offered praise for historian Manning Clark, whose ‘great contribution was that he encouraged us to believe that our history was worth writing and knowing’ (Ryan, 1995, p. 52). In contrast, he used the opportunity of his New Visions speech to chastise opponents of his vision for their ignorance of Australian history and their unwillingness to facilitate change: We at least in the Labor party know we are part of a big story … which is also the story of our country. And what do they know? What do they know? (Quoted in Ellis, 1997, p. 497) In making these arguments, Keating drew attention to Australians’ lack of knowledge and understanding about the Constitution and the Australian system of government. It was this lack of knowledge that he believed would be the most significant barrier to the creation of an Australian republic. He also aligned his own party with ‘Australia’s story’ and thus positioned the Opposition as the indeterminate ‘they‘ – the ‘non-believers’ who clung to an outdated and archaic link with a colonial power, and who sought to impose ‘un-Australian’ economic reform agendas. In order to investigate the various options and issues involved in the conversion of Australia to a republic, Keating set up the Republic Advisory Committee (Keating, 1993). The Committee handed its report to Keating in October of 1993. In the report, the Committee echoed Keating’s concerns about the widespread lack of knowledge about Australia’s Constitution and system of government: The view is often expressed that Australians generally do not know enough about the Australian Constitution, its history and our system of government. The Committee would like to think that its work and the surrounding debate has contributed to a higher level of understanding of, and interest in, constitutional issues. Nevertheless, much more needs to be done. The Committee found a common view among the community and its leaders, regardless of particular views held on the republican debate, that Australians should have

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more opportunity to understand the basic principles of Australian government. (Republic Advisory Committee, 1993, p. 20) Lack of awareness amongst young people was perceived to be an especially important issue: … discussion will be enhanced considerably if a genuine effort is made to inform Australians, particularly young Australians, about their constitution, its history and their system of government generally. (Republic Advisory Committee, 1993, p. 22) As a consequence of this focus on young people, the Committee thought that new initiatives in civic education might play an important role in rectifying the deficit in knowledge: The Committee believes that those entrusted with primary and secondary education in particular, should consider the introduction or extension of appropriate courses in the fields of civics and government. (Republic Advisory Committee, 1993, p. 20) Thus, in the findings of Keating’s enquiry into the Republic, the civics deficit emerged as an important issue, and a revamping of civic education was explicitly advocated to address this problem. In doing this, the Republican Advisory Committee proposed a direct link between civic education and Keating’s big picture. An examination of the policy environment created by the second Keating government has shown that there are clear connections between Keating’s post election agenda-setting activity and the emergence of civics education as an issue of concern for the Federal government in 1993. The analysis has rejected interpretations of Keating’s ‘big picture’ that dismiss it as a deliberate distraction or a personal preoccupation. Rather, it has demonstrated that Keating’s ‘big picture’ was tied (at least rhetorically) to broader economic objectives, and to an emerging perception that certain social and cultural elements of the Australian nation needed to be reformed if further improvements in economic performance were to be achieved. In Keating’s narrative, civic education played an instrumental role in generating a more informed citizenry, which was thought to lead to a more independent and unified national identity. This, in turn, was intended to promote a more outwardly focused, confident and economically successful nation that could throw off its colonial heritage. A free and independent Australia psychologically centred not in Europe but in Asia seems to

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have been Keating’s primary policy objective. It was in this context that civic education became a policy priority.

Civic education: the views of policy elites How did this construction of civic education emerge? A series of interviews conducted with policy elites associated with the second Keating government as well as some recently released biographical material related to Paul Keating help to address this question. Details concerning the identification and selection of policy elites for the larger study from which this data has been drawn, as well as consideration of the methodological issues relating to the interviewing of elites, can be found in Kennedy and Connor (1999). First however, it is necessary to identify the players who Keating sought to include in his civics initiative and the processes that he attempted to follow in investigating and developing options for a new civics curriculum. In response to the Republic Committee’s recommendations, Keating set up the ‘Civics Expert Group’ (or CEG as it became known). In a recently released biography of Paul Keating, Don Watson, the author, refers to the CEG explicitly: … the government appointed an expert group to inquire into the state of civics education in Australia and provide the government with a plan for a non-partisan program of public education. In June 1994 Melbourne University historian Stuart Macintyre, the directorgeneral of the New South Wales Department of School Education Kenneth Boston, and Susan Pascoe of the Catholic Education Office were appointed to the task. (Watson, 2002, p. 492). This group played a key role in constructing the agenda for the new civics. It undertook an extensive program of consultation across the country. This was not the normal way for the Commonwealth government to consult with State/Territory governments on an educational matter. There are formal mechanisms for Commonwealth-State discussions (including what was then called the Ministerial Council for Education, Employment, Training and Youth Affairs), but they were not used on this occasion. The CEG consulted a wide range of stakeholders, including former Prime Ministers. It was a consultation conducted by ‘experts’ on a matter of national importance. The attempt to bypass normal Commonwealth-State consultation mechanisms arguably reflected a concern that these channels were often highly politicized. In this sense, the use of an expert group and the deployment of new

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consultation mechanisms can be seen as an attempt to avoid charges of political influence over the new civics curriculum. It would of course be naive to suggests that an ‘expert’ panel could guarantee a ‘politically neutral’ civics curriculum. As Considine (1994, p. 215) observes, ‘[e]xperts bring their own history to the policy world’. The choice of ‘experts’ in policy making is partly a technical matter of incorporating relevant skills and knowledge, but it also involves strategic political choices. So who were the experts that constituted the CEG, what was their history, and why were they chosen? The group was comprised of three members. Stuart Macintyre was appointed as Chair. At the time of his appointment, Mactintyre was the Ernest Scott Professor of Australian History at the University of Melbourne. According to Peter Botsman, former head of the Australian Labor Party’s Evatt Foundation think tank, MacIntyre was well known to Don Watson, the Prime Minister’s speechwriter. He was also known in Australian Labor Party (ALP) circles and had been involved with or contributed to the party on other issues. He had written to the Prime Minister concerning what he believed to be the parlous state of history teaching in Australian schools prior to the establishment of the CEG. He was also a staunch advocate of an Australian republic and his view of history was broadly leftist in orientation. He was not a stranger to issues of civic identity and civic values. It was a natural appointment for an ALP government. Susan Pascoe’s appointment was not as ‘natural’ as Professor Macintyre’s in terms of her affinity with issues relating to civic education. At one level she represented the Catholic education sector that accounts for almost 25% of enrolments in Australian schools. On her own admission, during an interview, she was extremely surprised at the telephone call she received from the Prime Minister’s office offering her the role on the CEG. Yet her years in Western Australia had brought her into contact with Kim Beazley, subsequently deputy prime minister and the ALP leader following Keating’s defeat in 1996. In 2001, following the victory of the ALP government in Victoria she was appointed CEO of the Victorian Curriculum and Assessment Authority. She was no stranger to ALP politics and politicians. In addition, subsequent to her appointment as a member of the CEG, she was elected President of the Australian College of Education. From the mid to late 1990s she was an influential educator at both state and national levels. Dr Ken Boston owed his appointment to the fact that he was a bureaucrat in a state where the Liberal Party, traditionally a party in opposition to the ALP, was in power. This was an attempt to signal the non-partisan nature of the work being done by the CEG. He presided over the largest school education system in the country. While he was

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a member of the CEG, the NSW government added vocational education and training to his brief making him arguably the most influential education bureaucrat in the country. Ironically, as the chief bureaucrat for school education in New South Wales he had no control over the curriculum – that area was reserved for a statutory body, the Board of Studies with its own CEO. Yet he had very decided views on civic education and on the republic. It is perhaps also ironic that in late 2002 he was appointed to head up the UK’s Curriculum and Qualifications Authority. While his initial appointment to the CEG was essentially political, he was a person of substance and vision when it came to civic education. It was to the trio of Macintyre, Pascoe and Boston that the fate of civic education was entrusted. They were undoubtedly an elite group, two of whom were linked to the ALP in one way or another and one of whom was deliberately not so linked. Yet another important link within this elite grouping was to the city of Melbourne. Peter Botsman suggested this connection in an interview: And it was only after the election had been won, that we all started to think about the republic – it was Don Watson and Stuart Macintyre and the Melbourne group that I think were most responsible for pushing it, particularly Don. It seems likely that both Macintyre and Watson belonged to this ‘Melbourne group’. As it happened, Pascoe was also Melbourne based. Boston was from Sydney but his appointment was of a different kind. The existence of ‘social circles’ of policy elites has been noted in the broader literature and civic education does not appear to have been an exception (Kadushin, 1968). The birthplace of the ‘new civics’ in Australia appears to have been Melbourne – the city that was also the site of Australia’s main celebration of its independence from Great Britain in 1901. It was not an unnatural location for the rekindling of civic education related to the emergence of an Australian republic. Aside from the three expert members, other backstage players were involved in pushing civic education onto the agenda. Consider Botsman’s account of Don Watson’s role: He was an imaginative and great speechwriter but he was more than a speechwriter, he was an incredible ideas person for Keating. I think some of Keating’s greatest moments were shared with Don and the New Visions speech was one of them. Don was a great sounding board for Keating.

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It is also clear from Botsman’s account that Watson was determined to promote the civics initiative and the republic. Interestingly, the following quote also reveals how the civics initiative came to be personally identified with Macintyre: Yes, there was a double announcement. Don has already got it in his mind that Stuart’s civics study would be part of the move towards the republic but there were two things: one was the announcement of the Republican Advisory Committee and the other was Stuart’s initiative. Indeed, the following extract from Watson’s biography illustrates his commitment to the civics initiative and his view that it was central to Keating’s agenda: It [civic education] was … a necessary corollary of the sharper, enlivened national consciousness that a republic implies. It was the practical stuff of the republic, as opposed to the symbolic. It gave virtue and substance to the debate. (Watson, 2002, p. 492) This attests to the fact that there was a conscious link made between civic education and the ‘big picture’, in particular the creation of an Australian republic, by backstage as well as frontstage elites. ‘Big picture’ politics and the views of elites associated with them drove the recreation of civic education in Australia in the mid-1990s. Until that time civic education had been absent from Australian schools for almost forty years. Its comeback signaled a new view of Australia’s future in a rapidly changing world. Links to the past were seen to be expendable and an understanding of new contexts and new priorities was seen to be essential. It was a grand mantle that was placed on the shoulders of civic education.

The ‘big picture’ and the Australian electorate: the picture begins to dim Following the advice of the Republican Advisory Committee and the Civics Expert Group, Keating announced his government’s support for the revival of civic education in Australian schools on 6 June 1995. Prime Minister Keating and the elites around him had enthusiastically endorsed the revival of civic education in the context of creating an Australian Republic. Yet such an endorsement in no way implied that

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their fellow citizens agreed with such a view. Within nine months of announcing his support for the new civics as part of his ‘big picture’ for the future of Australia, Paul Keating’s government was defeated by a conservative coalition that went to the 1996 election with a ‘policy free’ platform. In conceding defeat on 2 March 1996, Prime Minister Keating referred explicitly to his ‘big picture’ politics, conscious that it may well have been his commitment to this particular construction of politics that, in the end, told against him: I’m exceptionally proud of what Labor has done over 13 years and I’m proud of what I was able to do over four years and I’ve got to say not once did I tackle and take on a second best option, I always, I never threw a policy fight, I always went, I always went for the big ones. And people may say well, uh, the big picture and call it into question, but in the end it’s the big picture which changes nations and what ever our opponents may say, Australia’s changed inexorably for good, for the better. (Applause) Thank-you. (Keating, 1996) And what of the $25million program of civic education endorsed by his government? Between June 1995 and March 1996 some tentative plans had been made to develop a multi-faceted program involving schools, technical training colleges and universities, with the bulk of funding going to schools. Yet on the direct orders that emanated from the Office of the incoming Prime Minister, this initiative was put on hold for review by the respective government departments who were to benefit under the Keating government’s initiative. There were new elites at the helm and the incoming Prime Minister had already declared his hand on what this paper has shown to be the foundation stone of the new civics: the development of an Australian Republic. Prime Minister John Howard was a staunch monarchist. When the time came to put a referendum to the Australian people on the issue of the Republic, as he had committed his party to do, he made sure that it was in such a form that it had to fail. Thus the Keating civic education initiatives lay dormant for over a year to be revived in May 1997 by one of the most conservative Ministers in a Conservative government. Needless to say, it was not Keating’s vision that drove this new conception of civics. In the end, civic education constructs an image of the nation state, its history and its values and this is why it is of enduring interest to elites of all political persuasions. Those who ascended to power on

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2 March 1996 had new visions for Australia and for its schools. They were not the visions of an Australian republic, of new relationships with Australia’s indigenous people, of engagement with Asia. Yet that is a story for another time, but it will be a similar story in one important way to the one told in this chapter: it will be about elites and how they sought to construct civic education in their own image. Note 1. Several attempts were made to interview the former Prime Minister but without success.

7 Citizenship and Ecological Obligations Nigel Clark

Obligation, moral philosopher John Caputo proposes, is the feeling of being tied or connected; its root in the Latin ligare – to bind (1993: 7). The question of who we share obligations with has a long history in discourses on citizenship. So too does it have a considerable past in ecological discourses, which go back well beyond the flurry of environmental concerns of recent decades. Enlightenment philosophes considered the prospect of a world citizenship that would bind all of humanity together – though the idea was later overshadowed by the achievements of the sovereign state system. Over more than a century, political ecologists – an eclectic consortium united by a fusion of biological understandings and moral yearnings – have also dreamt of binding humanity together (Bramwell, 1989). Their melding of humankind was to be part of a much greater reconciliation, a fusion of humanity with the cosmos. So too, in a sense, was the Enlightenment vision of a world citizen, for ‘men of the world’ were to be ‘cosmopolitans’; they would bridge the cosmos and the polis – the social world and the natural world (Featherstone, 2002: 2). When the early political ecologists began to think through the issue of reconciling humanity and nature, in the latter 19th century, there was already a new exigency to the project, for the natural world seemed to be in a very real and physical retreat before the advance of society. In the context of the contemporary revival of interest in ‘cosmopolitanism’, the heat has been turned up still further. Climate change and other global environmental transformations bring a new urgency and an even greater palpability to the question of governance at a transnational level. Contemporary environmental issues, as Rob Gilbert puts it, give ‘material substance to the notion of global citizenship’ (1996: 55). 107

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The way that issues of global governance are drawing together cosmopolitan and ecological discourses is surely one of the more intriguing features of the contemporary political landscape. It is, I want to suggest, a promising, yet perplexing convergence, full of hope but replete with tension. For cosmopolitanism and political ecology, despite their common concern with bridging cosmos and polis, have gone about their projects in very different, some might say opposing, ways. Cosmopolitans – with a ‘taste for the promiscuous and the unstable’ – have allied themselves to urban life, whereas ecologists – with a preference for harmony and stability – have tended to cleave to the land. Accordingly, cosmopolitans have gravitated to communities that are open and heterogeneous, while ecologists have dreamt of settled and tightly knit communal life (Clark, 2002: 106). Over the last decade or so, the pressures of intensifying globalization and the demands of a worsening environmental predicament have begun to draw these disparate lineages together. The language of cosmopolitanism and ecology are fusing into a shared rhetoric of volatile mixtures, blurred boundaries and intolerable risks. The flow of ‘(m)oney, technologies, commodities, information and toxins’ or ‘… pollutants, drugs, fashions and beliefs’ are now described in a single breath (Beck, 2000a: 20; McGrew, 1992: 66); overlapping problems calling out for new forms engagement, new modes of obligation, new practices of governance. This rapprochment of cosmopolitanism and ecology is unfolding, covertly and explicitly, under the figure of global citizenship, and in the interests of the forging of a global civil society. It is perhaps too early to speak of a fully-fledged discourse of ‘cosmopolitan ecological citizenship’, but its symptoms and traces can be discerned in much of the contemporary writing on the political and ethical. Today, cosmopolitans and political ecologists are equally concerned about the failure of the system of sovereign states to deal adequately with the intended and unintended consequences of globalization. Environmental problems figure highly. As industry’s side effects seep, drift or irrupt across national borders, ‘communities of environmental fate’ come into being that bear little relation to the layout of sovereign states (Held et al., 1999: 412). But fate is not always the operative word. There are also communities of environmental mobilization that operate across borders: networks and movements forged out of shared anxiety. In this regard, cosmopolitan theorists and ecological writers alike affirm environmental activism as an exemplary case of ‘globaliza-

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tion from below’; as a force for political renewal that counters the powerful forms of globalization that seem to bear down on ordinary people ‘from above’ (Beck, 1999: 37, 47; Stevenson, 2002: 257). Without downplaying the significance of intergovernmental bodies in the construction of a global arena for environmental issues, many theorists, practitioners and activists concur that a ‘global civil society’ worthy of the name needs to be constituted out of much broader participation. It is a conclusion which the disappointments of the 2002 World Summit at Johannesburg may well be reinforcing. Institutional change, however, may not be enough. Here again, the disparate lineages of cosmopolitanism and political ecology appear to converge. Both traditions come with a strong, though distinct, sense that changes in sensibility – transformations of culture and self – are a vital aspect of political change. Today, it is cosmopolitanism’s star that appears to be on the ascendant, for the political and ethical subject now being most roundly affirmed in citizenship discourses is one who is comfortable with difference, one who tolerates or affirms the ‘otherness’ in our midst (Stevenson, 2002: 251). Conversely, political ecology’s commitment to small, stable and integrated communities, once a staple in visionary texts like the Ecologist’s Blueprint for Survival (1972), is growing less voluble. Ever fewer critical thinkers of any allegiance, it seems, wish to associate themselves with the idea of exclusive communities or the rituals of purification that so often accompany them. Or do they? Is it so easy to escape the gravitational pull of the communitarian dream? For there are other levels at which we might obsess over inclusion and belonging – beyond the scale of small and the local, and there other borders to patrol – aside from political ones. It is a curious political world, it must be said, in which some of the most hopeful transnational assemblages are forged over the fear of ‘foreign bodies’; in which people mobilize to keep matter where it belongs. This is the context in which cosmopolitanism and political ecology are coming together, conjoining in the struggle to come to terms with the ‘contingencies, complexities, uncertainties and risks’ of everyday life (Beck, 2000b: 81). But are they struggling in the same way, or to the same ends? What possibilities for new modes and practices of citizenship might emerge from the convergence of cosmopolitanism and political ecology? In this chapter, I want to lift the lid on ‘ecological cosmopolitan citizenship’, even as it is congealing – to see what it is making of itself. And to wonder what else we might make of it.

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Environmental rights, ecological obligations Fuelled by the growing sense of an environmental crisis, the volume of ecological writing has grown vast, as we might expect. The ‘ecology’ that interests me here comes pre-processed, in that it has already been taken up by social and political theorists. Though modest in quantity, what is interesting about the ecological citizenship literature is the way that it takes ecology less as an object of analysis, than as a co-conspirator, a partner in transforming the political landscape. An early article by Bart van Steenbergen, Towards a Global Ecological Citizen (1994), is pivotal, in that it broaches most of the themes that have subsequently been developed in the ‘ecocitizenship’ field. Van Steenbergen’s premise is that ‘(t)he history of citizenship can be defined as one of increasing inclusion’: an approach referred to as the ‘expanding circle’ model, (1994: 144; see Dobson, 1998: 232). Social movements, he reminds us, have played a vital role in this progressive extension of rights, with abolitionist, labour, civil rights and women’s movements each campaigning to expand the category of those entitled to political recognition. The environmental movement brings a new set of demands for extended rights to this historical march. The extensions van Steenbergen draws our attention to are the rights of future humankind and the rights of nature. The rights of coming generations, he notes, were enshrined in the concept of sustainability – central to the UN Report Our Common Future (World Commission on Environment and Development, 1987; van Steenbergen, 1994: 144). As well as highlighting the concern with preserving the environment for others distant in time, however, this report made an equally strong case for taking into consideration the way that activities in one part of the world impact on others distant in space: a point passed over by van Steenbergen but picked up by other ecocitizenship writers (see Batty and Gray, 1996; Dobson, 2000). But arguably, for all the thorny issues they raise around international negotiating tables, accounting for future and remote human beings does not perturb conventional notions of citizenship as much as the proposal to extend political recognition beyond the domain of the human. Following the lead of animal rights and environmental activists, van Steenbergen frames his version of ecocitizenship as ‘an all-inclusive category based on equal rights for all living creatures’ (1994: 151). The question of whether it is feasible to identify and articulate the interests of animals and plants has proved vexing, but many ecological thinkers are in basic agreement with van Steenbergen that full ethical and political acknowledgement

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of the non-human world is imperative. Mark Smith, for one, is unequivocal in his claim that ‘the relations of entitlement and obligation break through the species barrier and beyond’ (1998: 99). This ‘beyond’, as Smith, van Steenbergen and others concur, can take us all the way to the level of the planet, which now, no less than individual life-forms, appears in need of our consideration. As Andrew Dobson has demonstrated, these various ‘extensions’ of ethical-political concern collectively challenge one of the main conventions of modern citizenship: the idea that one receives entitlements in exchange for recognizing the corresponding rights of other individuals in the political community (2000: 42–3). Geographically remote human beings, and to an even greater extent, future humans and non-human entities, cannot be expected to play a full part in such reciprocities. This serves to unsettle the very notion of rights being bound to membership of a particular political community – at least in the territorial sense of community that defines the nation-state. In this way, a set of core ecological or environmental principles about the rights of life ‘in the broadest sense’ appear to converge which one of the central precepts of cosmopolitanism: the idea that political, ethical or cultural allegiances that cut across state borders might be at least as significant as the bonds within these borders (see Dobson, 2000: 45). This rattling of the foundations of modern political identity is even more pronounced if we step beyond the realm of rights. Though van Steenbergen raises the issue of a deepening of ‘duties, obligations and responsibilities’, rights are arguably his main focus (1994: 146). Batty and Gray (1996) however, question the appropriateness of the language of rights for dealing with environmental issues. The trouble with the discourse on rights, they suggest, is that it tends to assume the presence of some authority charged with their enforcement or safeguarding. This places the burden of responsibility ‘elsewhere’. By shifting the emphasis onto a duty to care for the environment, Batty and Gray argue, the onus of responsibility falls on ourselves, turning the attention to our own actions and their wider consequences (1996: 161–3). More than any expanded attribution of rights, Dobson argues, it is the sense of obligation felt by ecocitizens to spatial, temporal and nonhuman others that overrides any expectation of a reciprocal recognition (2000: 42–7). Obligation, in this way, goes beyond legal duty or contractual requirement, it can even go beyond a sense of fair play, resting instead on care and compassion freely felt for the lives of others. ‘Ecological citizenship’, Dobson concludes, ‘…is about care for generalized others, for distant and unknown strangers’ (2000: 56). It is

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in this sense of a kind of unbounded empathy that membership most emphatically ceases to be a significant concern for the ideal ecological citizen: a surpassing or transcendence that applies not only to nation state allegiance, but to membership of any political community that defines itself by borders or limits.

Identifying with ecology But this leaves open the question of the source or motivation of the convention-defying ethical and political sensibilities of the ecological citizen. What assumptions, we might ask, underpin the virtues of the global ecocitizen, what kind of knowledge or experience nourishes the sort of unreserved obligations that commentators have glimpsed in environmental politics? If obligation is a feeling of being bound, then the ligatures of ecocitizenship seem to be at once symbolic and tangible: an ethical link which tracks actual physical interconnections. Gilbert speaks of a feeling of ‘direct responsibility for the environment’ that arises from of the awareness of ‘(e)ach person’s inextricable role in the web of life’ (1996: 60). Along with a number of other theorists in the citizenship field, van Steenbergen draws on the Gaia hypothesis, the idea that the earth is an integrated, self-regulating and life-like entity. The ecocitizen’s obligations, in this regard, stem from being ‘aware of his or her organic process of birth and growth out of the earth as a living organism’ (1994: 150). Much has also been made of the significance of photographs of the earth from space, which, as Derek Heater suggests, offer an iconic vision of a beautiful but vulnerable ‘common homeland’ (1990: 187). Coupled with the Gaia concept, the ‘whole earth’ image encourages thinking about the planet as a being, for whom caring is ‘like protecting the health of a person’ (see Giddens, 1990: 171). In short, when citizenship theorists speak of extending care and compassion beyond the realm of the human, what they tap into, with varying degrees of explicitness, is the contemporary ‘ecocentric’ approach to political and cultural life. Today’s ecocentrisms inherit the lineage of political ecology that Bramwell traces, and in keeping with this legacy, draw on scientific ecology and a range of philosophical traditions – particularly those with vitalist and spiritual leanings – in order to make a moral and political claim for a nature-centred view of the world. Capturing the gist of contemporary ecocentrism as it was crystallizing in the early 1970s, Anne Chisholm described it as ‘a new morality, and a strategy for human survival rolled into one’, noting its

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core intuition that ‘everything links up’ (cited in Bramwell, 1989: 6). Environmental political theorist Robyn Eckersley, whose work has been cited affirmatively by ecocitizenship writers, fills out this profile of ecocentrism: According to this picture of reality, the world is an intrinsically dynamic, interconnected web of relations in which there are no absolutely discrete entities and absolute dividing lines between the living and the nonliving, the animate and the inanimate, or the human and the nonhuman. (1992: 49) What the fusion of discourses of citizenship and ecocentrism appear to provide, then, is a kind of intimate globality, in which flows of concern, care and compassion overcome the hindrance of geopolitical and conceptual borders. Explicitly or implicitly, ecological citizenship is put forward as an alternative to other political and cultural responses to the turbulence of globalization. Or rather, as a vital component of a more general sensibility, variously referred to as ‘global citizenship’, ‘earth citizenship’ or ‘world citizenship’. For all its lack of heed to boundaries, ecocitizenship is not to be conflated with the jet-setting globalism of the transnational capitalist or other footloose elite. Their frenetic mobilism belies any true interconnectivity with the earth, as van Steenbergen argues, and accordingly, ‘lacks any global civic sense of responsibility’ (1994: 149–151). But so too is the ecological citizen distinguished from citizens whose primary allegiance remains with the nation-state, or with any other sense of bounded community. As we have seen, the ecocitizen’s sense of obligation to distant others breaks with the logic of territorial membership of the nation state, just as it appears to unsettle the membership criteria of any communitarian identification. The opportunities of the global marketplace, and the comforts of closed communities may well be the twin temptations of our current global condition, as Nick Stevenson suggests (2002: 260). These are the polar attractions through which the ‘cosmopolitan’ disposition must steer its course. But just because the models of ecocitizenship now on offer appear to be manoeuvring through a similarly fraught terrain, I would suggest, this need not imply complicity with ‘the new political cosmopolitans’. As we have seen, contemporary cosmopolitanism makes a virtue of accommodating ‘difference’ or ‘otherness’: it entails meeting and not shying away from the challenges of ‘incompatible allegiances and incommensurable obligations’ (see Urry, 1999: 314).

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Three of the most important dimensions of this cosmopolitan negotiation of difference, Ulrich Beck claims, are the engagements with ‘the otherness of nature, … the otherness of other civilizations and modernities, and … the otherness of the future’ (2002: 18). This resonates unmistakably with ecocitizenship’s non-discriminatory approach to non-human, distant and future others. Ecological citizenship, to recall van Steenbergen, is ‘all-inclusive category’. And yet, the very notion of the ‘all-inclusive’ should sound a jarring note. For it suggests that, rather than making an issue out of the tension between multiple, cross-cutting forms of allegiance or identity, the ideal is reintegration. As Heater affirms, the kind of citizenship symbolized by the whole earth image is ‘the ultimate integrative and placating identity, incorporating as it does, the score of state citizenships as well as other social and cultural group feelings’ (1990: 181). In this sense, it is not so much that boundaries and differences are problematized by the shift to a global scale, than they are transcended. Or perhaps neutralized. The seductions of all-inclusiveness have been acknowledged by Dobson, who points out that the ‘expanding circle’ approach to rights hinges on qualities shared by various communities. Its logic – in keeping with the mainstream of western philosophy, he notes, is one of identification: the recognition of the self in the other (Dobson, 1998: 232). This critique may have broader relevance, however, for it is by no means clear that a deepening and expanding sense of ecological obligation escapes the assimilationist logic of concentric extensions of rights. If it holds true that the literature on ecocitizenship is indebted to ecocentric thought, then the issue of identification is difficult to escape. For, as Eckersley explains it, the primary aim of ecocentrism is ‘to expand the circle of human compassion and respect for others beyond the human community to include the entire ecological community. The realization of this expansive, ecocentric sense of self is brought about by the process of identification with other beings …’ (1992: 62). Or as leading ecocentric philosopher Arne Naess puts it: ‘the self is widened and deepened. We see ourselves in others’ (cited in Chamberlin, 1997: 4). Now, this is not to suggest that identification with others is necessarily harmful, and not a valid source of care and compassion. But it does raise some questions about the ease with which ecological and cosmopolitan discourses are being hitched together. As Bramwell makes clear, the abiding theme of political ecology has been the pursuit of ‘wholeness’: the overcoming of all dualisms based on ‘the realization that we are all part of the one earth’ (1989: 239). This quest

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for a higher unity in which self and other are reconciled, I would argue, should not be collapsed into cosmopolitanism’s tolerance or affirmation of difference. While ecology’s essential intuition of ‘the oneness of the cosmos’ might be pressed into a certain affinity with the universalist cosmopolitanism of the Enlightenment, it is much more difficult to equate it with contemporary cosmopolitanism’s highlighting of the irreducible tension that arises from ‘being a citizen of two worlds – “cosmos” and “polis”’ (see Bramwell, 1989, 44; Beck, 2002: 18). With regard to its ‘unifying impulse’, it is by no means clear that contemporary political ecology, or the forms of citizenship nourished by it, has fully escaped the attractions of communitarianism. Neither the valorization of ‘shared identity’, nor the ‘Volkish’ association of this identity with ‘native soil’ are necessarily dispensed with when the idea of a ‘common homeland’ is projected onto the larger screen of the whole earth. As Roland Robertson (1992) has observed, a sense of the global is not incompatible with communitarian leanings. The ‘earth as home’ thematic in the environmental movement, he has suggested, can be read as a case of homesickness or nostalgia for community writ large, its point of reference redirected from ‘a small, specific locale’, to a new identification which is ‘collective on a global scale and directed at globality itself’ (Robertson, 1992: 161). This is not to assume that all or even most of the small contingent of ecological citizenship theorists have taken political ecology’s communitarian legacy fully to heart, intentionally or unintentionally. But what makes it very difficult to pass any judgement is the pervasive distancing of ‘otherness’ in the ecocitizenship genre. To put it simply, others who are temporally, spatially or biologically remote do not provide the same challenge as others who share our geographical and cultural terrain: strangers whose difference is ‘in our face’, as it were, rather than in our theories. I will shortly sketch out some scenarios in which otherness might test the tolerance levels of the ecocitizen. Firstly, however, it is important to note that political ecology is not the only available intellectual resource when it comes to linking environmental and citizenship issues. There are also theorists whose melding of the global citizenship or cosmopolitan thematic with the environmental problematic does not waver so far from the traditions of social thought. The most prominent of these is sociologist Ulrich Beck, whose ‘world risk society thesis’ stands as one of the most influential attempts to draw environmental issues into mainstream social theory, and more particularly into the cosmopolitanism debate. Does Beck’s more explicit ‘cosmopolitanization’ of the environmental thematic,

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I ask, provide a passage away from the communitarian temptations of political ecology? Or does it succumb to temptations of its own?

World risk society The concern with nature in Beck’s work draws less on political ecology than on the German tradition of critical theory: specifically, it would appear, the Frankfurt School’s concern with the catastrophic effects of instrumental rationalization. Effectively, Beck takes Adorno and Horkheimer’s ‘return of repressed nature’ argument and gives it a late 20th century environmentalist spin, by drawing attention to the social importance of a set of new technological hazards. Technologies like nuclear energy or genetic modification, he argues, manipulate nature at such an intricate level that when something goes awry, the effects are impossible to contain or undo (Beck, 1992). So great are the dangers, and the perceptions of risk that surround them, that the whole modern faith in technologically led societal advancement is undermined (Beck, 1999: 33). However, popular concern also triggers new organizational efforts to challenge and confront those authorities held culpable. Environmental and other movements with a ‘risk’ focus construct communities of resistance out of communities of fate (Beck, 2000b: 95). Moreover, because the risks themselves overspill borders, organizations must follow suit, joining together trans-nationally. In this way, Beck offers one of the most fully worked out theorizations of ‘globalization from below’ in the literature on global civil society. ‘World risk society’, he goes on to suggest, has a distinctly cosmopolitan cast to it (1999: Ch 2). This not only because of the issues that arise out of the geopolitical border-crossing behaviour of environmental problems and environmental activists. It is also because of the way that new forms of technological manipulation and their attendant risks bring the borders of living things into question. Crises like Chernobyl or BSE and issues like genetically-modified foodstuffs, Beck argues, prompt contemporary individuals to reflect on the boundaries between their own bodies and the outer world, between species, and between nature and society in general. ‘Ecological shock’, he claims, ‘is arousing a cosmopolitan everyday consciousness which transcends even the borders between man, animal and plant’ (Beck, 2000a: 38). As with the other theorists of ecocitizenship we have looked at, Beck conceives of the forms of interconnectedness that concern him as at once physical and symbolic. But whereas those writers influenced by political ecology conceive of the boundary-effacing interconnectivity

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of humanity and the natural world as a given – as the original condition of natural existence, Beck’s interconnectivities are the outcome of human technological (mis)adventures. He is not interested in pondering the conditions of original nature, and indeed, suggests the issue has been rendered irrelevant by the all-pervasive ‘socialization of nature’ (1999: 21). The sort of recourse to nature made by ecologists is misguided, ‘(f)or the nature invoked is no longer there’ (1999: 21). Under such conditions, Beck suggests, our most promising option is an ongoing ‘cosmopolitan’ interrogation of the nature-society boundary and a critical orientation towards the technological developments that are effacing this boundary. This is the one of the pre-eminent tasks that brings together the citizens of ‘world risk society’. In outlining a state of irrevocable tension between the social and the natural – from which any recourse to a higher order unity is precluded, it appears that Beck has steered well care of ecology’s dreams of oneness. ‘The concept of risk and the concept of world risk society’, he concludes, ‘are concepts of ambivalence, meaning that they destroy distinctions and reconnect antitheses’ (2000c: 222). But a nagging question remains: just how ‘ambivalent’ is the ‘cosmos’ side of Beck’s ‘cosmopolis’? His repeated assertions about the end of nature and all the boundaries that once defined it comes across a little like the malevolent twin of the expanding circle approach. If the nature that threatens us is solely one of our own manufacture, then where is the room for any other capacity of the biophysical world to surprise, perturb or unsettle us? This begs the question of the source of Beck’s emphatic pronouncement on the end of nature. On what grounds can we be so confident that ‘(n)ot a hair or a crumb’ of nature endures? (see Beck, 1992: 81). And what openings can there be for respect or tolerance of the ‘otherness’ of the biophysical world if every trace of this otherness has been erased? But what if the very notion of the end of nature was itself undecidable; what if neither the limits nor the potentials of the natural world could be pronounced with confidence? At this point, I want to add some flesh to my hesitations about cosmopolitan risk theory and ecocentric citizenship models by briefly addressing some substantive environmental issues. Certain threats to biological diversity, I suggest, accentuate the ambiguities of cultural difference, and raise fundamental questions about overcoming conflict by any ‘ecological’ appeal to a higher level of unity or oneness. Climate change, while appearing to support Beck’s conception of an ‘end of nature’, may in fact raise ambivalence to a new degree.

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Living with ambivalence 1: biodiversity and bioinvasion For those influenced by political ecology, as we have seen, the ecocitizen is one who feels obligation to care for diverse others, if not the planet in its totality. The operationalization of such obligations, most notably by trans-national non-governmental organizations, is a significant achievement, which has deservedly been proclaimed for its contribution to a potential or nascent global civil society. At the same time however, there is usually some physical distance between NGO supporters, or the bulk of the environmental movement, and the social ‘others’ who tend to be their beneficiaries or co-activists. Moreover, the pathways are not always wide open for less privileged recipients of support to talk back to their benefactors or ‘collaborators’- as indeed the ‘non-reciprocation’ idea hints at (see Elliott, 1998: 251–2). Away from Europe, however, in the former ‘colonial periphery’ – environmentally concerned ‘westerners’ share physical and cultural spaces with so-called indigenous or non-western peoples. This can bring issues of difference and tolerance to the fore with an immediacy that many ‘metropolitan’ environmentalists or ecologists may not have experienced. At Europe’s ‘Antipodes’, the settler societies of the South West Pacific, the question of protecting biodiversity is an acute one. New Zealand, for example, has some 1,000 species considered under threat. No less pressing are issues of respecting the rights and interests of those ‘indigenous’ peoples whose occupancy of these regions proceeds that of Europeans. These two sets of obligations, however, are not necessarily harmonious. The close relationship between ‘tribal’ peoples and indigenous biota has often been noted, and frequently taken as a model of stewardship or sustainability by environmentalists, and is one of the inspirations for ecocentric thought and practice. But when it comes to actual strategies for conserving biota, complicity between environmentalists and first peoples cannot be assumed. The customary rights to ‘native’ forests and all their fauna are ceded to the Maori of Aotearoa (New Zealand) by the Treaty of Waitangi, a foundational document signed by British and Maori representatives in 1840. However, when species are officially protected, even ceremonial use of forest resources can result in state prosecution. In Northland, there were cases of Maori being prosecuted for hunting the protected kereru or wood pigeon, a traditional delicacy. Further clashes have arisen when Maori set about felling protected trees for construction of waka or canoes – ironically for the 1990 sesquicentennial celebration of the Treaty of Waitangi – and again when a totara tree was felled for the centre pole

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of a new church (Moxon, 1998: A14). In such cases, the greatest outrage against ‘breaches of conservation’ have often been expressed by environmentalists. Protecting indigenous species may be fraught, but greater accord might be expected when it comes to dealing with invasive nonindigenous species. One of the most serious threats to indigenous biota in New Zealand and Australia are the hundreds of species deliberately or accidentally introduced by European settlers in the colonial era. Government bodies and environmental groups expend considerable time and resources attempting to control or eradicate invasive organisms – often with some vehemence (Morton and Smith, 1999). Not surprisingly, this can generate conflict with animal rights activists. Considerable discord arose from a Department of Conservation proposal to eradicate of herd of feral horses on New Zealand’s volcanic plateau, on account of their threat to rare sub-alpine plant-life. Local animal rights activists, with support from their European counterparts strongly resisted the culling of the ‘Kaimanawa’ herd. On quite different grounds, however, some local Maori were also deeply opposed to the removal of the horses, on account of long-standing tribal affiliations with the horses (Franz Weber Foundation, 1987: B2). Indeed, programs for control or eradication of invasive species in New Zealand and Australia can by no means assume the support of Maori or Koori (Australian Aboriginals). In many cases Maori and Koori hunters have become heavily reliant on introduced species – including feral pigs, deer and rabbits. Along with their uptake into hunting regimes, Aboriginal people have also incorporated introduced animals in a symbolic or mythological sense: the feral cat, for example, having its own ‘Dreaming’ origin story (Smith, 2000: 158–9). Nicholas Smith suggests that many Aboriginals, while sensitive to the ecological effects of species introduction, have a much more flexible approach to nonindigenous species than white settler populations. Some also find the absolute intolerance of conservationists or environmentalists to introduced biota disturbing and difficult to comprehend, with one Central Australian respondent remarking: ‘Why do Conservation mob only love birds and plants and not these [feral] animals?’ (cited in Smith, 2000: 160). Smith’s evidence supports the idea of an active negotiation by Aboriginals between categories of strangeness and belonging: with respondents from the Arrernte people explaining that: ‘feral animals were “mwerranye” or “arrenye”’ (Arrernte for ‘belonging to the land’) even though it was universally recognized that they had once been ‘ulyerrinye’ or ‘stranger to the lands’ (Nugent, cited in Smith, 2000: 160).

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The point of these examples is not to propose an open door for species introduction, which is a serious and escalating problem around the world, but to raise some questions about any easy association between environmental conviction and tolerance of complexity and ambivalence. Arguably, it is the ‘first peoples’ of the settler colonies rather than western environmentalists or ecologists who demonstrate ‘cosmopolitan’ attitudes toward the ‘otherness’ of nature, in the sense of learning to live with and through the ecological turbulence that introduced species have visited upon them. Adapting to strangers with whom the spaces of everyday are shared, in this regard, may reveal more about the challenge of cosmopolitanism than the more generic or universal embrace of ‘distant’ forms of otherness.

Living with ambivalence 2: climate change The problem of invasive species raises many similar issues to the hightech undelimitable accident that is central to Beck’s risk society thesis. But what bioinvasion also foregrounds is a capacity for survival, proliferation and self-transformation that is intrinsic to biological life: a sense in which nature, though compromised has far from ‘ended’ (Clark, 2002). The unregenerate liveliness and volatility of the natural world is no less pressing in the case of global climate change. The fact that human action may have transformed the earth’s climate may be read as evidence for the demise of ‘original nature’. Yet what comes up time and again in climate change research is the difficulty, if not impossibility of distinguishing anthopogenic change from the cycles or oscillations that are part of the ‘ordinary’ variability of the earth. Temperatures, sea levels, and extreme events, it appears, all ebb and flow according to ancient rhythms. Whatever changes humans precipitate, then, are superimposed on and entangled with these other, ongoing instabilities (Davis, 2001: Ch. 7). What might this mean for the climate change problematic? Around the international negotiating table representatives of countries that might be affected by climatic transformations are as eager to quantify the various national contributions to climate change as heavily industrialized states are to minimize or deny the evidence. Though issues of social or environmental justice may compel global negotiators to reach conclusions about anthropogenic influence, it is probably fair to say that the precise delineation of human-induced from ‘natural’ change will perpetually elude researchers. But does this sort of undecidability have the same implication as pronouncements of the ‘end of nature’?

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Central to Beck’s risk society thesis, as we have seen, is the idea that ‘manufactured’ disasters now overshadow any other sort of crisis or extremity the planet faces. A strong acknowledgement of natural variability, however, suggests that we have no solid ground on which to make this judgement, nor to make any bold pronouncement about when or where nature ends. Indeed some biologists have made a compelling case that the very idea of the ‘end of nature’ makes little sense, on account of the unabated transformational and regenerative capacities of the living earth (Margulis, 1998: 150–1). To take the natural oscillations of the earth’s climate seriously is to recognize that humans and other organisms have been driven to mobility by changing environmental conditions for millions of years. The ‘ecological disaster’, in other words, precedes the political boundary, to a far greater extent than it supersedes it. If another bout of climate change should set in motion a new wave of ‘environmental migrants’ or ‘refugees’, we may have to concede that their (or perhaps our) precise ‘status’ is ultimately undecidable. Is the appeal of the environmental refugee for a new home a fair request in compensation for an old home destroyed by the activities of other societies? Or is it simply an appeal for hospitality in the face of the normal chaos of living on a geoclimatically unstable planet? Or is it both at once, in some proportion that defies calculation? Should the environmental refugee arrive with a demeanour of gratitude – or of accusation? Are those who offer the refugee a new home being virtuous, or merely just? Such may be the level of undecidability that will confront the future ecocitizen, and neither visions of a homely ‘whole earth’ nor of a totally ‘manufactured’ nature will adequately guide our judgement. The literal meaning of ‘disaster’, Caputo reminds us, is to lose one’s star, or to be disoriented (1993: 6). Thus all disasters – and environmental catastrophes in particular, we might say, unsettle or estrange people and other living things. And in this regard, the refugee from global climate change might be taken as paradigmatic of the ‘stranger’: not just in the sense that they may be forced to move somewhere unfamiliar, but that their very presence is fraught with ambivalence. Not only do they not belong, but they challenge and confound the very categories of belonging. The sense of obligation we might feel toward to an ecologically displaced stranger, by this logic, is difficult to subsume in the category of ‘shared identity’. But there is another possible source of obligation, another spur to responsibility, and that is the spontaneous response of empathy we may feel for someone or something who is in need, who appears before

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us uninvited and vulnerable (Caputo, 1993: 5–8). Rather than bonding over our shared fate or natural interconnectivity, we might be drawn together under such circumstances by the difference that events have placed between us: a difference that summons us not to be indifferent. This is the sense of obligation that the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas placed at the heart of his ethics, and it is one that Andrew Dobson has suggested might form a useful counterpoint to ecological thought’s more familiar focus on identification (1998: 230–233). In a context in which a future ‘global civil society’ may have to deal with vast displacements of population – migrations that will turn remote others into neighbouring strangers – such ethical and political categories of ‘strangeness’ might play a pivotal role. As indeed they might even under conditions in which others remain geographically remote.

Cosmopolitan ecological citizenships to come A sense of obligation, I have suggested, is central to ecological citizenship. Yet there are experiences of obligation which have yet to impact as deeply on discussions of ecocitizenship as they might. But this is not to say that feelings of obligation engendered by a sense of shared identity should be displaced by those prompted by the events of ‘disaster’ and estrangement. Perhaps what we are most in need of are ethics and politics that negotiate between the obligations of strangeness and the obligations of identification; that recognize and play on the fact that neither category can ever be absolute, and that every event contains elements of difference and elements of sameness. Or as Donna Haraway once put it ‘One is too few, but two are too many’ (1990: 219). The current revival of the cosmopolitan vision, it would appear, has the negotiation between oneness and division at its heart, whereas most explorations of ecological citizenship, thus far, perform better on the unity and belonging side of the equation. Ulrich Beck’s notion of a cosmopolitan risk society, and the many social scientific accounts that have drawn on it, gesture auspiciously toward a sensibility of ambivalence, yet fail to adequately acknowledge a difference and differentiating force that inheres in the cosmos as well as in the polis. Many of the ‘new political cosmopolitans’ attend to the inescapable turbulence and messiness of human life, and even of humanized nature, but they would do well to follow that minority of ecological writers who take into account ‘the manifest complexity and uncertainty of the natural order’ (see Smith, 1998: 44). One of the most promising openings for negotiating between universality and particularity in the environmental context comes from

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Bryan Turner, who has played an important part in the revival of citizenship studies. Turner proposes that one of most vital characteristics shared by all human beings – and other living things – is our vulnerability. Hence: ‘the vulnerability of the human body provides the starting point for an account of human commonality as the basis for a cosmopolitan ethic’ (Turner, 2002: 56). A shared sense of vulnerability allows us to think at once of our obligation toward those we identify with, and of obligation engendered by those ‘made strange’ by disasters or other unsettling events. The common experience of vulnerability, in this way, embraces the paradox of encouraging identification with those who have been ‘estranged’ or unsettled. On a turbulent planet, then, our civic virtues and responsibilities might come to be seen as hinging on hospitality to vulnerable and displaced others, a gesture that can never be entirely separable from the possibility of them having to care for us. Commitment, or long term obligation, Turner reminds us, requires some attachment to place, some sense of a homeland (2002: 49). But at the same time, he adds, an obligation to care for strangers requires a certain ‘scepticism’ or ‘distance’ from this home (2002: 57). The idea of the earth as a shared home, in this regard, is not without appeal, if we are mindful of the capacity of this ‘home planet’ to convulse and perturb, to be destructive of particular and local homelands, and to work its differential force on ‘earth citizens’. Along with accumulating symptoms of human-triggered global environmental change, there is gathering evidence that we have been living for some time through a geo-climatically quiet spell, a 10,000 year long ‘fluke in earth history’ – that might be drawing to a close, with or without our help (Eisenberg, 1998: 433). On a crowded, densely interconnected planet, it goes without saying, this is a disturbing prospect. Perhaps we still await a ‘cosmopolitan ecological citizenship’ that is up to such challenges: a disposition with one foot in the cosmos, the other in the polis, and a real taste for the generative tension between the two. But many of its constituent elements may already be in circulation, I have been suggesting, in fragments that are gravitating quickly and hopefully toward each other.

8 European Rights: Citizen Rights or Human Rights? Frank Hoffmeister

‘No taxation without representation!’ This was the well-known formula used by settlers in the prelude to American Independence from the British Crown in the 18th century. It explained a general demand for participation in the process of political decision-making of those living in the colony. Why, the settlers argued, are we obliged to financially contribute to a state in which we have no say? This logic may not be outdated. In contemporary Europe, the very same question arises in the Members States of the European Union with regard to those living on their territory. Should they confer political rights only on those who are members of the historically and politically developed community? Or should they include non-nationals as a constituent part, provided that they live on their territory for a certain period of time? Since it is impossible to compare the legal answers of 15 different EU states in this field, I will only address the European level. The constituent Treaties of the European Union as well as the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union define, whether rights belong to Union citizens or also to non-EU-nationals. The Charter was adopted at the Nice Summit, on 7 December 2000, by the Presidents of the European Parliament, the European Council and the European Commission upon a proposal by the tripartite Convention1 as a joint Declaration.2 Although it is not legally binding like the Treaties, I will work on the hypothesis, that it will be turned into primary law by the next Intergovernmental Conference in 2004. Analyzing the Treaties and the Charter, we shall inquire, whom the civil society in the European Union consists of, and how far European legal entitlements reach. First, we shall have a look at the holders of the market freedoms. Second, we will overview which further rights are reserved for European citizens. Third, we shall scrutinize the scope of 124

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human rights in the European Union. Finally, a comparative view on the personal scope of these rights will lead us to a conclusion.

II. The holders of the market freedoms In 1957, when the Treaty on the European Economic Community (TEC) was concluded, the founding fathers envisaged the homo economicus. In their minds, economic barriers to a common market should be overcome. The treaty formulations to this end varied (and do vary until today): Art. 28 (ex Art. 30) TEC on free circulation of goods uses the indicative: ‘Quantitative restrictions and measures of equivalent effect (…) are prohibited’. The same is true for the articles on free circulation of services and free establishment (Art. 43 ex 52; Art. 49 ex 59 TEC)3 and the general prohibition of discrimination on grounds of nationality (Art. 12 ex 6 TEC). In contrast, the workers’ freedom of movement is phrased in the language of rights. Art. 39 para. 3 (ex Art. 48 para. 3) TEC provides: ‘The free circulation of workers shall entail the right a) b) c) d)

to accept offers of employment actually made; to move freely within the territory of Member States for this purpose; to stay in a Member State for the purpose of employment (…); to remain in the territory of a Member State after having been employed in that State (…).’

In the view of the European Court of Justice (ECJ), these textual differences do not play a major role when asked whether Treaty provisions could directly grant rights to individuals. The Court, starting with the famous Van Gend en Loos Case in 1963, ruled that individuals can rely on a treaty freedom if it contains ‘a clear and unconditional prohibition’ that does not require any legislative intervention on the part of the states. The fact that ‘it is the Member States who are made the subject of the negative obligation does not imply that their nationals cannot benefit from this obligation’, the Court observed.4 In its jurisprudence it is by now firmly established that all market freedoms are directly applicable, i.e. that they bear the character of an individually enforceable right.5 On first hand, these so-called ‘four freedoms’ concern EU economic operators. As you can draw from the wording of the respective provisions, the general prohibition of non-discrimination, the free circulation of workers, the freedom of services and the personal freedom of establishment only apply to EU nationals. In the area of goods and free

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establishment, EU law is more inclusive. Goods can benefit from the internal market, not only if the origin of production lies within a Member State. Art. 23 para. 2 and Art. 24 (ex Art. 9 para. 2 and 10) TEC expressly enlarged the scope of the liberty to goods from third countries, provided that they have fulfilled their customs duties while entering into the common market. Comparably, foreign companies benefit from the freedom of establishment, if either their seat or their principal administration lies within the territory of a Member State (Art. 48 ex 58 TEC). What do we learn from this first section? We can summarize: Personal market freedoms are limited to EU nationals. The philosophy behind this rule is a simple one. It is the idea of reciprocity and mutual benefit. A Member State opens his markets for foreign workers, services and professionals because it knows that its own nationals benefit from the same rights in all other EU countries. Additionally, if a Member State is convinced by the traditional liberal theory on rational allocation of resources he would also feel, that the free movement of production factors serves the growth of GDP for the society at large.

III. European citizen’s rights So far, I only focused on ‘cold’ economic issues. Let us now turn to a ‘warmer’ issue, namely to that of European Citizenship. In the 1980s, some observers held the view, that the bundle of rights conferred on migrants just described, de facto created a form of Community citizenship.6 Roughly ten years later, in 1991, the Maastricht Treaty officially introduced the concept of Union citizenship. Every national of a Member State enjoys as a citizen of the Union rights and obligations under the Treaty (Article 17 ex 8 TEC). Six years later, the Amsterdam Treaty added that Union citizenship does not replace national citizenship (Art. 17 para. 1, 3rd sentence TEC). So, the starting point is clear: the following rights are exclusive, they are only conferred to EU nationals. There specific contents can be described as follows. 1. Current treaty based citizens’ rights a) Freedom of movement (Art. 18 TEC) A prominent citizen’s right is the freedom of movement and of residence. The wording and the telos of the norm reveal that Art. 18 TEC is directly applicable.7 Since this right is not reserved – like the market freedoms – to a ‘worker’ or a ‘serviceperson’ or a ‘free professional’, the Treaty implies a generalization of precedent Community rights and the

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removal of their attachment to the exercise of economic activity.8 This is a big step forward. On the other hand the right contains a restrictive ‘qualifier’. According to Art. 18 (ex Art. 8a) TEC the freedom of movement and residence is subject to the limitations and conditions laid down by the Treaty and secondary legislation. What are these? As the law now stands, only citizens who fulfil the conditions of the three Directives on the general right of residence,9 on the resident’s right of pensioners10 and on the resident’s right of students11 may freely move. In essence, citizens have to show that they have adequate financial means resources and are covered by sickness insurance (Art. 1 of the respective Directives). To put it bluntly: The right of free movement and residence within the Union does not exist for citizens who depend on social aid. The qualifier in Art. 18 TEC reflects the Member states preoccupation to ensure an equitable distribution of charges particularly regarding social protection.12 Nevertheless Art. 18 TEC, in another context, may turn into a ‘real’ citizen’s right. Let me illustrate this statement by a reference to a controversial ECJ case:13 Mrs. Martinez Sala, a Spanish woman, had lived in Germany since 1968, holding various jobs there until 1989. Her permit of residence ended in 1984, but from then on she got subsequent documents certifying that the residence permit had been applied for. In 1993, she gave birth to child and applied for child-raising allowance (‘Kindergeld’). At that time German law foresaw that this financial scheme only applies to Germans and non-nationals who possess a right to permanently stay in the country (§ 1a Bundeserziehungsgeldgesetz, BErzGG). Mrs. Martinez Sala, however, only had a temporary residence right and did not qualify for the aid. She felt discriminated against and brought a claim in a German Court which referred the case to the ECJ. The Luxembourg judges could only rule that Mrs. Martinez Sala is entitled to receive ‘Kindergeld’, if the situation fell in the ‘in the scope of application of Community law’. If it was outside the Community scope, the general prohibition on discrimination (Art. 12 TEC) would not apply. At first sight, the question can be easily answered in the affirmative: Mrs. Martinez Sala has exercised her right to free movement and residence under Art. 18 TEC. Her situation is thus regulated by Community law. It follows therefrom that, under Art. 12 TEC, she should receive the same social assistance in Germany as Germans. At second sight, the question is much more difficult. Does the freedom of movement and residence – a liberal right to defend one’s liberty against state

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interferences – really entail a complementary right to receive social benefits like nationals? Would this not mean that the protection of national social systems envisaged by the ‘qualifier’ on Art. 18 TEC would seriously be undermined? The European Judges seemed also to feel uneasy about the case. On the one hand, they affirmed that Mrs. Martinez was legally residing in Germany so that the case fell within the personal scope of Community law.14 On the other hand, they also maintained that the case fell within the material scope of Community law,15 since child-raising allowances are, generally, regulated in some branches of the secondary law.16 This latter step can be criticized: In the specific case, Mrs. Martinez Sala did not qualify for a social benefit under the specific provisions of the secondary law. In my view, the abstract existence of secondary rules in the area of social rights cannot explain that the concrete case reaches the material scope of primary Community law,17 unless a link to the freedom of movement and residence is proven. Therefore, the Court must ask, whether the right to receive a social benefit is closely connected with the right to free movement and residence in Art. 18 TEC.18 If the disputed state’s measure would, in fact, seriously impair the willingness of EU nationals to move, then the prohibition of discrimination does serve as a ‘backbone’ to his freedom of movement. It would trump national discriminations clearly hampering the right to move and reside in another Member State. If on the other hand, the connection between the state’s measure and the freedom of movement and residence is loose and merely hypothetical, Art. 18 TEC is not affected with the consequence that Art. 12 TEC does not apply either. Maybe another case19 can serve as a further guideline to understand the concept of Art. 18 TEC. Mr. Bickel and Mr. Franz, an Austrian and a German, drove to the province of Bolzano, Italy. Since they both committed criminal offences on Italian territory, they had to appear before a Bolzano criminal court. Members of the German speaking minority in that part have the right to use German in the proceedings. The national court was uncertain whether Community law required that Mr. Bickel and Mr. Franz should also enjoy this privilege. Again, upon referral the ECJ had to decide, whether rules designed for nationals should be extended to other EU nationals. This time, the Luxembourg judges correctly scrutinized, whether the right of free movement was affected. They answered in the affirmative by pointing out: The exercise of the right to move and reside freely in another Member State is enhanced if the citizens of the Union are able to use

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a given language to communicate with the administrative and judicial authorities of a State on the same footing as its nationals.20 The Court cited also another precedent, where it was held that EU tourists cannot be discriminated against when they claim compensation under a national law because they have been victims of a brutal criminal act.21 To my mind, these cases show that a migrant, after entering another Member State, can trust to be treated like a national in criminal proceedings. It would be a serious setback for the effectiveness of freedom of movement if an EU citizen would lose significant procedural rights in the country of destination. The connection between the right to move and the necessary non-discriminatory treatment in criminal proceedings is thus sufficiently close. Finally, let me mention the most recent case22 which illustrates how far the implications of the freedom of movement for EU citizens can reach. Mr Grzelczyk, a French national, had begun to study at the Belgian University of Louvain in 1995. While he defrayed his own costs of living during the first three years, he applied for payment of a minimum subsistence allowance (‘minimex’) at the relevant Belgian social institution for the fourth year. The latter was willing to grant him the ‘minimex’ because Mr Grzelczyk had worked hard to finance his studies so far, but his final academic year, involving the writing of a dissertation and the completion of a qualifying period or practical training, would be more demanding than previous years.23 However, under Belgian law, only Belgian students and EC workers can receive the ‘minimex’. Since Mr Grezelczyk did not belong to either category, his application was refused. Upon a request by a Belgian court the European Court of Justice decided that the refusal to pay minimex constituted a discrimination against a European citizen who had exercised his right to free movement. The Court examined the restrictions laid down in the free circulation Directives24 and interpreted them in a narrow sense. I quote: Whilst Article 4 of Directive 93/96 does indeed provide that the right of residence is to exist for as long as beneficiaries of the right fulfil the conditions laid down in Article 1, the sixth recital in the directive’s preamble envisages that beneficiaries of the right of residence must not become an ‘unreasonable’ burden on the public finances of the host Member State. Directive 93/96, like Directives 90/364 and 90/365 thus accepts a certain degree of financial solidarity between nationals of a host Member State and nationals of other Member

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States, particularly if the difficulties which a beneficiary of the right of residence encounters are temporary. In sum, we can see that the right to freely move and reside, as contained in Art. 18 EC, may have an impact also on the social security system of Member States, if it is shown that discrimination in social rights would seriously impair the mobility of EU citizens. b) Right to vote (Art. 19 TEC) The second important citizen right is the right to vote. In its European dimension, it consists of two separate entitlements.25 aa) Art. 19 (ex 8b) para. 1 TEC informs us about our right to vote and to stand as a candidate at municipal elections in the Member State where we reside. Again, the precise conditions of this right are laid down in secondary law.26 These rules had a huge impact on Member States. France and Spain had to change their constitutions in order to comply with this provision. Germany inserted a special constitutional provision for the sake of clarity (Art. 28 para. 1, 3 of the Basic Law).27 The right to vote of EU nationals touches upon the very question of civil participation in political affairs. On the one hand, Member States cannot (yet) agree to let other EU nationals take part in national elections. On the other hand, it is recognized, that participation in local affairs should be broadened to those EU nationals living there. Only a minority of Member States, like Denmark, Ireland, the Netherlands as well as Portugal and Spain (the latter based on reciprocity) had accepted the principle beforehand. In others, the concept of a nation state was held to be exclusive. For example, in the eyes of the German Constitutional Court a right to vote for non-Germans runs against the principle of democracy.28 Beyond the pure legal consequences the political ones should also be considered. According to a French author proposals to extend the right to vote at the municipal level for foreigners in France won public support because it was difficult to justify that non-nationals were refrained from voting even if there cultural and linguistic affiliation to France was much closer than those of some EU nationals.29 bb) Art. 19 para. 2 TEC provides for the right to vote for the European Parliament. Since 1979 the House is directly elected. According to the relevant secondary law,30 a voter may exercise his right either in his country of nationality or in the country of residence. Except-

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ionally, Member States may require a certain period of residence, if the rate of total EU nationals residing within its territory exceeds 20%.31 c) Right to diplomatic and consular protection (Art. 20 TEC) A genuine innovation of the Maastricht Treaty was the right to diplomatic and consular protection laid down in Art. 20 (ex Art. 8c) TEC. Any EU citizen who finds him or herself in trouble in a third country in which his or her state is not represented, can call upon other EU Member states to be helped as if he or she was a national of that Member State. In 1995, the necessary arrangement between Member States was enacted.32 But this expansion of diplomatic and consular protection to EU citizens entails one difficulty on the international scene. Under international law, the third country is not obliged to accept diplomatic protection by a government for a non-national. The EC Treaty cannot create obligations for third states not being bound to that treaty.33 Thus, the third state can just refuse to deal with a EU government which wants to exercise diplomatic protection for another EU national.34 The situation differs in the case of consular protection. Here, a notification by EU Member States of their will to extend their good offices to other EU nationals is sufficient to be legally valid.35 In the light of these difficulties, EU governments have opted to implement only the duty to equal consular protection.36 Although the English and French wording of Art. 20 TEC can support such an understanding – they refer to ‘protection by the diplomatic or consular authorities’, the title of Art. 20 TEC (‘diplomatic protection’) indicates a broader scope. Even more persuasive, the second sentence of this article calls upon Member States to start the necessary international negotiations. That can only mean, that Art. 20 TEC also envisages diplomatic protection in the proper sense. Thus, each EC citizen, who feels to be treated in contravention to international law, can ask another Member State government to present a claim under international law against the delinquent state after having exhausted local remedies. d) Procedural rights (Art. 21, 194, 195, 255 TEC) Last but not least, EU citizenship entails some procedural rights. Among those are the rights to petition to the European Parliament and to seize the EU Ombudsmann.37 Interestingly, Art. 21 TEC regards these rights as citizens rights, whereas Art. 194 and 195 TEC broaden

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the personal scope to all natural or moral persons residing within the territory of a Member State. Consequently, both rights are not especially designed in character as mere citizen rights.38 The same is true for the third procedural right, namely the right to access documents of EU institutions. Again, also non EU nationals are holders of this right. It appears that this right will effectively produce transparency. The ECJ has already shown its willingness to interpret the possible exceptions to access in a narrow way. It overruled a judgement of the Court of First Instance39 in order to secure access of a Belgium lawyer to a general Commission Document which was also used in the Court proceeding on the national level.40 Furthermore, the Luxembourg Court obliged the Council to examine whether access should be given to those parts of a Council document whose disclosure could not undermine the protection of the public interest (public security, international relations, monetary stability, court proceedings, inspection and investigations) even if other parts of the same document contain such sensitive information. Confirming the finding of the Court of First Instance,41 it therefore annulled a Council decision not to disclose a report of the Council Working Group on Conventional Arms Exports to a Member of the European Parliament. It felt that the Council could have deleted those information in the report which concerned the assessment of the human rights situation in certain third States, while giving access to the other parts of the report dealing with the general interpretation of the criteria that regulate the arms export of EU Member States to third States.42 Only Art. 21 para. 3 TEC, included by the Amsterdam Treaty, can be regarded as a true citizen’s procedural right: the possibility to address EU institutions in one’s own language and to receive an answer in the same language is reserved to EU citizens. 2. Future charter based citizen’s rights Let us now ask whether the European Charter on Fundamental Rights will bring along further changes. Chapter V, which deals expressly with citizen rights, is rather cautious on the matter. Art. 39, 40 repeat the two dimensions of the right to vote described above, Art. 42–44 contain the procedural rights just mentioned, and Art. 45 para. 1 and 46 are similar to Art. 18 and 20 TEC on free movement, free residence, and diplomatic and consular protection. Still there are two important innovations. The first is the ‘right to good administration’ (Art. 41 Charter). As it is a procedural right to a fair and timely behaviour of EU institutions it is not astonishing that

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its personal scope refers to ‘every person’. In substance, para. 1 and 2 contain rights developed in the jurisprudence of the ECJ43 and the Court of 1st Instance.44 Para. 3 and 4 reproduce rights guaranteed by Art. 288 and Art. 21 para. 3 of the Treaty. The second novelty can be found in Art. 45 para. 2 Charter. Under this provision, freedom of movement and residence may be granted to nationals of third countries legally residing in the territory of a Member State. As is implied by the expression ‘may’, this is not a proper right. But it is, at least, a political programme for Community institutions to use their powers under Art. 62 para. 3 and Art. 63 para. 1 Nr. 4 TEC. The Charter gives priority to regulate the free movement of non EU nationals, a priority which was not included in the Amsterdam treaty, which provided that only some measures should be taken in the field of immigration and asylum within five years: the adoption of rules concerning the situation of non EU nationals legally residing on EU ground was not amongst these priorities.45

IV. Human rights Let us now turn to human rights. Most of us will share the view that the protection of human rights belongs to the main elements of a modern democratic society. Starting with the Universal Declaration of the UN General Assembly in 1948, and followed by regional and international conventions, the idea of human rights has also profoundly changed international law. What is their position in the law of the European Union? 1. Current treaty based human rights Originally, the TEC did not contain any reference to human rights. It was one of the grand achievements of the ECJ to develop a rich jurisprudence on the subject on a case to case basis.46 As a source of inspiration it used the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) binding all Member States, and the common constitutional traditions. Nowadays, Art. 6 para. 2 of the Treaty on the European Union (TEU) has incorporated the Court’s jurisprudence.47 By their very definition, human rights are not reserved to EU nationals. As we can learn from the ECHR, they entitle ‘everyone’ within the jurisdiction of a Member State (Art. 1 ECHR). Among them are the most fundamental rights as the right to life and the prohibition of torture and slavery (Art. 2–4 ECHR) as well as procedural rights (Art. 6, 13 ECHR) or individual freedoms like the right to

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respect for private and family life, religious freedom, free speech and the freedom of assembly and association (Art. 8–11 ECHR). Social rights are not included. Whereas these human rights cover a broad area of activities in theory, not all of them play a predominant role in the practice of the European Union. Generally speaking, EU human rights can only be applied, if they are directed against a Community institution or against a Member State implementing Community law.48 Let us take for example, the freedom of religion. How can it be impaired by actions of the European Union? Can an EU institution interfere with this right as long as the Union is not competent to regulate, let us say, the taxation of religious communities? The ECJ has only ruled in one case involving the freedom of religion. It concerned the (minor) question whether the Commission could ignore the application for an EU post of religious woman who did not take part in written examinations on the fixed day, that she regarded as holy.49 As you can draw from this example, mainly economic human rights like the right to property and freedom of entrepreneurship are relevant since the Community still acts mainly in this sphere. Council and Parliament may enact regulations or directives which restrain economic freedoms of citizens. The Commission may issue a decision against undertakings that contravene competition law. But the situation can change easily with further steps of integration. Imagine the creation of a European Police force with executive powers of detention, or regulating activities of a European Media Institute, we are convinced that a broad range of human rights is more than welcome. It is better to buy a warm jacket already in summer time before you might get cold in the coming winter. 2. Future charter based human rights Apart from Chapter V that contains the citizen rights described above, the European Charter also numbers a full range of human rights.50 Chapter I deals with basic rights, Chapter II contains the classic personal freedoms, Chapter VI enumerates procedural rights. Many of them are identical to the ECHR, whereas some are ‘modern’ rights like the right to physical integrity in the fields of medicine and biology (Art. 3 para. 2 Ch) or the protection of personal data (Art. 8 Ch). A remarkable step is the inclusion of the right to asylum and the prohibition of refoulement which, by definition, only apply to foreigners (Art. 18, 19 Ch). Another difference to the Treaty based rights is the mentioning in Chapter III of vulnerable groups that deserve special protection (the child, the elderly, persons with disabilities – Art. 24–26 Ch).

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The most visible discrepancy is, however, the existence of the large Chapter IV on ‘Solidarity’. Entitled is either ‘a worker’ – namely to information and consultation within the undertaking, to collective bargaining, to protection against unjustified dismissal or to fair and just working conditions (Art. 27, 28, 30, 31 Ch). Or just ‘everyone’ has the right of access to a free placement service (Art. 30 Ch). These formulations stick to the classical human rights approach that the nationality of the individual is irrelevant. A colourful picture is drawn by Art. 34 of the Charter on Social security and social assistance. I quote: (1) The Union recognizes and respects the entitlement to social security benefits and social services providing protection in cases such as maternity, illness, industrial accidents, dependency or old age, and in the case of loss of employment, in accordance with the procedures laid down by Community law and national laws and practices. (2) Everyone residing and moving legally within the European Union is entitled to social security benefits and social advantages in accordance with Community law and national laws and practices. (3) In order to combat social exclusion and poverty, the Union recognizes and respects the right to social and housing assistance for all those who lack sufficient resources, in accordance with the procedures laid down by Community law and national laws and practices. The provision uses three different techniques. First, the Union has only very limited power in the ‘normal’ sphere of social security benefits and social services when a worker or an employee does work only in his home country (Art. 137 TEC). Therefore, in para. 1, the Union cannot do more than ‘recognize and respect’ relevant national law and point to ‘relevant procedures laid down by Community law’. The national rules, for themselves, can define, whether and how foreigners take part in their social systems. Second, the situation changes, when somebody crosses an internal EU border. The Union law grants rights and privileges to EU economic actors and EU citizens, as we have seen earlier. Art. 34 para. 2 of the Charter now seems to envisage the broadening of the personal scope of these rights. The drafters do not refer to ‘EU nationals’ but to ‘Everyone residing and moving legally within the European Union’. As in Art. 18 TEC, the part of the sentence ‘in according with Community law’ may serve as a restrictive ‘qualifier’. Currently, Art. 2 of the relevant regulation 1408/7151 on social security includes EU nationals as well as

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stateless persons and recognized refugees residing within the territory of a Member State in the personal scope of Community law. Be it as it may: Secondary Community law can be changed. In the long term perspective, it is worthwhile noting that Art. 34 para. 2 of the Charter may be the nucleus of a ‘radical’ equality of EU and non EU citizens even in the sphere of social benefits and advantages. Third, the Union again ‘recognizes and respects’ national legislation concerning social and housing assistance. Unlike para. 1, para. 3 directly addresses the beneficiaries of the schemes: ‘all those who lack sufficient resources’. I suggest, that this was done with care. Whereas the Union and Member States can freely decide how to shape their system of social security and assistance, they may not when it comes to help for survival. Here, Art. 34 para. 3 of the Charter seems to oblige national and European institutions to include everyone in their schemes to enable humans to lead a decent live.

V. Conclusion Will the European Union be built on European citizen’s or on human rights? The concept of citizenship reflects the self-understanding of the Union as a political Union.52 Since it reserves rights to EU nationals, citizenship is by its very definition exclusionary for non EU nationals living in Europe.53 On the contrary, the concept of human rights, is a universal one: whether you belong to a certain political community or not, is irrelevant. The Union has opted to combine both concepts in a way like modern democracies do. Does the European combination point to ‘special’ perspectives for the ‘European’ civil society in the long run? Can we identify tendencies for more participation of EU citizens in political affairs or of non nationals in the society at large? Let me conclude with three observations: Union Citizenship is not a child anymore: Especially the jurisprudence on the free movement and residence54 shows that its introduction into the Treaty has not been merely a rhetorical excercise.55 Compared with national citizenship, however it is not a grown up, but behaves more like an adolescent: Protection against illegal measures of third states is restricted to consular help, although Art. 20 TEC also envisages diplomatic protection. Under Art. 19 para. 1 TEC, political participation cannot be exercised on the national level in other EU states. That Member States will be willing to open national elections to other EU citizens, is not probable in the near future. However, on the basis of reciprocity, EU Member States agreed to grant market rights

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and the right to vote on the local level to other citizens. Until now, the system has functioned for the good of all. In my opinion, European States in the 21st century have no choice but to move ahead: if European citizens will profit from the increasing rights of mobility, their call for a corresponding right to vote in the Member State where they reside, will get stronger and stronger. And rightly so: if the modern state is built to perform essential functions conferred onto his, those affected by his decisions should be able to shape the decision making. Although this ‘American logic’ would mitigate in favour of including also non EU citizens in the decision-making,56 one consideration does speak against such an approach: it is highly unlikely, that EU citizens would be allowed to vote in third states situated in other regions of the world. The law of the European Union, however, would assure that a right to vote on a national level will be uniformly applied in all Member States as a matter of mutual trust. Further on, the firm rooting of the right to vote for the European Parliament in Art. 19 para. 2 TEC might become more important in the future, if we imagine that European decision-making will be increasingly influenced by the House to the detriment of the Council. And nobody doubts, that the Union’s right to vote would extend to other forms of political participation, like e.g. to a possible European Referendum on the adoption of a European Constitution or to the direct election of the President of the EC Commission. Finally, with regards to human rights, I feel that the universalist approach is clearly established in the European Union concerning basic rights and fundamental freedoms. They protect everyone against public interferences by EU institutions. The European Charter makes these rights that have been protected by the ECJ in its jurisprudence more visible and up to date. The personal scope of social rights, however, is an open battle field. It is still not agreed in secondary law, whether social rights should be broadened to EU nationals residing in another Member State, but not engaging in an economic activity. Whether an inclusion of EU citizens will be accepted via the channel of a possible Court’s jurisprudence as to Art. 12 and 18 TEC remains to be seen. Maybe the European Charter will produce a fresh impetus in that direction. Then, we might say that the European Union will define itself not only as an Economic and a Political Union but also as a fully fledged Social Union. In this scenario, as pointed out in Art. 34 of the Charter, the scope of social rights will have to be defined both by the European and national legislatures, which themselves will be elected by European citizens. Thus, it is essentially our own democratic task to

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decide whether and to which extent social rights shall be granted to non EU citizens. Notes 1. Upon Decision of the European Council in Cologne (3rd/4th of June 2000) and in Tampere (15th/16th October 2000), the Convention consisted of 15 representatives of EU governments, one representative of the Commission, 16 Members of the European Parliament, and 30 Members of National Parliaments (see 2000, Europäische Grundrechtezeitschrift, 347 and 615). 2. Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union (see 2000, Official Journal, C 364, p. 1 et seq. To be found on the internet: http:// www.ue.eu.int/df/default.asp?lang=en). 3. In 1997, the Amsterdam Treaty changed the wording of Art. 43 and 49 TEC: Until then Member States were called upon to ‘eliminate gradually’ all barriers to the free circulation of services and to free establishment. Now, those barriers are just ‘prohibited’, equalizing the wording with Art. 28 (ex Art. 30 ECT). 4. Case 26/62, Van Gend en Loos v. Nederlandse Administratie der Belastingen, 1963 ECR 1, on 24–25, § 12. 5. See on Art. 12 (ex 6) TEC: Case 13/63, Italian Republic/Commission, 1963 ECR 357, 384; on Art. 39 (ex 48) TEC: Case 41/74, Van Duyn, 1974 ECR, 1337, 1347, §§ 5–8; on Art. 43 (ex 52) TEC: Case 2/74, Reyners, 1974 ECR, 631, 651–653, §§ 15–32; on Art. 49 (ex 59) TEC: Case 33/74, Van Binsbergen, 1974 ECR, 1299, 1310–1312, §§ 18–27. 6. A. Evans, European Citizenship, (1982) 45 Modern Law Review, 497; T. Oppermann, Sinn und Grenzen einer EG-Angehörigkeit, Essays in Honour of (Festschrift) Karl Doehring, Berlin/Heidelberg 1989, p. 713 et seq. 7. I. Pernice, in: H. Dreier (ed.), Kommentar zum Grundgesetz, Art. 11, § 5. 8. C. Closa, The Concept of Citizenship in the Treaty on European Union, (1992), 29 Common Market Law Review, 1137, 1161. 9. Directive 90/364/EEC; OJ 1990, L 180, p. 26. 10. Directive 90/365/EEC; OJ 1990, L 180, p. 28. 11. Directive 90/366/EEC; OJ 1990, L 180, p. 30; revised by Directive 93/96/EEC; OJ 1993, L 317, p. 59. 12. C. Closa (Note 8), 1162. 13. Case C-85/96, Martinez Sala vs. Freistaat Bayern, 1998–I ECR, 2708 ff. 14. Ibid, para. 58. 15. Ibid, para. 57. 16. Child-raising allowances are regarded as a family benefit within the meaning of Art. 4 (1) (h) of Council Regulation 1612/68 and as a social advantage within the meaning of Art. 7 (2) of the Council Regulation 1408/71. 17. See also C. Tomuschat, Case note on Martinez Sala, (2000) CMRL, 449, at 452. The author criticizes the ‘total separation between aspects rationae materiae and aspects rationae personae. Given that, as indicated, almost any issue may become involved in the dynamics of the regime of the freedoms under the Treaty, it would appear necessary to discuss matters relating to the scope rationae materiae of the Treaty not in abstract terms, but always in view of the given case on which a determination must be made’.

Frank Hoffmeister 139 18. M. Pechstein/A. Bunk, Das Aufenthaltsrecht als Auffanggrundrecht, EuGRZ 1997, p. 547, at 553; W. Kluth, Art. 18 TEC, § 5 in: Callies/Ruffert (ed.), Kommentar zum EU-Vertrag und EG-Vertrag, Neuwied/Kriftel, 1999. 19. Case C-274/96, Criminal proceedings against Horst Otto Bickel and Ulrich Franz, 1998–I ECR, 7637. 20. Ibid, § 16. 21. Case 186/87, Cowan v. Le Trésor Public, (1989), ECR 195, 216. 22. Case C-184/99, Rudy Grzelczyk v. Centre public d’aide social d’OttigniesLouvain-la-Neuve, (2001) ECR I–6193. 23. ECJ, loc. cit., §§ 10–11. 24. See notes 9–11. 25. See S. Oliver, Electoral rights under Article 8B of the Treaty of Rome, (1996) 33 CMLR, 473. 26. Directive 94/80 EC; OJ 1994 L 368/38; Directive 93/109/EC, OJ 1993, L 329, 1; revised by Directive 96/30/EC, OJ 1996, L 122, 14. 27. Bundesgesetzblatt 1992 I, p. 2086. 28. BVerfGE (Decisions of the Federal Constitutional Court) 83, 37 (SchleswigHolstein) und BVerfGE 83, 59 (Hamburg). 29. See C. Blumann, La citoyenneté de l’Union européenne (bientôt dix ans) – Espoirs et désillusions, in: V. Epping/H. Fischer/W. Heintschel v. Heinegg (ed.), Brücken bauen und begehen – Festschrift für Knut Ipsen zum 65. Geburtstag, Munich 2000, p. 3 at 20. 30. Directive 93/109/EC, OJ 1993, L 329/39. 31. Art. 19 para. 2 TEC, Art. 14 Directive 93/109/EC. 32. Decision of the Representatives of Member State Governments unified in the Council of 19th December 1995, about the protection of EU citizens by diplomatic and consular missions; OJ 1995, L 314/73. 33. Art. 34 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties. 34. Art. 46 of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations. 35. Art. 8 Vienna Convention on Consular Relations. 36. Art. 1 and 5 of the Decision of 19th December 1995 (see Note 27). 37. On the practice of the EU Ombudsmann see S. Tierney, European Citizenship in Practice? The First Annual Report of the European Ombudsmann, (1996) EPL 517. 38. Compare C. Closa, The concept of citizenship in the Treaty of the European Union (1992), CMLR, 1137, 1165: ‘the ombudsman is not conceived as an institution exclusive to the citizens of the Union’. 39. Case T-83/96 Van der Wal/Kommission, 1998 ECR, II-545. 40. Case C-174/98 P and Case C-189/98 P, Kingdom of the Netherlands and Gerard van der Wal ./. Commission, (2000), ECR I–1. Cf. D. M. Curtin, Citizen’s fundamental right of access to EU information: An evolving digital passepartout? (2000) CMRL, 7–41. 41. Case T–14/98, Hautala ./. Council, (1999) ECR II–2489. 42. Case C–353/99 P, Council ./. Hautala, (2001) ECR I–7657. 43. Case 222/86, Heylens, (1987) ECR 4097, § 15; Case 374/87 Orkem, (1989) ECR 3283; Case C-269/90 TU München (1991), ECR I–5469. 44. Case T–450/93 Lisrestal (1994) ECR II–1177; Case T–167/94 Nölle, (1995) ECR II–258. 45. Art. 63 para. 3 TEC.

140 Citizenship and Political Education Today 46. For an overview on the Human Rights Jurisprudence of the Court, see J. H. H. Weiler/N. J. S. Lockhart, ‘Taking Rights Seriously’: The European Court and its fundamental rights jurisprudence, CMLR 1995, 51–94; 579–627; I. Pernice, Gemeinschaftsverfassung und Grundrechtsschutz – Grundlagen, Bestand und Perspektiven, NJW 1990, 2409; J. Kokott, Der Grundrechtsschutz im europäischen Gemeinschaftsrecht, AöR 1996, 599. 47. See A. Biondi, The Flexible Citizen: Individual Protection after the Treaty of Amsterdam, (1999) EPL 245, 247. 48. Case 5/88, Wachauf, (1989) ECR 1989, 2609, 2639–40, § 19. This jurisprudence is reflected in Article 51 of the EU Charter. 49. Case 130/75, Prais, (1976) ECR, 1589, 1598. 50. For a first evaluation of the Draft Charter by German commentators see S. Grigolli, Die EU-Grundrechtscharta in der aktuellen Diskussion, Ursprünge, Positionen, Ausblick, (2000) The European Legal Forum, 2; Knöll, Die Diskussion um die Grundrechtscharta der EU aus dem Blickwinkel der deutschen Länder (Hessen), (2000) Neue Juristische Wochenschrift, 1845; Lindner, EG-Grundrechtscharta und gemeinschaftsrechtlicher Kompetenzvorbehalt, Probleme und These, (2000) Die öffentliche Verwaltung, 543; B. Losch, Bernhard/C. Radau, (2000) Zeitschrift für Rechtspolitik, 84; I. Pernice, Eine Grundrechte-Charta für die Europäische Union, (2000) Deutsches Verwaltungsblatt, 847 et seq; A. Weber, Die Europäische Grundrechtscharta – auf dem Weg zu einer europäischen Verfassung, (2000) Neue Juristische Wochenschrift, 537. 51. Regulation (EEC) 1408/71 of 14.6.1971, OJ 1971, L 149/2; revised by regulation 2001/83 (EEC), OJ 1983, L 230/6. Later changes of the regulation are listed in OJ 1997, L 28/228. 52. W. Kluth, Art. 17 TEC, § 4 in: Callies/Ruffert (ed.), Kommentar zum EUVertrag und EG-Vertrag, Neuwied/Kriftel, 1999. 53. See on this point A. de Búrca, ‘The quest for legitimacy in the European Union’ (1996) 59 Modern Law Review 349, 356–61. 54. See above under III 1 a. In the Grzelczyk case, The European Court of Justice made the following point of principle: ‘Union citizenship is destined to be the fundamental status of nationals of the Member States, enabling those who find themselves in the same situation to enjoy the same treatment in law irrespective of their nationality, subject to those exceptions as are expressly provided for’ (See ECJ, note 22, § 31). 55. M. Bultermann, Case note on Martinez Sala, (1999) 36 CMLR 1325, 1334. 56. Such an inclusion is advocated by H. Lardy, The political rights of Union citizenship, (1996) EPL, 614, 627.

9 Citizenship and Public Broadcasting in Europe Barbara Thomass

This chapter focuses on the function of public service broadcasting in a commercialized media landscape in which information serving the citizen is more and more endangered by programme offers addressing the consumer. In a first step the inter-linkage of the concepts of public sphere and citizenship will be unfolded and shown what they mean for public communication. In a second step it will be discussed what are the consequences of these concepts for public service broadcasting. The third and fourth element of the contribution are the consideration of the present situation of public service broadcasting in a commercial media environment and the challenge coming up by digitization. The last paragraph will show examples of the media performance concerning public sphere, interpreting programmes structures in France, UK and Germany.

1. Citizenship and public sphere Citizenship and public sphere are considered in this contribution as two narrowly interlinked notions which refer to active participation in democracy. Citizenship mainly refers to the rights the individual has against the state, the government and the law, and it comprises the right to participation in democratic and social life. While these rights are basically the right to vote, to express freely one’s opinion and to gather for defence of own interests, one precondition to perform these rights is a sphere in which a citizen might meet other citizens of similar – or contrary – interests, where exchange of ideas take place, where communication about public interests and issues develops. We refer here to a concept of political public sphere – as there are others with different orientations – which is grounded on the supposition, 141

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that communication is a stabilizing factor in a democratic society. Public sphere thus is understood as a space where citizens articulate themselves, where they express interests towards politics and politicians, and where they as well make efforts to influence and control them. Citizenship is practised within the political sphere, but independently from state and government. As well it is and should be performed without influence by any conditions of markets and economy. Public sphere thus is public communication in spaces where everyone has access, it refers to common issues and it is mainly mediated (sic!) by the media. Media are constitutive for public sphere, as they serve there as informant, as controller and as a platform for participation and debate, but as well as an actor themselves. Public Sphere can be described by using empiric facts – which are nevertheless difficult to be validated – and as a normative concept. It addresses the conditions for communication in society, in order to serve citizenship. As a normative concept it is dependent on universal participation to achieve the described aims to an optimum. When we consider the notion of public sphere as a normative idea we can distinct two models (Gerhards, 2002). The first is the liberalrepresentative one as it goes back to John Locke, John Stuart Mill (1861), Joseph Schumpeter (1942), Anthony Downs (1957) and Bruce Ackerman (1989). The latter discussed the dimensions of the concept within in the work of Jürgen Habermas. This liberal-representative model starts from the following preconditions: It is obligatory for democracy in a political system that decisions which are obliging are bound to interests and to processes of forming of the will of the citizens. This happens usually in elections. In order that the citizens are able to decide in elections they have to be informed about the competing applicants of power and about the actions and laws which had been put in practice since the last elections. Thus Robert Dahl (1989: 111f.) claims the possibility to inform oneself as a criterion of a democratic process in the sense of ‘enlightened understanding’. The role of public sphere in this model is to deliver information, to contribute to the forming of will of the citizens and to control of the political elite. Public sphere hence is the system of observation, showing the competing political elite. They – on their side – know about observation by the citizens, they are dependent on the positive attitudes of the citizens and therefore they will orientate their action towards the citizen’s expectations. So, a certain responsiveness of the elite to the citizens is guaranteed via the public sphere.

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In large societies public sphere is largely a public sphere made by the media, because an immediate contact of people and elite is no more possible. The second, the deliberative model (Peters, 1994) is more demanding as far as the role of public sphere is concerned. In respect to three dimensions we find a strong aspiration for defining the quality of public sphere (Gerhards, 1997): 1. Who is speaking in the public sphere? Jürgen Habermas, Joshua Cohen, Amy Gutmann and Dennis Thompson, authors defending this deliberative model, plead for a discourse in public sphere which should be the opposite of a model, where only transparency is demanded, but the implementation of decisions is a question of power. The autochthonous public sphere, that is to say the desirable, is a public sphere where the civil society is participating, i.e. groups of citizens, NGOs, etc. which are immediately bound to the interests and experiences of the citizens. 2. What is communication like? The character of discourse is a central element in the deliberative model. In a real discourse statements are founded by arguments, it is a well-conducted exchange of information and reasons between the acting groups and parties. The participants are orientated to a dialog, i.e. pursuing an orientation to the arguments of the others. Thus the rationality of the debate is given. 3. How is the character of the result of a debate? While in the first model the outcome of a debate is just implemented by majority, in the deliberative model it is a consensus which is scrutinized in a discourse, at least it is a majority position which has undergone such a discourse, and which is not only implemented by administrative power. In this model public sphere is the system were communication about the common good takes place, and the citizen is the actor without whom this model cannot work. The citizen is acting within groups, NGOs and as well as an individual. He or she is interested in contributing arguments to issues to be decided, is listening to other arguments and wants this dialogue to be recognized by those who are taking decisions. He/she wants these decisions to be informed by those arguments which had been exchanged before, so that his/her interests will be considered to a certain degree.

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To resume, a ‘good’ public sphere performance in the liberal representative theory in the following way: Elected representatives compete for the approval of the citizens by articulating opinions. The role of public sphere is just the creation of transparency about this competition and the discussed proposals. Transparency given, those in power can implement decisions. The deliberative model defends the inclusion of groups of civil society, that is to say as many citizens as possible in the public sphere, demands arguments and dialog, and the process of deliberation is ending in a consensus, at least in an approximation of the acting people. This implicates as well a ‘public interaction between the institutional sphere of power and the organized interests of people’ (Trenz/Eder, 2001, 17 f.), the inclusion of all those who are concerned by decisions (Eder u. a., 1998, 325). Thus public sphere might initiate a collective process of learning among citizens, which will inform and enrich future debates as well. Important notions of public sphere – and in consequence in citizenship as well – in the sense of a deliberative model are inclusion (or exclusion), transparency and access. Media as an important constitutive element of public sphere have to implement these notions into social reality.

2. Citizenship, public sphere and public service broadcasting In communication science, public sphere was connected traditionally to the media in the sense that they are an important field where discourse, debate about public issues and the forming of opinion – of a public opinion – takes place (Hickethier, 2000: 4). Referring to the different media it is mainly the press and broadcasting which are performing these tasks. With the emergence and development of new media, their constitutive role for public sphere will grow. Public sphere of mass media is defined by the providing of information and forming of public opinion and therefore of citizens as well. Furthermore, culture and entertainment in the media transport value patterns, social orientations, general ideas and images, which are as well a shaping element of public sphere and the consciousness of citizens. Above we stated that independence of politics and the state and autonomy of the market are two essential characteristics of citizenship and public sphere. But in broadcasting those principles have become obsolete since commercialization of audiovisual media has set other

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priorities (Raboy, 1995: 10). Within the normative concept of public sphere the guaranty of an aggregate societal communication is important, so that communication can work as a stabilizing factor of society. Thus we need a structure of communication serving members of society, not an earning from them (Gourd, 1997: 61). So, analyzing the media it is important to keep apart public sphere and commercial activities of the media. Public sphere is not the aggregated consumers market, as some of the actors of commercial broadcasting might suggest by usurping this notion as e. g. Rupert Murdoch: ‘Anybody, who, within the law of the land, provides a service which the public wants at a price it can afford is providing a public service’ (quoted by Ellis, 1994: 1). The difference between markets and public sphere can be described as shown in Table 9.1.: If the capability for this distinction is not maintained, public sphere will suffer. The starting point is the idea: ‘Participatory democracy requires a citizenry that is both informed and has a continuing opportunity to be heard in the market-place of ideas’ (Melody, 1990: 18). An essential function of information and communication in a participatory society is to provide possibilities for the citizens to be informed

Table 9.1

The Concepts of Market and Public Sphere

Dimensions

Market

Public Sphere

Part of the system Aims Content

Economical System Profit Economic welfare Goods, services

Political System Social communication Universal participation Information, knowledge Opinions

Reference Group

Consumers

Citizens

Necessary competencies

Income, resources, money Buyers and sellers

Access

Support Logic Focus on Perspective

Competition Buying and selling business Global

Audiences, forums, media Transparency Decisions Participation State/Europe

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and to be heard. Media structures which mainly follow the necessity to get advertizing for a global market undermine this necessity. The role of traditional media at present is changing. The abundance of media information demands on its part media offers which give answers to questions like the following: ‘What does all this information mean to me? Which sources are the most reliable ones? What does this information have to do with my specific view on the world?’ (Johnson, 1999: 44). Here it is not considered that media themselves with their flood of information have created the need for such accompanying meta-information (Bleicher, 2001: 212). But here the question comes up which media are most appropriate to answer to this need. Thus media are involved more than before in the task to mediate, to provide orientation, to structure, to show the contexts of information, if it is application, action, experience, decisions or expectations. Commercial media conglomerates develop their own strategies for this problem. For example, Bertelsmann has a broad range of activity, from books, to music discs, newspapers, television and internet (Bleicher, 2001: 213). Their multitude of activities in different markets requires a harmonization within the organization of business, a coherent identity, a corporate branding. Thus the orientation within the information supply of the media conglomerate follows the necessities of marketing, profit and value chain, not necessarily the needs of the audience. The specificity of internet compared to the traditional media is that it provides a direct access to the stored stocks of knowledge (Bleicher, 2001: 209). Given the enormously growing amount of media and information sources the challenges for the individual to cope with the offered information, content and the variety of sources is growing as well: ‘Multitasking is a key competence in a knowledge society’ (Rötzer, 2000: 29). Some of the functions of the traditional media move to the internet as e.g. providing of education, being a source of information, exchange (then chats), personal experiences, games etc. Bleicher observes, that television, as well as the other traditional media reacts to the advanced position of the internet with a reactivation on providing experiences and events: ‘The growth of knowledge is coming along with a growing supply of entertainment. Knowledge society and nonsense culture in the media are as well in future strongly interconnected’ (Bleicher, 2001: 218). This development will have consequences for public service broadcasters, concerning their programme policy. We stated, that public sphere is a normative concept (besides that it can be observed empirically). This normativity is a link to the concept of public service broadcasting, as the tradition of public service media

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is one of the central areas of concern in relation to the question of citizenship and consumerism. On an European level it represents a normative ideology of media in service of democracy and for the purpose of sustaining the development of national culture and citizenship. Important notions of public sphere in the sense of a deliberative model were inclusion (or exclusion), transparency, access. Media as an important constitutive element of public sphere have to implement these notions into social reality, but they can fail in so far as they have to follow competing aims, for example economic ones. Public service media meet these requirements by the obligations that are founded by the legal provisions. The following criteria describe the substantial essence of public service broadcasting (Blumler, 1992: 7). This does not mean that all public service broadcasters achieve to put them into practice at every given moment. But they enhance the organization and production within public service broadcasting. • PSB has a obligation to a comprehensive remit, • PSB has a generalized mandate to offer information, education and entertainment, • PSB is orientated to diversity, pluralism and range, concerning programmes, tastes and audiences, • PSB plays cultural roles, in the sense that it encourages and promotes cultural activities, • PSB has a place in politics, as it offers political information and background and strengthens the public debate • Public service broadcasting is orientated to non-commercialism, and although oscillating between the fields of culture and commerce, it is inclined towards culture.

3. Public service broadcasting in a commercial environment Public service media are financed to a large extent by licence fee or by restricted commercial incomes, with autonomy from direct political influence, and with broad cultural and social obligations in direct opposition to the rationale of programming based on commercial profit and audience maximization. Public service culture is now approaching a new era where the former appeal to a broad national audience is breaking down. Specialization and new distribution technologies will change the role and form of public service in the future. Public sector broadcasters, both

148 Citizenship and Political Education Today

radio and TV in this period, have developed new types of programming, but have also, in a number of countries, lost a significant share of their former audience to other channels. The concept of public sphere can be specified concerning its consequences for public service broadcasting. We stated that public sphere is a space of public communication within democracy. It interlinks public opinion and political action. Public sphere was understood as a space where citizens speak out and express their interest towards the political system and try to influence and control it. Media are a constitutive part of public sphere where they serve as informant, controller and as a platform for participation and debate. Having discussed two different models of public sphere, criteria for an ‘ideal’ public sphere were developed. These are a broad participation of civil society, rationality and a discourse which ends in an approximation or a consensus of those being involved at its best. Given the growing complexity of society and changing patterns in government towards governance we can suppose that public sphere is undergoing a change in several aspects (Thomass, 2002). Those are: • a vitalization of public sphere, • a growing demand for the quality of public sphere, • questions of access of public sphere to knowledge and science have an increased signification. • The maintenance of reliable standards of public communication is getting more important. • A more active and demanding public sphere is supposed to come up. Thus operating logics are designated, which are only under specific conditions compatible with the operating logics of the media market. It is more probable that those media perform according to these necessities which are accountable to public sphere and have the appropriate structures and content, so to say public service broadcasting. This implicates as well that public service broadcasting has to meet certain challenges: It has to ensure the participation of all parts of public sphere and of all groups of civil society in the public discourse. It must pick up relevant issues in the public interest. Further more it has to offer programmes, genres and formats, which permit and promote rationality and discourse, and it has to ensure access to knowledge and science. Fulfilling these preconditions it might be a reliable

Barbara Thomass 149

factor as a supervisor of governance processes. And within in the media market it is a factor to maintain certain standards. Therefore, requirements which result from the above presented concept of public sphere confirm the traditional guiding principles of public service broadcasting. But we have to ask how far they are challenged or promoted under the conditions of a heavily commercialized media environment. We are used to referring to broadcasting systems comprising a commercial and a public sector as dual systems and describe thus an inner logic with structures in which commercial and public broadcasters are competing. This notion, stemming from the UK and being defended for example by the rulings of the German constitutional court for the German broadcasting system, seems to be in a first approach logical and comprehensive. Duality describes the two pillars of the present media systems in Europe as a model of equal weights, a nearly harmonic division of the market. But when we leave this synchronic consideration aside, we recognize the underlying dynamics of the development. Starting from a public responsibility for broadcasting in principle, as it had been ruling in Germany for example until 1984, the fundaments of the public monopoly in all Western European countries broke down, leading to competition hitherto unknown. And as well within the concept of duality we can observe different states of development. Since the middle of the nineties we use the notion of the ‘maturity’ of the dual systems all over Europe, i.e. a clear positioning of the commercial broadcasters and a rather stable consolidation of public service broadcasting (Woldt, 1998: 81). But those mature systems are confronted with fundamental challenges: Multimedia and digitization pose questions, how the relationship between both parts of the systems should be arranged in future and how the traditional media will find their position towards the new multimedia services – the latter will have its repercussions to the first.

4. The technological challenge under commercial conditions – digital public service broadcasting Because of the present trends of liberalization, globalization and convergence of media techniques, the introduction of digital TV has put public service broadcasters under pressure (Latzer, 1997: 232). As convergence of telecommunication, computers and broadcasting has its effects on platforms, industries, markets and services, public service broadcasting, its existence and its preconditions are put into question

150 Citizenship and Political Education Today

in several aspects. New services are in danger to marginalization. In the changing mediascape it has to find an adjustment of its mission and its remit. As well it has to fight for the legitimation of this mission and try to secure the economic base by finding new sources of funding, which have nevertheless to be in accordance with its legal frame. Introduction of digital TV demands high previous investment and involves a big risk. Thus it is pushed in the European states only by vital and big players in the market. They are able to control via proprietary technology of the electronic programme guides access to the services. Thus public broadcasters might be prevented from representation on them in a due way. The abundance of possible channels via digital TV contributes as well to the marginalization of public service broadcasting. The political questioning of the legitimation of public service broadcasting in a changing mediascape is enforcing this danger (HoffmannRiem, 1995). It is the question if public service broadcasting will find applicative strategies to respond to this challenge. Those strategies have to keep in mind the obligation of the common good and the financial feasibility as well. They have to redefine the idea and the remit of the universal service under new conditions and must not by introducing lots of news services endanger the viability of public service broadcasters in the long term. Public service broadcasters in Europe seem to answer to these challenges in different ways. They have in common that they want to make part of the new mediascape. They try to develop their services for all digital platforms: satellite, cable and terrestrial. They try as well to offer new services via internet and via wireless techniques. But they differ enormously concerning the possibilities they have to realize this strategies. Political support for public broadcasters, legal framework and financial layout are the underlying shaping differences. But it is a core element of political argumentation that public service broadcasters say: If consumers are changing their ways of getting information we have to adapt and deliver public services by whatever means. The notion of broadcasting came into question and the range of it. The European Union submitted its ‘green book’ on convergence, containing important proposals and options for the political and legal forming of the new sector of telecommunications, media and information technology which included evident impeachment of the hitherto valid principles of the dual broadcasting system (EU, 1997). Public service broadcasting was criticized because of its privileges which were supposed to endanger competition. Free to air television was con-

Barbara Thomass 151

sidered as not being in accordance with models of regulation of telecommunication. And there was the question as to whether the aims pursued by public service broadcasting could not be achieved by ‘usual market activities’ (ibid.). These challenges were smoothened by declarations of the EU which recognized the important role of public service broadcasting for democracy, plurality and culture, especially the protocol of Amsterdam. But the problem remains that public service broadcasting has to defend and renew its social and democratic mission.

5. Public service programmes and citizenship – Examples of programmes structures in France, UK and Germany Considering the discussed remits and challenges of public service broadcasting, the core element of legitimation is its programme and the evaluation to what degree it responds to the demands stemming from citizenship and public sphere. Non-fictional factual programmes, news, information and documentaries are those elements of programming which promise to serve the interests of the citizens in information, knowledge and forming of opinion. Although it is impossible and not recommendable to fix certain amounts of this programme elements in general, a comparative evaluation shall give an overview how the public broadcasters in France, UK and Germany satisfy these programme needs, as well in comparison to their commercial competitors. These three countries represent three major television markets in Western Europe, although the performance of the media systems and the situation of public service broadcasting is rather different. In the United Kingdom BBC is a strong brand on the media market, the concept of public service broadcasting in rather uncontested and the public service ethos is firmly enshrined in the culture of the corporation. Nevertheless the BBC is because of a strongly developed pay TV market under pressure. The situation in France is marked by a shift of the centre of the paysage audiovisuel francaise, the French mediascape, from the public to the commercial sector. The rather defensive position of French public service broadcasting began with the privatization of the former public service channel TF 1 in 1986. Abundant are the programmes of pay TV broadcasters, so that the broadcasting system of France can be described as one which is being strongly market driven. In Germany public service broadcasting is competing in an environment of abundance of about 30 free TV channels. It has suffered as in France a lot of decrease in audience share, but could stabilize its level on a reasonable base (see Table 9.2).

152 Citizenship and Political Education Today Table 9.2 Audience Share for Public Service Broadcasting in France, UK and Germany (in %)

France France 2 France 3 La Cinquième Arte United Kingdom BBC 1 BBC 2 BBC digital channels Germany ARD ZDF Third Channels

2001

2000

42.7 21.8 17.1 2.0 1.8 38.4 26.5 11.1 0.8 39.9 13.8 13.1 13.0

42.3 22.1 16.8 1.8 1.6 38.2 26.8 11.0 0.4 40.3 14.3 13.3 12.7

The orientation of commercial broadcasters to reach big targets groups, enlarge the audiences and offer those programmes with the expectation to attract the biggest audiences for all programmes at any time of the day is a reason to assume that non-fictional factual programmes, news, information and documentaries will not be represented as prominently as fiction, entertainment and games. On the other hand remit and legal provisions oblige public service broadcasting to dedicate a reasonable amount of programming to these genres. Thus we will find more of them in public service than in commercial broadcasting. As programme statistics in the three countries count rather differently the focus here is on this comparison and not on the comparison between these countries. As well differences between the amount of factual programming is more a hint for differing political culture than for the public service/commercial logics. France In France the total volume of programmes in 2000 was 51047 hours and 36 minutes. They were dedicated to the different genres as shown in Table 9.3. By comparison to this overall average, the public service sector had in 2000 a programme structure as shoewn in Table 9.4. The programme elements in question, France 2 and France 3 have more volume of information and services programmes than the national average. Hence the category documentaries and magazines is not that expressive, that it can underline the above assumption of

Barbara Thomass 153 Table 9.3

Hours of Television Output in France

Genres

Hours

%

% in 1999

Information and service programmes Documentaries, magazines Fiction films (1) TV drama Entertainment/music/theatre Sports Other programming (advertising, home shopping…) Programme related elements (trailers…)

4 771 h 22 12 570 h 58 6 231 h 19 13 248 h 02 6 207 h 39 2 786 h 03

9.3 24.6 12.2 26.0 12.2 5.5

9.5 23.7 12.1 27.1 12.0 4.7

3 732 h 21

7.3

7.8

1 499 h 52

2.9

3.1

(1) including short films. Source: CSA: Le bilan 2000 des chaînes nationales hertziennes

delivering more public sphere related programme elements, as the nature of both can vary very much. La Cinquième has undoubtedly has its strengths in documentaries as it is overtly an educational programme. The programme structure of public service broadcasting thus is not as clearly distinguishable as might have been expected. This is reflected in many discussions in France, that France Télévision is too similar to its strongest competitor TF 1. The public service missions are more evidently within the programme structure of La cinquième and Arte. United Kingdom In the United Kingdom the responsibility for publishing programme data is with the BBC for the corporation itself and with the Independent Television Commission (ITC) for commercial television. Therefore categories again vary to a certain degree. It has to be kept in mind that within the British legal media system the Independent Television (ITN) is supposed to be public service as well, its programme satisfies some public service requirements. But as it is not funded by a licence or similar public funds, but by advertising, it is well a commercial broadcaster. The television output of all terrestrial broadcasters is as shown in Table 9.5. The corresponding data for the BBC services are much more elaborated. They comprise the categories mentioned in Table 9.6. If we consider the categories factual and learning together with news and weather, and current affairs and parliamentary we can summarize the relevant programmes for the here discussed focus, although it will

154

Table 9.4

Hours of Public Service Television Output in France 2000 Arte

France Télévision France 2

France 3 (1)

La Cinquième

Genre

Hours

%

Hours

%

Hours

%

Hours

%

Total Information and service programmes Documentaries, magazines Fiction films TV drama Entertainment/music/ theatre Sports Other programming (advertising, home shopping…) Programme related elements (trailers…)

8 784 h 00

100

7 133 h 02

100

5 852 h 53

100

2 927 h 52

100

161 h 26 1 342 h 02 776 h 28 344 h 01 136 h 52

5.5 45.8 26.5 11.7 4.7

20.1 18.2 3.5 24.6 16.6

1 175 h 09 1 528 h 07 369 h 17 2 238 h 22 614 h 50

16.5 21.4 5.2 31.4 8.6

621 h 25

7.1

416 h 32

5.8

–

–

655 h 21

7.4

498 h 31

7.0

213 h 13

3.6

1 h 36

0.1

2.5

292 h 14

4.1

172 h 46

3.0

165 h 27

5.7

219 h 33

(1) The national programme, the regional programming is at 10 762 hours 15 minutes. Source: CSA: Le bilan 2000 des chaînes nationales hertziennes

13 h 16 4 387 h 12 141 h 56 645 h 33 278 h 57

0.2 75.0 2.4 11.0 4.8

1 770 h 34 1 595 h 39 306 h 13 2 157 h 46 1 457 h 29

–

–

Barbara Thomass 155 Table 9.5

Hours of Television Output in the United Kingdom

Genres

% in 2001

% in 1997

Drama Factual and education Entertainment News and weather Sport Regional Arts Religion

32.3 23.0 21.6 11.9 5.5 4.0 1.0 0.5

34.1 24.2 19.3 19.3 5.1 4.5 1.7 0.4

Source: ITC Financial Report and Accounts 2001

be difficult to distinguish in detail which programme within ‘factual and learning’ fulfil the requirements of citizenship. Based on those programme elements, the BBC has a high standard of relevance for citizen’s information. But as public service requirements are part of the licence of ITV channels the amount of those programme elements is there significant as well. Germany In contrast to the UK there are very loose requirements for commercial broadcasters to fulfil certain requirements of information and documentary programmes. The Constitutional Court ruled, that they should be rather free in their ways of programming, as the public service broadcasters were guaranteed their existence and development and they have high standing public service obligation. The programme structure of the main channels looks as shown in Table 9.7. The different requirements for commercial and public service broadcasters in Germany are strongly reflected within their programming structure. Although there has been an effort mainly of RTL to break the information dominance of the public service broadcasters, they could maintain their image of being the more competent and reliable information source. Images of public service and commercial broadcasters among the audience differ overtly in the sense, that commercial broadcasters are mostly switched on when needs of entertainment and relaxation are at the fore. Public service broadcasters remain those, to whom audiences turn for information, as incentives for own thoughts, when they want to take part in discussions and are looking for orientation (Media Perspektiven Basisdaten, 2001: 71).

Hours of BBC Television Output – 2000/2001 On All Platforms

Genres

BBC One Hours

Factual and learning Education for children News and weather Current affairs Parliamentary Entertainment Sport Children’s Drama Music and arts Religion Open university Learning zone Acquired programmes Continuity Total network

1240

Digital Platforms Only BBC Two

%

Hours

14.5

156

Table 9.6

%

966

11.4

892

10.6

2675

31.2

371

4.4

99 31 755 761 593 528 27 107

1.2 0.4 8.8 8.8 6.9 6.2 0.3 1.2

1523

17.8

183 152 645 831 378 112 220 14 766 494 2160

2.1 1.8 7.6 9.8 4.5 1.3 2.6 0.2 9.0 5.9 25.6

233 8572

2.6 100

270 8454

3.2 100

BBC Choice

BBC Knowledge

BBC News 24

BBC Parliament

Hours

Hours

Hours

%

Hours

%

8760

100

5265

100

5265

100

%

%

495

6.7

4620

72.2

225

3.0

4

0.1

1185 156 3275 352 57

16.0 2.1 44.4 4.8 0.8

1

1357 278 7380

Source: BBC Annual Report and Accounts 2000/2001, own calculations

63 31 1102 27

1 0.5 17.2 0.4

18.4

317

5.0

3.8 100

238 6403

3.7 100

8760

100

Barbara Thomass 157 Table 9.7

Television Output in Germany 2000 (in %)

Genres Information Fiction Entertainment Music Sport Children Other programming Advertising Total

ARD (1)

ZDF (1)

RTL (2)

SAT.1 (2)

Pro Sieben (2)

38.3 27.3 8.9 3.7 11.1 7.2 2.0

47.2 23.1 6.3 1.9 10.9 6.6 2.4

21.4 30.5 20.9 0.9 0.9 6.3 4.5

18.5 30.5 22.4 – 3.4 3.2 5.8

13.4 47.7 15.1 – – 6.3 4.2

1.5 100

1.7 100

14.8 100

16.2 100

13.4 100

(1) public service broadcaster, (2) commercial broadcaster Source: Media Perspektiven (2001)

6. Conclusion When we look at the audience we can distinguish that they turn on to the broadcast media in a double perspective. As a consumer they have interest in getting as much variety as possible, prefer often relaxation before the TV set to demanding information, they want to find answers to these needs, want quality, aesthetics of the products, accessibility etc. As a part of society, so to say as a citizen in the public sphere, they want to get information, to see the whole picture, to be heard, to know backgrounds and details of political processes, to know about other parts of society etc. A commercialized media system, i.e. a media system which underlying logics are competition and gaining dominance within the audience market, tends to satisfy preferably the needs of the consumer, more that those of the citizens. Public service broadcasters have – according to their legal provisions – more or less clearly defined requirements, in how far they have to meet those needs which stem from the concept of a citizen as a human being participating in democracy. They answer to these requirements as well in accordance with the mediascape of their countries. Criticisms about their ways of fulfilling their tasks are necessary as market pressures are as well in the background of their programming decisions. But they are indispensable in serving the ideas of citizenship.

10 A Magnified Image1 of Female Citizenship in Education: Illusions of Democracy or Liberal Challenges to Symbolic Domination? Jo-Anne Dillabough and Madeleine Arnot2

The liberal definition of citizenship constructs all citizens as basically the same and considers the differences of class, ethnicity and gender and so on as irrelevant to their status as citizens. (Nira Yuval-Davis, 1997) For whom does freedom exist? (Hannah Arendt, 1971) Liberal democracies, in contrast to autocratic and authoritarian regimes, underscore, at the level of abstract theory, the importance of female autonomy and a notion of full political suffrage. Yet, at the same time, any notion of rational citizenship within liberal democracies has often served – symbolically and practically – to restrict women’s sense of their own political agency, providing ‘freedoms’ to some whilst undermining the political rights of women who have never been properly enfranchised (Alexander, 1997). This fundamental paradox raises a number of pressing questions, practical as well as theoretical, to which urgent attention needs to be directed. What might it mean to challenge gender hierarchies in contemporary nation-states and raise novel questions about female citizenship as a conceptual ideal? What might it mean to pose questions about whether liberal democratic state formations and the democratic education project represent the most successful mechanisms for ensuring that women and girls acquire the necessary cultural and social capital 158

Jo-Anne Dillabough and Madeleine Arnot 159

which must accompany any reasonable notion of female citizenship? And how should we pose such questions in education alongside feminist engagements with the larger theoretical dialogue over the viability and legitimacy of the term ‘female citizenship’? In education, feminist theorists have struggled both directly and indirectly with such issues for over three decades. But perhaps the dominant trends regarding the endorsement of some notion of female citizenship and equity in ‘education feminism’3 have been concerned with the formation and implementation of gender reform policies, and with their impact on the democratization of gender relations in many Western European states. Many such reform policies, when they are developed within the Western European tradition, often appear to be shaped by the processes inherited from liberal democratic ideology. Central to the organization and implementation of such policies is the subjection (as part of state rhetoric) of state members to the utilitarian logic upon which this ideology rests. In the case of gender equity (as an apparatus for securing a more inclusive notion of citizenship), for example, ideological terms such as ‘female autonomy’ and ‘equality of opportunity’ emerge as central to the rhetorical operation of the liberal democratic project even when equity itself has manifestly not been achieved. As contemporary sociologists have argued, such rhetoric falls short of guaranteeing all women a legitimate place as ‘citizens’. Pierre Bourdieu writes: women are [often] excluded from all public spaces, such as the assembly or the market, where the games ordinarily considered the most serious ones of human existence, such as the games of honour, are played out. Indeed, [women] are excluded a priori, so to speak, in the name of the (tacit) principle of equality in honour. The perfect circularity of the process indicates that this is an arbitrary assignment (Bourdieu, 1998: 49). Despite the poignancy of Bourdieu’s commentary, it would be misguided to simply reject the significance of liberal concepts of citizenship for education and society, concepts which, we should note, remain highly contested among feminist theorists. Notwithstanding this, many gender equity policies (as a premise for expanding the category of ‘citizenship’) have failed to represent the wide range of feminist critiques of liberal democracy dating back over the last 30 years. This is arguably a result of the fact that liberal feminist reformers across this period have had the greatest ideological and political influence over

160 Citizenship and Political Education Today

the shaping of gender equity policies and notions of female citizenship in Western contexts. As we have argued elsewhere (Arnot & Dillabough, 1999), liberal feminists sought, through their own democratization project, to ‘degender’ the education system, attempting to remove barriers to an educational structure premised historically upon formidable degrees of gender inequality. Access thus became one of many symbols that formed the foundation of an equitable notion of female citizenship. Critically, however, such ‘degendering’ strategies continued to mask ongoing inequities emerging from women’s social entrenchment in symbolic forms of male dominance (Bourdieu, 1998); these included within, for example, the family, social institutions, new globalizing economies, and the arenas of race and sexuality. Liberal feminist reform strategies have thus failed substantially to alter what Pierre Bourdieu named the ‘constancy of structure’ in gender relations, particularly the continuing segregation and stratification of labour markets by divisions of sex, race and class. He writes: the strength of the masculine order is seen in the fact that it dispenses with justification: the androcentric vision imposes itself as neutral and has no need to spell itself out in discourses aimed at legitimizing it. The social order functions as an immense symbolic machine tending to ratify the masculine domination on which it was founded. (Bourdieu, 1998: 9) It is within such an androcentric view of political liberalism that feminists concerned with equity and citizenship might now question how ‘divisions constitutive of the social order’ operate as a form of symbolic domination in the liberal state, generating the symbolic capital necessary for the implementation of liberal equity policy itself. To take an example, the correspondence between a dominant set of elite codes in the political structure of policy and the reproduction of opportunity for the middle-classes exposes simultaneously the regulatory and reproductive elements of liberal equity policies. In the first instance, the highly individualistic nature of many gender equity reform initiatives serves to define the conditions of female access to equity and citizenship. Yet, at the same time, such individualistic elements of gender equity reform function to support a largely middle-class access regime of equity, thus promoting the middle-class interest and reproducing forms of exclusion and inequality for girls and boys who do not conform to the elite cultural nature of the policies themselves.

Jo-Anne Dillabough and Madeleine Arnot 161

A further failure in liberal policy rhetoric is that female inclusion continues to be constructed as ‘conformity through the practice of equality’ (see Brown, 1997) rather than through a political recognition of difference or as an equalizer of social conditions through a redistributive paradigm (Fraser, 1999). Ultimately, this limitation in liberal theorizing has positioned women as ‘citizens’ within a set of irresolvable contradictions: ‘of insertion within history on men’s terms, […]; or of identification with [illusory/or masculine] power or the fetishization of a counter-power’ (Coole, 1997: 225, [] our add). In other words, liberal feminist initiatives may have presumed too much about the essence of the category ‘woman’, along with the political strategies by which the eradication of gender hierarchies was posited. As Webster writes: ‘It is by no means clear that all women need or want the same things. The very legitimacy of the political representation of “women” and “women’s concerns” is challenged by contemporary accounts of sex and gender’ (Webster, 1999: 1). With these considerations in mind, we seek, through this chapter, to identify the issues posed by feminist critiques of liberal democracy and their implications for any critical assessment of gender equity and the larger project of female citizenship. We argue that what must be privileged in the animation of such critiques is not simply a liberal defense of women’s rights or access to education or the political economy but rather questions about which vision of female citizenship and agency we ought to endorse. We do so largely because much that has been written about citizenship education has failed to account for a now well-established debate in feminist and social political theory about the limits of liberal democracy and citizenship (Arnot & Dillabough, 1999; Dillabough & Arnot, 2003). In assessing the relevance of feminist critiques of political liberalism for rethinking larger questions about female citizenship and agency in education, we argue that new understandings of women’s positions in the state must be advanced. For example, any alternative understanding of female citizenship must move beyond a neutral understanding of women’s rights, access and opportunity (e.g., as ‘freedom’ or ‘equality’) toward a critical notion of female agency and equity as something which can only be achieved through a historical understanding of female citizenship which highlights its exclusionary status, and begins to reformulate notions of female agency within the context of such critiques. However, what must be clarified above all in such critiques is that the female agent cannot be conflated with masculine forms of autonomy but must instead be viewed as a socially embedded and

162 Citizenship and Political Education Today

necessarily constrained subject. This vision of the political subject implies a need for the recognition that women cannot simply acquire the cultural capital necessary for the enactment of citizenship without the state’s recognition of their historically marginalized position as citizens in the state. Rather, women must be given the opportunity to struggle, as legitimate social actors, over the very meanings attributed to female citizenship in the nation-state. These commitments to social action in public space – or what Honnig (1995) has referred to as an agonistic subjectivity – are suggestive of a dialectical notion of political selfhood and agency that does not attempt to reduce female citizenship either to a set of illusory or essential, arbitrary liberal descriptions or to some unattainable abstract democratic ideal. Rather, this position takes as axiomatic that women’s actions are both constrained and made possible through discursive political arenas in public space, as well as through material practices. By implication, such a project implies a re-examination of the gendered and colonial nature of education and the social, symbolic order, the myth of ‘coercion free [public] space’ (see Villa, 1992, 1997), the uneven and variegated structure of the state and state education, and differently positioned women’s authentic positions and actions within such sites. We wish to signal here that such a project must not be confused with a contemporary theoretical exercise in deconstruction in which the concept of citizenship is simply critiqued for its masculine or enlightenment premises, although such a critique remains important on its own terms. Rather, it must involve rethinking, through social, discursive and material analyses simultaneously, what we mean on ethical and social grounds by the terms ‘citizenship’, ‘agency’, and equity as they relate to differently positioned women, drawing upon feminist debates in social and political theory. In this respect, the level of theorizing we adopt here is a form of ‘middle-range theorizing’ that ultimately rejects a normative view of liberal citizenship clearly limiting access and possibility for diverse women and girls in education. At the same time, we remain committed to the critical normative sociological/philosophical principle that women are embedded social actors who can ‘exercise moral imagination which activates [their] capacity for thinking of possible narratives (and counter-narratives) [ ] which [ ] can be understood by others’ (Benhabib, 1995: 129) or, as Quentin Skinner (1997) might argue, as constrained historical actors who ‘think through different possible futures’. With these preliminary theoretical ideas in mind, the remainder of our discussion is organized into two parts. First, we identify three

Jo-Anne Dillabough and Madeleine Arnot 163

different theoretical debates about the role of the state in the formation of the gendered citizen. Consideration of these debates reveals the deeply problematical and contradictory elements of ‘female autonomy’ as the ideal foundation for citizenship and highlights the theoretical necessity for moving beyond the liberal democratic project. The three areas of contention are: (a) sexual contract theory and the erasure of women from politics which is central to liberal democratic political philosophy; (b) the status of women as political actors and agents within contemporary understandings of the polity in Western European nations; and, (c) the ways in which citizenship can be understood as a symbolic identity which constructs notions of the ‘I’, the ‘we’ and the ‘Other’ through hierarchical state processes. Secondly, we consider how a small number of education feminists have developed the concept of ‘gendered citizenship’ and ‘agency’ in their analysis of teachers, pupils and the education system.

1. Sexual contract theory and the erasure of women from politics In the political sciences and feminist theory, it is now widely recognized that liberal democratic ideology is not an objective theory of equality capable of straightforward translation into practical equality, freedom and justice for all women. Indeed, the pursuit of equity often takes place within paradigms that are often lacking a just and ethical core. For example, feminist theorists have exposed how liberal democratic societies mask the social relations of power which shape women’s understandings of themselves as political actors, and their access to opportunity structures within liberal democracies. They argue that liberal democracies achieve such illusory power through the abstract and neutral universal markers used to promote and, ultimately, signify citizenship and national identity. Many feminist theorists have therefore called into question the traditional claims of neutrality and objectivity which are drawn upon in the struggle for equity and female citizenship. However, such an abstract, neutral conception of the citizen masks deeply undemocratic social relations and institutions within liberal democracies themselves. The educational system has been directly implicated in sustaining and reproducing such social relations and institutions, largely through the deployment of liberal concepts as tools, paradoxically, for the simultaneous promotion of previously excluded groups and the advancement of capital relations and accumulation. However, as Carole

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Pateman’s (1988) critique of European political philosophy alongside feminist neo-marxist critiques of the state have suggested, underlying liberal democratic concepts of the social contract was a sexual contract that circumscribed male colonial power over women in the larger political economy of the state. This sexual contract, often symbolized by the marriage contract, was rarely recognized by male political theorists even though it represented a pivotal set of social relations which legitimated female subordination. Implicated in the sexual contract were women’s sexual, economic and political dependencies on men, their exclusion from the public realm, gendered and racialized exclusions from colonial articulations of citizenship, and the control of women’s child-bearing and sexuality through marriage. Feminist critical analyzes thus revealed that women were largely excluded, as political subjects, from the formal public realm and the historical project of citizenship. With such gender differentiation secured through liberal democratic practice, it is difficult to imagine the shape of female citizen identities, particularly if the historical sphere of women’s greatest activity – that of the private – was precisely that which was outside the political sphere of citizenship. For example, as Victoria Foster (1996) argues in the context of Australia, girls who affiliate formally with the male public world in schools or through the public mechanisms of higher education are viewed as ‘space invaders’ and therefore as non-citizens. They cannot, it would seem, achieve the position of an autonomous citizen because they are seen historically as symbolic objects that are to be mastered, as Fraser (1994a) suggests, by the tools of rationality. She writes: ‘the humanist political project, then, is that of solving the man problem. It is the project of […] achieving autonomy by mastering the other in history, in society, in oneself, of making substance into subject’ (Fraser, 1994a: 191). Fraser (1999) claims that this project, premised, as it is, on structures of domination, is still drawn upon by the liberal democratic state to support an abstract notion of political community and citizenship, even if such so-called citizenship communities are indeed fragmented, multiple or deeply divided. The implications, then, of the liberal democratic project are precisely the dis-empowerment of women or their loss of political agency, through the abstract historical classifications of public and private, and through liberal practices which disenfranchise women from citizenship. As Arendt remarks, in liberal contexts power tend[s] to be asymmetrically distributed, while the liberal institutions permit the economic masters to continue to enrich

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themselves at the expense not only of the poverty of the rest of us, but of our access to knowledge, to information, to understanding. (Arendt, 1971: 307–308) The social reproduction of gender inequality through normative liberal mechanisms such as ‘citizenship’ thus becomes an ‘object of strategy’ for the state itself (Morron and Torres, 1998). Female agency can, therefore, only be achieved by diminishing the arbitrary division of the public and private spheres, through the establishment and maintenance of full female economic, social and political rights and through maximal recognition of the relation of differently positioned women’s experiences, identities and values to the state. It also demands that greater attention be given to the symbolic and material constraints that women confront in liberal democracies and the public spaces where gendered notions of citizenship are enacted, as these are sites of lived experience where the gender binary often remains intact on symbolic levels. It seems unlikely, however, that any attention would be given to such constraints without a far more critical feminist analysis of the historical and political formation of the category of ‘citizen’ or ‘agent’. In the following section, we move forward to consider diverse feminist constructions of agency and their potential theoretical relevance for a discussion about the reconsideration of women’s position as agent/actor in the nation-state. We do so in an attempt to expose the taken-for-granted elements of symbolic domination which appear to be embedded in the very terminology of citizenship as an historically shaped state ideal.

2. Political agency and the category ‘woman’ There are numerous ways in which women’s political empowerment has been conceived within feminist thought. In many cases, notions of agency, the emancipated political subject and citizenship are seen as contentious or illusionary concepts which can neither serve as directives for state practice nor redress the abstract division of the public and private spheres. For example, some deconstructionist feminists regard the discourse of rights and responsibilities as discursive forms of regulation rather than as pre-conditions for freedom, autonomy and agency (Voet, 1998). ‘How can it be’, Butler asks, ‘that the subject taken to be the condition for and instrument of agency, is at the same time the effect of subordination, understood as the deprivation of agency?’ (Butler, 1997: 10). In this context, female identity and ultimately any notion of political agency are seen as sites of ‘open political

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contest’ (see Butler, 1995) which are manifestly linked to the history of masculine domination, society and its related institutions. As we have argued elsewhere (Arnot & Dillabough, 1999), despite the evocative potential of such a view for repositioning feminist debates about citizenship, deconstructive conceptualizations may not resolve the difficulties raised by feminist political theorists about women’s exclusion from the abstract status of citizen and agent. Rather, one might argue that such conceptualizations instead expose a range of problems faced by women and girls who cannot insinuate themselves into the discursive and symbolic arenas of state power, as well as the regulatory power embedded in the rhetorical language of democracy and democratic education (Walkerdine & Lucey, 1989). At the same time, as Fraser (1994a) argues, a feminist philosophical rejection of humanism, on its own, may provide an insufficient theoretical and political strategy for feminist materialists who maintain that women are constrained social actors embedded in social structures that are premised upon a dialectic of hierarchy, continuity, contradiction, and change Perhaps more importantly, some feminist post-structuralist perspectives cannot account for the ways in which women subvert formations of power across time and space; the post-structuralist position in this sense leaves ‘little room for explaining the possibility of [women’s] creativity and resistance’ (Benhabib, 1999: 4). Nor, as Brown (2001) suggests, can post-structuralism, in its current de-politicized state, necessarily dismantle the hierarchies which govern public space or play a fundamental role in the formulation of a novel ‘discourse of freedom’ that serves as a viable challenge to anti-democratic power formations (Webster, 1999). As Weir writes: ‘once we get to the point where we reject any abstraction of the individual from contexts, and reject any postulation of the individual’s capacity for reflection on contexts, we effectively deny any capacity of agents to criticize and change those contexts’ (Weir, 1997: 190). Another line of argument, one which is grounded in a radical or antimodern foundational account of the political subject,4 is that put forward by Weir (1997) and Honig (1995) who argue that it is important to go beyond a simple examination of the categories of ‘woman’ and ‘agency’ as mere representations of liberal democratic concepts. Instead, these theorists suggest a move toward viewing women’s relationship to public space within a broader and more complex theory of the state. For example, Weir (1997) argues that regardless of the power formations which are in operation when the category ‘women’ is invoked, women’s diverse political claims against the ‘constancy of

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structure’ in the state must still be recognized as legitimate political discourse. Any struggle, then, against symbolic domination in gender relations can therefore only be achieved by committing to a politically heterogeneous, yet still radical, account of female agency that is premised upon socially embedded forms of identification, hierarchy, constraint and action in discursive social arenas.5 The simplest and arguably most powerful mechanism for achieving this end is to challenge the embodiment of female citizenship as located strictly within the realm of the private (as a colonial and classed apparatus) and the rational individual and therefore outside the space of the active and discursive (rather than abstract) public. In so doing, we can remain committed to Weir’s idea of women as social actors (not merely as free floating entities) or ‘agonistic political subjects’ (see Honig, 1995) and still maintain a social/structural notion of female agency without claiming authority over all women’s experiences. Weir’s (1997) vision realizes the democratizing potential of female agency as social action yet her categories of action are not concerned with essentializing identity nor are they necessarily tied to identity politics. Instead, her position suggests that women must be seen as social actors in their own right rather than simply endorsing either discursive notions of female citizenship or liberal principles of equality. Therefore, even if the category ‘woman’ is deconstructed, some radical political concept must be in place to account for women’s diverse forms of symbolic subversion which serve to challenge dominant norms. Women’s collective, yet heterogeneous, forms of resistance to more conventional definitions of political participation, are therefore indicative of the potency of social agency. From this view, it becomes possible to dismantle any links agency has with a normative state identity and to dispose of ‘identitarian thinking’ (Calhoun, 1995 on Adorno) in feminist political debates. Instead, it becomes possible to focus on women’s heterogeneous actions and the social mechanisms which underlie women’s identification with particular state practices, ideologies and forms of regulation. Accordingly, then, women, as embedded, embodied and constrained social actors, may be legitimately positioned at the centre of public space and seen as engaging in what Pierre Bourdieu (1999) identifies as symbolic subversion, ultimately capable of challenging, where possible, the ‘doxic’ elements of masculine and colonial reproductions of the nation-state. Such oppositional practices might begin to challenge positivist assumptions and what Lois McNay (2000) identifies as deeply sedimented social codes which position women as the ‘victim’, conflate

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the symbolic categories ‘women’ and ‘domesticity’ and exclude differently positioned women from full political participation. One way to view such action is to return to our earlier description of women’s agency as mediated through social location and through an ‘investment in discourse’ (see Weir, 1997) with others rather than as misleading notions of female autonomy. Ruddy (1997) refers to such visions of agency as actions which reflect ‘an ethics of risk’ in which differently positioned women come together in power sensitive conversations to ‘resist determination by dominant gender norms’ (Webster, 1999: 18). However, such conversations, strategies or forms of feminist intersubjectivity ought not be conflated with universalistic assumptions about the constitution of the categories ‘women’ and ‘citizenship’. We argue that this latter feminist materialist approach to agency and action is grounded in a critical vision of female citizenship which exposes the limits of liberalism but does not remain short-sided conceptually or strategically. This point becomes particularly relevant in the dualistic commitment to structure and action made by theorists such as Webster (1999), Weir (1997), Alexander (1997) and others by suggesting that we cannot simply accept liberal concepts of citizenship as acceptable ideology when they mask anti-democratic systems of power or present misleading accounts of political subjects as free ‘unfettered authors of their own destiny’ or as fluid, free floating subjects (see Weir, 1997). Nor can we necessarily reject all critical foundationalist positions on female agency if they provide a sociological framework or ‘radical historiography’ (see Felman, 2000; Skinner, 1997) for explaining how and why women may be excluded from citizenship or, by contrast, engaged in acts of political reconstitution. As Webster suggests: all of these points suggest the need for a stronger account of agency […] they suggest the need for a stronger account of what role subjects may actively play in their construction as gendered, on what grounds they might strengthen that role in the political arena […], and how they might set up appropriate aims and objectives that contest their determination by the highly gendered relations of power in which they are situated. (Webster, 1999: 18) Bourdieu (1998) supports this argument when he writes that ‘the objective of every movement committed to symbolic subversion is to perform a labour of symbolic destruction aimed at imposing new categories

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of perception and appreciation […] so as to destroy the very principle of division through which the stigmatizing group are produced’ (p. 123). With that said, it cannot simply be demanded that women be made responsible for the reconstitution of both social relations and contemporary notions of female citizenship. Nor should we assume that women will be released from the social conditions of their regulation and symbolic production. Rather, what we are suggesting here is that the configurations of power which underlie, for example, those national educational practices that lead to liberal visions of female political representation, equal opportunity and citizenship demand further scrutiny if they are to be reconstituted. A key question that remains, then, is ‘how might social institutions (e.g., education), as a symbolic and structural site of social reproduction, create the social conditions for the possibility of female agency without further advancing liberal visions of citizenship?’ This question takes us forward into the third theoretical debate about the nature of female citizenship as a symbolic identity.

3. Citizen as a symbolic identity: the construction of ‘I’ and ‘We’ To extend our discussion beyond the constitution of abstract liberal categories, we must also address the concept of citizenship at the symbolic level of the state, such as a concern with the symbolic significance of citizenship identities. For example, as Donald (1996) argues, the concept of citizenship is understood to be not just the creation of political subjects within an abstract order but also within a symbolic order which retains a historical consciousness that reproduces, through its own conceptual apparatus, symbolic forms of gender inequality. Individuals are connected, therefore, to a political imaginary and a symbolic social order that may have little to do with a realized or ethical vision of citizenship: ‘to become a citizen is […] to become a subject within the symbolic order and to be subjected to it’ (Donald, 1996: 175). Within such a political imaginary, individuals (the ‘I’) are expected to identify with the concept of citizenship as members of the collective ‘we’ and to gain a sense of moral and political belonging. Yet paradoxically, even though ‘the people’ are thought to ‘speak’ as citizens, citizenship is understood to be a position that cannot be spoken from. The citizen per se has no substantial identity because he/she can only be viewed within an abstract understanding of liberal democratic

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practice. The concept of citizenship therefore denotes an empty space that, theoretically, could be occupied by anyone. Here, there is no such thing as a male or female citizen, merely the opportunity, within the space, to create the possibilities of citizenship. Weir refers to such potential possibilities as ‘the problem of the identity of the self’ as constitutive of the ‘problem of identification with, or relationship to others’ (Weir, 1997: 189). This ‘problem of identification’ in the state and, ultimately, with citizenship, is grounded in a larger structural system of power relations. In this case, ‘the identity of every “we” depends on a power structure; collectivities constitute themselves not only by excluding, but also by oppressing others, over and against whom they define themselves’ (Benhabib, 1995: 33). This kind of analysis highlights how categories such as citizenship may serve to operate historically and symbolically in the name of state power rather than necessarily as a socially relevant and ethical category for all women. In summary, the three feminist perspectives we have reviewed – the limits of social contract theory, woman as a political category, and the notion of citizenship as a symbolic category – play a substantial role in the national framing of female citizenship. In exploring such perspectives, we can begin to pose critical questions about education for citizenship and democracy. We are also encouraged to understand more about how educational institutions, as sites of political socialization, reproduce women’s symbolic entrenchment in public/private distinctions. We might also begin to view schools as creating different and sometimes contesting citizenship identities (the ‘I’, the ‘we’ and the ‘Other’) and a symbolic order of citizenship which, paradoxically, may play a substantial part in the reproduction of social inequality. What is not yet clear is whether schools, in their efforts to forge relationships of women to the political process, can create the conditions of social agency for differently positioned women and girls when there is a preconceptualized state hierarchy with ‘deeply sedimented’ understandings of citizenship already in place. Restaging female citizenship in education We now move forward to illustrate how ‘education feminists’ have begun to reflect upon the significance of the many new contributions to the contemporary debate about female citizenship. Drawing upon empirical work discussed in our collection, Challenging Democracy, we illustrate both the constraints under which women are positioned and regulated within educational institutions as ‘so-called’ citizens,

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and also the breadth of political struggles in which women have been involved. Constraints on political agency: the teacher as ‘citizen worker’ and the pupil as ‘learner citizen’ One strand of contemporary feminist research explores the experiential domain of girls and women and the manner in which liberal notions of female citizenship, as charted rhetorically through schooling, have left behind destructive legacies in some institutional cultures, excluding particular pupils and their teachers from active participation in decision-making processes and shaping differential male and female citizenship identities. Education feminists have exposed, for example, how both curriculum – as the symbolic organization of knowledge – and the teaching profession reproduce gendered and colonial notions of citizenry, and how female teachers paradoxically come to teach precisely those versions of gendered citizenry and agency which assume their own and others marginality and political disempowerment. Gordon, Holland and Lahelma (2000b), for example, describe how notions of nationhood and citizenship identity in English and Finnish schools are authentically shaped and reconciled in ways which reproduce social inequality. On the route from pupil to citizen, young people (initially inhabiting the ‘empty space’ of citizenship) pass through and occupy places within the official school, the informal school and the physical school. These authors show how educational policies and teacher practice impact upon how the public and private are conceptualized by youth in schools, and the effects this conceptualization has on girls’ realization of, and capacity to move beyond, their own constrained social circumstances (what Gordon et al. call agentic embodiment). For example, Gordon et al. suggest that boys are provided with more space to exercise agency, whilst far less physical and emotional space is offered to girls. ‘Patterns of student agency are thus prefigured by existing gender inequalities’ (Gordon et al., 2000: 200). They write: within schools there are … spaces for agency, negotiation, avoidance, opposition, and resistance. These spaces are limited, but significant, in the context of tensions between emancipation and regulation, control and agency (Gordon et al., 2000: 187–8) The interface between pupil agency and teacher control is also vividly described in the findings from two programs of research – one conducted

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by Cecile Wright on white teachers with Black secondary school pupils and the other conducted by Christine Callender with Black AfricanCaribbean primary teachers and Black pupils (Callender and Wright, 2000). In Wright’s work on white teachers, gender differentiation is used as a mechanism of social control within a racialized set of disciplinary school procedures. In this context, white teachers’ operationalized colonial concepts of ‘Other’ through exclusionary discipline practices in the classrooms. Black pupils were therefore positioned to assert various forms of masculinity and femininity as a form of resistance to white norms, increasing the chances of their exclusion from schooling. The effect was to distort and undermine the various forms of agency exercised by both black male and female pupils. By contrast, the Black African Caribbean teachers in Callender’s study consciously employed discipline as an emancipatory force for Black solidarity and pupil empowerment. They promoted ‘community knowledge and understandings which in turn lead to solidarity, community and empowerment’ (Callender and Wright, 2000: 233). Setting high standards and utilizing ‘school and community sanctions as a mechanism for reinforcing a strong sense of collective identity and achievement’ (ibid: 234), these teachers expected their Black pupils to engage actively in their own education as a matter of duty to their community. Consequently, whilst some Black pupils experienced exclusion through racist school practices in schools, others learned about social/cultural agency and symbolic subversion through active Black politics within the school setting. Together, these research projects highlight how political actions available to teachers are contained within the interconnected structures of race, class and gender. Women as teachers and teacher educators can find themselves, on the one hand, excluded from mainstream debates about democracy and, on the other hand, positioned as key agents of social and cultural reproduction. Another example of recent work on the links between gender, education and citizenship is Kathleen Weiler’s (2000) historical research on progressive female educators in the US. Retrieving the lost history of women activists who wished to promote different notions of democratic citizenship through pedagogy, she describes how women educators attempted to enter the male intellectual forum associated with the journal, The Social Frontier, in the early decades of the twentieth century. However, anti-democratic and exclusionary practices of male progressive theorists – followers, paradoxically of John Dewey – isolated these women and their challenge to the highly gendered constitution of democratic education. As Weiler’s work suggests, a re-reading of the history of social reconstructionist ideas about progressive educa-

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tion from this period clearly exposes liberal democracy as an ‘instrument of male politics’ (Bourdieu, 1998) and therefore as a political practice which limits women’s political agency. In reflecting upon these examples, it becomes possible to envision why a liberal democratic model of education might mitigate against the re-framing of citizenship at individual, community, national or transnational levels. Through further illustration of research examples, we now move forward to explore how feminists have struggled over a coherent and meaningful definition of female agency in education. Discursive struggles over female citizenship and agency Feminist academics cross-nationally have begun to explore the role of citizenship discourses and their potential for shaping educational agendas. Recent empirical research demonstrates how education has become a site of conflict over the meaning of citizenship, particularly as it concerns girls and women and in relation to claims about what constitutes national identity. Such studies illustrate, for example, the ways in which educational institutions draw upon a range of classed, colonial and often masculine narratives of democracy in order to achieve the goals of political inclusion. Elaine Unterhalter’s (2000) research, for example, demonstrates how many international educational policies frame contemporary understandings of the female citizen through historically entrenched gender codes and relations. Her research reviews the range of ‘redemptive declarations’ put forward about gender and development by international agencies such as the World Bank and UNESCO. Through textual analyses of key international policy documents, Unterhalter demonstrates the essentialism and passivity ascribed to women’s citizenship in the ‘developing world’ and how any investment in female education is often constrained by particularly limited notions of stake-holding, gender and citizenship. However, as she also suggests, there are diverse constructions of female agency and action embedded in these documents. The Beijing World Conference on Women, for example, has, at least in part, challenged such redemptive and sometimes colonial conceptions of the gender order by attempting to put forward a discourse of female agency and human rights which acknowledges ‘the diversity of women and their roles and circumstances’ (WCW 1995a: 154 quoted in Unterhalter, 2000: 95). The Beijing Declaration stated its commitment to: The empowerment and advancement of women, including the right to freedom of thought, conscience, religion and belief, thus

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contributing to the moral, ethical, spiritual and intellectual needs of women and men, individually or in community with others, and thereby guaranteeing them the possibility of realizing their full potential in society and shaping their lives in accordance with their own aspirations (WCW 1995a: 155; ibid., 95) As Unterhalter suggests, this particular emphasis upon the notion of women as potential actors in the state in the Beijing Declaration stands in marked contrast with other international declarations that focus upon female passivity or biological determinism and reproduction. Noticeable is the former’s refusal to link the need for women’s education to children or the economic growth of society; instead the rationale for women’s education is associated with the necessity of women as a social group to be engaged politically through decision-making that is premised upon a social context with others in society. The social actions of women are therefore seen as pivotal to the reconstruction of citizenship and female agency. However, such actions should not necessarily be seen as a straightforward liberal notion of identity politics but as heterogeneous forms of engagement with state life, thereby transforming the very conditions which underwrite the acquisition of female rights and opportunities. The difficult relationship between mothering and women’s emancipation has also shaped women’s struggle for agency as citizens in a number of national contexts. For example, Helena Araujo’s (2000) historical research of the politics in Portugal in the period 1910 to 1926 demonstrates how feminists contended with the various definitions of womanhood constructed by Republicans, Catholics and Anarchists and the implications such definitions had for women’s education. Hostility towards feminists and independent women was intense. Feminists writing at the time had to work with, rather than challenge, the conceptualization of woman as ‘mothers’ who protected their families above all other political considerations. Such political struggles reveal how education became the site of conflicts over the concept of public, private and female citizenship. Female agency, however, can also be deeply contradictory for the state, not least when notions of citizenship are envisioned as transitory and therefore incommensurable with concepts of citizenship as a matter of collective rights. Penny Enslin’s (2000) discussion of the dilemmas associated with post-apartheid education and gender in South Africa, for example, highlight such tensions in a country where the government agreed, at least in principle, upon a more progressive

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notion of citizenship. Enslin argues, however, that citizenship, defined in terms of membership in a community with strong customary traditions, tends not only to confine issues of gender equity to the private sphere but undermines those women who have been constructed as different or ‘other’ in the South African context. In such post-colonial contexts, tensions between indigenous, western and non-western patriarchal forms must be confronted such that any vision of female citizenship engages with heterogeneity rather than simply reproducing patriarchal and colonial models of liberal democratic practice. The cultural formation of female political communities has been described vividly by Heidi Mirza and Diane Reay (2000) in their analysis of Black6 women’s interventions into British state education. Through the development of Black supplementary schooling, Black women educators are ‘far from simply being involved passively in defensive organizations as Black male writers such as Gilroy (1987) have suggested’ (Webb, 2001: 281). Supplementary schooling, according to Mirza and Reay (2000), represent political attempts to create ‘sacred spaces’ of Blackness. Radical Black women educators revitalize traditional notions of community, promote the values of collectivity and individual achievement. This model of supplementary schooling represents the lived reality in which women’s energy, creativity and labour can operate as both a form of cultural capital and social agency. The effect of such strategic self-determination is to disrupt white feminist theories of citizenship that are constrained by modernist liberal distinctions of public and private and to mobilize, in this ‘third sphere’, counter-narratives of female participation. There is a need, as Fraser suggests, for: ‘parallel discursive arenas where members of subordinated social groups develop and circulate counter discourses which in turn permit them to formulate oppositional interpretations of their identities, interests and needs’ (Fraser, 1994b: 84). In short, Mirza and Reay’s work suggest that the creative political engagement of Black women serves to dismantle fixed notions of citizenship and creates an alternative sphere of radical subversion. Education feminism’s encounter with citizenship: limitations and future directions These examples of research represent only a fraction of the work conducted on gender, agency, citizenship and education. However, they begin to direct our attention to some of the important feminist theoretical issues relevant to the concept of ‘agency’, such as action. They also suggest that it is imperative for education feminists to examine

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how they draw upon the concepts of equity and citizenship, and what they promote in the form of equity policy and citizenship education. We have therefore argued that one way in which education feminists ought to engage in such work is by drawing upon the debates in feminist political theory about the limits of liberal democracy. In so doing, a number of concerns are exposed about the use of liberal democratic ideals in promoting citizenship and citizenship education in schools. For example, it would seem that what still remains absent from feminist educational analyses of citizenship is a study of its very development over time. Clearly, a critical historiography of the concepts of citizenship and citizenship education cross-nationally would highlight the role of education in the disempowerment and disembodiment of women and girls from their locations in the state, the reinforcement of national narratives and its historical and contemporary role in heightened forms of ethnic conflict cross-nationally. In the US, for example, citizenship education has served over time to enforce the belief the women’s position in the US is respected in a free, equal and open society. Yet such misrepresentational forms fail to acknowledge the illusions of democracy for differently positioned women and girls in the nation-state, and the role that a liberal vision of female citizenship plays in the reproduction of social inequality. In each of these areas, female agency cannot be asserted through the acquisition of citizenship and one begins to learn that to possess citizenship or to occupy the space denoted as ‘citizenship’ is, for many, an arbitrary act which has little to do with the development of any notion of oneself as a socially embedded, rather than an autonomous, actor in the state. The major problem framing this work, then, is the failure of contemporary feminist analyses in education to offer an ‘historically conscious political orientation’ (Brown, 2001) to female citizenship in the present or a feminist historical consciousness of citizenship which exposes the material power formations underlying its very construction and normative conditions.

Conclusion What then are the implications which follow from the central paradox with which we began from the contingent problematics exposed by feminist critiques of liberal democracy and citizenship, together with the associated research which we have reviewed? We have argued that these problematics clearly signal the need to expose the limitations of any form of citizenship education which straightforwardly commits to

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abstract liberal principles. Central to any new political agenda is, therefore, the importance of women’s social location in the state in relation to access over power and privilege; the necessity for addressing the redistribution of resources and the recognition of those women who are located outside normative definitions of citizenship; and the need for women’s social rights to be recognized in the cultural, economic and political decisions which affect the shape and direction of their futures. A critical feminist politics of citizenship might also continue to emphasize the problem of gender inequity and work towards its eradication. But it would do so only once questions about particularity and specificity were addressed not merely as token elements of liberal democratic discourse, but as fundamental to understanding and ultimately challenging social differentiation in a changing yet unequal world order. Secondly, our review suggests a need to unsettle debates about citizenship and citizenship education without turning away from action and political life. As Fraser (1999) argues, a complete rejection of the category citizenship could render ‘the concepts of intentionality, accountability and self-reflexivity’ (Benhabib, 1999: 3) meaningless. At the same time, one must be cautious in attributing too much hope to a project of citizenship that is premised upon ‘freedoms’ which repeatedly recast themselves inside a liberal political framework that has failed to offer women full citizenship status. As Arendt (1971) reminds us, commitments to the project of freedom are misguided largely because the questions of ‘freedom for whom’ or ‘does freedom exist’ do not emerge as central to a liberal democratic vision. We are therefore challenged to begin developing alternative visions of citizenship which move away from the oppressive dimensions of liberal democratic concepts, to find ‘other meanings’7 of citizenship and ways of engaging in the political space of social life. Thirdly, feminist research on citizenship suggests that it is increasingly important to develop a coherent position on what it means for women to possess differing degrees and forms of political agency in the state, how structures and social location shape the formation of the political subject and the right to act as agent, or, at the very least, to recognize the perspectives of those who enact a notion of agency or political subversion as a form of cultural struggle (Brah, 2001). The tension between female agency, citizenship and empowerment is, however, problematic as our review has shown. Earlier feminist accounts could have considered social action as a form of ‘empowerment’, but whether such struggles had any long-term empowering

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effect for differently positioned women cross-nationally remains an open question. Indeed, not all women can be empowered through larger political initiatives with the same effect. Contemporary feminist writers, such as Weir (1997), argue that what is required for political/social agency is a necessary distance between women’s vision of their own political selfhood and official state visions such that all women are able to narrate their social circumstances without being regulated or coerced into endorsing a dominant universal narrative, reproducing liberal myths, or forms of politics as a ‘conception of a original pre-given authentic self’ (Weir, 1997: 264). This vision of political agency is ultimately related to the ‘capacity and the responsibility to problematize and define one’s own meaning’(see Weir, 1997: 187) in relation to others as well as the state. This, Weir (1997) tells us, is the ‘burden and privilege of modern political subjects’. A social agent is therefore able to narrate – as a dynamic social action – a vision of one’s own life as socially embedded, reconcile multiple and competing notions of selfhood, as well as position oneself ethically in relation to others; women’s agency would therefore come to signify women’s reflexive responses to their embeddedness in the state. Weir writes: Ideally these reconciliations are achieved not through the imposition of an identity which excludes or represses difference and nonidentity (the concern of post-modernists) but through a capacity to reflexively and practically accept, live with and make sense of differences and complexity. (Weir, 1997: 187) We are therefore arguing for the need, theoretically, to move education feminism(s) away from sole concerns with radical individualism or relational feminism (women as rational, as mother, or as simply constructed) over a study of the enactment of citizenship and identity work in public space, and a concern over political economies which constrain women’s citizenship cross-nationally, the structures of colonialism and the like. This impulse in a materialist account implies that political agency does not have to be claimed as a dominating form of liberal autonomy, self-indulgent politics, or as caring rationality but as a socially cultivated reality. Nor should this account be trapped in either the private or public sphere as separate spheres of social life which are premised upon unrealistic political divisions in a liberal democratic context. However, on its own, such a vision is not enough. Clearly, a re-examination of the state as embodying material functions

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(and related institutions such as education), its forms of governance and the social processes which constrain women’s ability to posses different forms of agency must also be undertaken. Current tides in theoretical debates have undermined such analyses in feminist thought; however, the ongoing presence of such debates does not mean we have yet acquired what Fraser has identified as an ‘alternative posthumanist ethical paradigm’ nor have we yet revealed all the novel social conditions which currently undermine women’s position as ‘citizens’ (Fraser, 1994a). Fraser (1994a) suggests that this project, demands that we weigh alternative ways of situating ourselves in relation to possible futures, for example, as political agents and potential participants in oppositional social movements. To pose the issue in this way is to acknowledge the need for a major interdisciplinary, hermeneutical effort – an effort that brings to bear all the tools of historical, sociological, literary, philosophical, political and moral deliberation in order to (Fraser, 1994a: 206) displace the meanings of citizenship. Indeed, as Fraser (1994a) suggests, feminist critiques of liberal democracy are shifting the very ground upon which citizenship has been conceptualized in Western European democracies. In summary, we have argued for the urgency of exposing the ideological premises of citizenship, and education’s hidden role in its cultivation. Such an argument forces us to move beyond a notion of citizenship as ‘empty space’, as male territory or as a colonial project to engage with what it means to enact citizenship, since its very abstractness allows it to become both the object of study and the focus of political action. A new language, therefore, is emerging through which to talk about gender/social relations and citizenship in education. If a new social contract is to be framed which does not disavow the political subject (as social), then schooling for citizenry has to be more than a training in ‘enthusiastic loyalty’ to the nation state (Heater, 1990: 76), how to be good to your neighbor or as mere preparation for the public/private divide. It would need to create the social conditions for different kinds of female agency in the state, to critique gendered formations of citizenship within the formal and hidden curriculum and destabilize the vested power relations, formations and establishments which are behind such discursive constructions (Heater, 1990: 76). As James Donald rightly argued, citizenship has no substantial identity until it is located within an understanding of the organization

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of the symbolic, social order. In this respect, the radical potential of the concept is as important as its discriminatory political history (c.f. Heater, 1990). Notes 1. This part of the title was borrowed from Pierre Bourdieu’s (1999) book entitled Masculine Domination (chapter 1). 2. This chapter is based in part upon an article by Dillabough and Arnot (2003) which has been published in The School Field Journal as ‘Recasting Educational Debates about Female Citizenship, Agency and Identity’. It is also based upon work we collated for an edited collection published under the title of Challenging Democracy (2000). 3. This term was coined by Lynda Stone (1996). 4. For a review of this position, see Dillabough (2002a, 2000b). 5. Note that feminists who draw upon the work of Hannah Arendt call this practice the ‘visiting’ or ‘trespassing’ upon other perspectives inside a particular local space (rather than universal space). These practices lead to an ‘enlarged mentality’ (see Arendt, 1971; also Disch, 1994). 6. Following the authors in our collection, the term ‘Black’ refers to African Caribbean origin. 7. The title of the conference at which the first draft of this paper was given as the opening address by M. Arnot was entitled ‘Other meanings for New Forms of Citizenship’, Porto, July 2001.

11 Political Literacy: Issues for Teachers and Learners Ian Davies and Sylvia Hogarth

Although there were exceptions (e.g. see Heater, 1984) little, if any, explicit political education was considered necessary for majorities prior to about the mid 1970s (Entwistle, 1973; Batho, 1990; Davies, 1999). Two attempts after that point, however, have been made to implement political education: in the 1970s with the Programme for Political Literacy and more recently in the form of the Crick report (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998) which led to the National Curriculum subject of citizenship being compulsory in secondary schools in England from August 2002 (QCA/DfEE, 2000). This chapter includes a discussion of the nature of politics, describes a curriculum development project that is aiming to promote political literacy and raises issues about preferred methods of teaching and responses from students that are currently in evidence in a small sample of schools. Much of the analysis is based on an evaluation of the Political Literacy Project that was directed by the Citizenship Foundation and funded by the Department for Education and Skills and Esme Fairburn Foundation.

What is politics? What is political education? The nature of politics is remarkably diverse (see, for example, Crick, 1978; Leftwich, 1984; Cloonan and Davies, 1998). However, the key target can be seen in the following: Pupils learning about and how to make themselves effective in public life though knowledge, skills and values – what can be called ‘political literacy’, seeking for a term that is wider than political knowledge alone. The term ‘public life’ is used in its broadest sense 181

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to encompass realistic knowledge of and preparation for conflict resolution and decision-making related to the main economic and social problems of the day, including each individual’s expectations of and preparation for the world of employment, and discussion of the allocation of public resources and the rationale of taxation. Such preparations are needed whether these occur in locally, nationally or internationally concerned organizations or at any level of society from formal political institutions to informal groups, both at local or national level (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998, p. 13). Thus a compound of knowledge, skills and procedural values is needed with the latter to include such areas as respect for truth and reasoning and toleration as opposed to substantive values which could mean that pupils would be told what to think about particular issues. Crick’s wider definition of politics means that knowledge of Whitehall and town halls is insufficient but that the politics of everyday life would be worthy of study. Of course, ‘the ultimate test of political literacy lies in creating a proclivity to action not in achieving more theoretical analysis’ (Crick and Lister, 1978, p. 41).

A framework for political literacy In light of the re-emergence of political literacy attempts are being made to develop a form of teaching and learning that can bring those ideals into reality (Huddleston and Rowe, 2001a). Two approaches that have been used in the past need to be rejected. Firstly, there is what could be called the ‘civics’ model. This is characterized by the transmission of factual knowledge and a didactic teaching methodology, emphasizing political literacy as product. Whenever this approach has been tried it has, however, been uninspiring and misleading. The second approach that should be rejected can be called the ‘big issues’ model. This is characterized by the familiarization of pupils with contested political issues through adversarial debate, emphasizing political literacy as process. Some benefits may emerge from this but there are, at least, two potential weaknesses that are very significant. Although teachers may wish to use controversial issues as case studies to develop wider understanding (Stradling, Noctor and Baines, 1984), the anticipated transfer is normally not pursued explicitly and often does not occur. As such pupils are left with in-depth knowledge of one particular issue that has essentially been chosen for its supposed relevance to current affairs. As those issues have in effect normally been chosen by

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the media and not by educationalists, students are not able to get a systematic introduction to political ideas. An alternative approach is suggested in this chapter: the ‘public discourse’ model. A project is being developed by the Citizenship Foundation (funded by the Department for Education and Skills and the Esmé Fairburn Foundation) (Huddleston and Rowe, 2001a). This project seeks to induct pupils into the language, concepts, forms of argument and skills required to think and talk about life from a political point of view, emphasizing both process and product. Factual knowledge is important but is made subservient to other aspects that are centrally important to political literacy. Bruner’s work on social education suggested that curriculum development lay in the identification of the key concepts which structure thinking about particular areas of social life. Developments in other subject areas (e.g. science education Newton, Driver and Osborne, 1999; Osborne, Erduran, Simon and Monk, 2001; and history education, Lee, Ashby and Dickinson, 1996) suggest that the determination to get students involved in active debate is now commonly regarded as being highly appropriate for developing conceptual development. Hahn (1996) in a review of research on issues-centered social studies argues for many of the central ideas and practices promoted by the project. Research by Hughes, Bourgeois, Corbett, Hillman and Long (n.d.) into the nature of students’ understanding of political concepts shows that there is interest and some expertise that can be carried further by the project. The Crick Report saw the understanding of a number of key concepts (such as democracy and autocracy, co-operation and conflict, equality and diversity) as being essential. The IEA Civic Education Project (see the work in England by Kerr, Lines, Blenkinsop and Schagen, 2001) found that ‘schools that model democratic practices are most effective in promoting civic knowledge and engagement’ (p. 5) and it is perhaps in the promotion of public discourse (rather than other methods) in which that process can be demonstrated. A map has been plotted by the Project of the sorts of understanding one needs to possess in order to be able to think and talk about contemporary life from a political point of view. A number of categories were identified relating to different aspects of political life, e.g., political ‘ideals’, ‘institutions’, ‘ideologies’, ‘systems’, ‘participation’ – as well as generic political concepts which have more general application, e.g., ‘power’, ‘authority’, ‘representation’, ‘government’, etc. The methodology for the project materials has grown out of the one developed in the Citizenship Foundation’s Good Thinking series

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(Huddleston and Rowe, 2001b). Each lesson unit features a piece of stimulus material – a story, dialogue, newspaper account, etc. – chosen to illustrate an important aspect of political thinking or argumentation. Examples include dilemmas about vigilantes, market forces, racism, the nature of politics and necessary and desirable attributes of politicians, the nature and uses of ideology. Active learning and problem-solving exercises are chosen to enable pupils to engage with the ideas implicit in the stimulus material in discussion at various levels of intellectual sophistication. Questions are posed within each of the 16 units (Huddleston, 2004) to encourage reflection on the debate and allow the political concepts and forms of argument involved to be identified. Using the Citizenship Foundation’s Political Literacy Project to speculate about teaching and learning It is important to stress that a detailed evaluation of the Political Literacy Project is not provided here. Rather, there is a discussion of issues that may be relevant to teaching and learning political literacy. Whereas the early stages of this discussion relate almost exclusively to the materials produced by the Citizenship Foundation, the final stages are far more speculative. The comments about the nature of discourse relevant to political literacy and the notion of progression should be seen as no more than a provisional and interim account. A detailed discussion of the methods used to evaluate the project materials is not provided here. However, a few brief details should be given. There were two phases to the evaluation of the Political Literacy Project. The first focused principally on rather general responses from a national small sample of teachers and students to the ideas behind the materials and whether or not the resources were seen as being useful. The second phase of data collection was developed in light of initial data analysis and consultation with the steering group and directors of the project and allowed for a more in-depth analysis of the responses from four expert teachers and their students. Two issues became particularly important as the evaluation focused on what was being achieved in classrooms: • what sort of teaching styles can be used when promoting ‘public discourse’ as the central feature of political literacy. • what are the sorts of student responses, that relate to public discourse, that emerge from those teaching styles.

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Discussion: an enthusiastic response The Political Literacy Project has received an enthusiastic response from most teachers and students. It is very easy to present a long list of very positive quotations from teachers and others about the materials. We found them stimulating … there is a lot of stuff in there that the kids have been very interested in He [another teacher] has had some of the best discussions he has had with that particular group and he has had them for nearly two years now. This sort of response is in part governed by a general willingness by teachers to engage with political literacy in a context that is seen as being less fraught with professional danger than it was some years ago: I don’t believe that some of those issues are as, well, difficult as they were. I would put them on a parallel with things like sex education. I think those things are contentious but they are vastly less contentious than they were a decade ago. … because I think that is the whole thing about indoctrination, the only difference in society is that there is such a plethora of … I mean … of information and ideas floating around, the idea that one teacher somehow could induct this practice …. The enthusiastic reception is also due to the way in which discourse has been emphasized. One teacher explained his liking for the project by saying: … because it is learning processes. I am not telling kids how to vote, things like that, we are talking about processes…. I would say that these sorts of modules, look, you know, decision making, this one looks quite suitable in exploring the idea in a way, becoming, you know what does it mean to be a citizen in Britain today. Teachers showed no sign of worrying if school was the right sort of institution to develop political understanding. One commented in a way that dismissed very firmly the negatively phrased question:

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But if they don’t do it in school, where are they going to do it? (laughter) That is what I would say to that! Another commented on the nature of political literacy developed through the project by referring to an episode from a lesson: We got onto a really good discussion about the whole concept of the idea of law and what its purpose was. Yes, the whole idea of the rule of law was one of the useful concepts that were written in here.

Teachers’ actions to develop political literacy There are, of course very many challenges to the achievement of a discourse appropriate to political literacy. Those challenges include; little professional experience, a low level of student knowledge, confusion about the nature of politics (what should be included and omitted), confusion about the model of progression that can be used and what sort of application should be expected from students. It is not possible to do more than provide a few insights into the actions of teachers. However, it is suggested that three areas perhaps require further investigation in any attempt to understand the nature of that work: establishing an appropriate context for discussion; developing particular teaching methods; and promoting specific types of discourse.

Establishing an appropriate context for discussion Teachers who were seen to be working successfully with students were all able to provide a positive classroom environment. Classroom climate has been emphasized in many publications. Hahn (1996) reviews these inputs referring in particular to the work of Lee Ehman in the 1980s and presaging the conclusions of the IEA civic education project (Kerr Lines, Blenkinsop, and Schagen, 2001). All teachers observed presented a no nonsense approach to their work and yet they were tremendously considerate and polite towards their students. One teacher, for example, in the first few minutes of one lesson said: ‘I’m sorry’ (to the whole class in light of his having to deal with an examination for other students), ‘Thanks, Thomas’ (to a student who had commented on something that needed to be done later that day); ‘Would you do me a favour?’ (to a student who was being asked to distribute resources).

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Moreover the body language, tone of voice and general demeanour of the teachers showed a professional, organized approach to work. Positive inclusive language was used frequently (e.g. ‘Good. You already know quite a lot’). Ground rules for discussion and for approaches to work had clearly been agreed (or at least discussed) in advance of the lessons observed. At times those guidelines (for example, for ‘top teams’) were clearly displayed and referred to on numerous occasions. I think it [being positive and encouraging] is [important] … I have developed it here as the students react very well to the positive … I am conscious of it and I do try, especially the weaker students This positive classroom climate was complemented by the arrangement of physical space appropriate to the nature of the lesson. In almost all classrooms desks and chairs were arranged so as to allow for easy interaction between the whole class and the teacher as well as between both individuals and small groups of students. This physical space was altered in some lessons to suit specific activities. A lot of these things [being positive and using classroom space] they are sort of ideas behind this active citizenship thing aren’t they, about getting kids involved and swapping ideas, group work, feeding back to the rest of the class, having a chance to reflect on things, a bit of teacher input. I mean seating arrangements – yeah, very important – we are working on this circle which I have used a couple of times with year sevens. Circle time is something that has been used more at key stage two and it is that the students who are now coming up are used to circle time … if you are going to do active lessons then the students have got to have that opportunity to for others to hear them and for them to be heard because it can be a situation like on one or two occasions today when others were talking at the same time. This positive approach which seemed to allow for the development of mutual respect and the practise of relevant skills was meaningful only because certain boundaries were maintained. This does not mean that rigid insistence was promoted in all matters. Examples were seen of teachers who neither approved or explicitly disallowed what could be described as mild ‘bad’ language and teachers did not impose their own views on students. However, teachers did have boundaries of

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acceptability and were keen not to allow, for example, racist comments or action. The sophisticated way in which this is done by at least some teachers can be seen in the following quotation. The teacher explains that there are boundaries beyond which it is not acceptable to go but careful decisions are taken about how that matter can be dealt with depending on the nature of the comment, the context in which it was made and who made it. Teachers are clearly going through complex decision making processes to combine their desire to teach concepts and to promote inclusion among individual students within the general framework of school policy and practice. There is a lad who has now been excluded who was racist in this lesson. We had a lady who was a Muslim teaching assistant and he made a racist comment and from that we actually got him into a discussion about dictators in Iraq because she came from Iraq. He said: ‘what are you doing here?’ and it started on that and then I dealt with the situation after the lesson, but she accepted that we could then get a discussion out of it and by the end of the lesson the kids were saying: ‘oh you had a really tough time, it must be very difficult’ and she was saying ‘oh yeah, you don’t understand how lucky you are’. They were saying ‘well, why are we lucky’. You can use a situation and we try, again it is a school policy, we try to be as less confrontational with the kids as we can until we can deal with the situation because we have seen where staff aren’t and it does lead to major problems. So where things can be dealt with by a debate we try to, but I think sometimes that situation you can use it, can’t you and I think that is important. I would do it if it was the right situation, I mean if it was a violent situation obviously I wouldn’t because that is a different matter, a different scenario, but a comment was made. I think it depends on you knowing the kids, if a kid has said it if it was somebody like John who had said it, I would think ‘oh perhaps he just hasn’t realized what he said rather than he actually means it. It is knowing the kids as well and I think that is important. Thus context is seen by teachers as being very important. They are concerned to ensure that the general atmosphere or classroom climate is appropriate, that there are rules or guidelines for the way in which discussion is conducted and that there are opportunities for a sophisticated enforcement of boundaries that keep discussion within acceptable boundaries.

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Developing appropriate teaching styles Teaching styles are discussed here in the sense of both general arrangements such as ensuring that the lessons are sufficiently varied to allow for different types of discussion and the usage of more specific methods. • The ‘shapes’ of lessons Almost all lessons saw the use of a variety of formats that allowed for discussion (whole class, small groups, pairs and individual teacher-student dialogues), reading (whole class, in smaller groups and individually), and writing (teacher using the board, students in groups and singly). Teachers, in order to allow for a variety of discourse during political literacy lessons, use different ‘shapes’. One example of a fairly typical shape is shown below: General introductory discussion: teacher led discussion on ‘what is politics?’ (five minutes) Small group activity: teacher distributes cards and with the involvement of students defines key words. Students are then asked to work in small groups to sort the cards into three groups and be able to justify their reasons (ten minutes) Whole class discussion: teacher asks students for their decision and reasons (nine minutes) Whole class discussion followed by small group discussion: teacher asks for opposing views to be considered (i.e. why should politics not be taught in schools?): (eight minutes) Whole class discussion: feedback, conclusions and links made to next lesson (nine minutes). Teachers were of the opinion that lessons had to have these appropriate sections: Yes, split it up into manageable stages and I think in a school like this [relatively low SES] especially when its an hours lesson you do need to do that … you know a ten minute start, a 15 minute in the middle, then another 15 minutes and a ten minute plenary. • Focusing students’ minds The management of a coherent, focused discussion is extremely difficult. Teachers seem to employ a variety of tactics to maintain interest and motivation. Four methods in particular seemed to be most

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commonly used. Firstly, teachers would relate the lesson to an important (normally contemporary) issue in society. For example, one teacher when about to lead a lesson the division between public and private matters said: ‘Just to get you thinking … an idea from the news … Tony Blair is sending his kids to private tutors. Is it in the public interest for us to know?’ This caught students’ attention and the comments that were made about the Blair family led to the use of the political literacy activities that were contained in the pack of resources. Secondly, efforts are made to relate the work being undertaken to other subjects and school activities. Some pupils were asked at the conclusion of a series of lessons to complete a learning log in which they showed the links between their political literacy work and other school subjects. Students responded positively with one not untypical response being ‘we can use an open mind anywhere’ while others refered to a variety of, principally humanities, subjects. During lessons teachers were seen to refer explicitly to relevant schools structures such as the school council when considering the role of a politician. One teacher during a post lesson interview said about a discussion that had just occurred on the theme of representation: I was quite interested when we talked about the school council and I wanted to take that a bit further because with me running school council I want to know what kids think about it. Thirdly, teachers were keen to relate matters to pupils’ out of school contexts. The following quotation is typical: what we have found with the students we have at X, because their experience is quite limited as a whole. It tends to be a sort of [name of town] focus and if you come from somewhere like [name of town] 30 miles away, where I came from in my previous school, it’s the end of the world. So what we have worked on an awful lot is putting things into context for the students and trying to relate what we do to things that are relevant to the students. Another teacher commented: I think it’s really opening my eyes up, dealing with political literacy and the materials that I have been given that they need to understand what is going off immediately around them as well as looking at a more national level. You can relate local issues, in their own street, their own school, to national level.

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Finally attempts to keep students minds focused on the topic of the discussion involved a combination of activities that were stimulating with clear and achievable outcomes. Considering for example the pros and cons of rule maintenance or rule breaking by vigilantes in an area of high crime led to lively debate. • Helping students to elaborate and encouraging them to justify their positions All teachers were keen to encourage students to see that simple short responses were not wanted. Generally thoughtful discussion seemed to be encouraged when teachers maintained a rapid pace but considered only a few matters in depth. Longer focused discussions seemed to allow for higher level work. Teachers in our sample were modifying the materials provided by the Citizenship Foundation in order to spend more time on the lessons, and in their view, help students elaborate and justify their positions. One commented: I will make four lessons out of that one unit. As in both lessons [observed up to that point] I did not get as far as looking at the question of why people would not want political literacy to be taught in the classroom. We did not get to that stage at all and the actual discussion centred around the card sort. One lesson probably only reached a third of the way through it and the other lesson was about the same although we probably got through more discussion in that lesson. So I would need another lesson to fully work on the discussion centred on the card sort itself to bring out ideas. Then another lesson at least for the follow up and then there is bound to be something else that comes out of it so you would probably need a fourth lesson to clear it all up. Prior to the completion of specific activities students were encouraged to see the amount of response that was expected by working within time limits that were given by teachers. When students responded teachers often, helpfully and positively, repeated and then developed and challenged students’ responses. One teacher in particular seemed constantly to elaborate in this way upon students’ answers. For example, in a discussion about national identity the following very typical exchange took place during a discussion of a photograph of David Beckham wrapped in the flag of St. George: Teacher: He looks proud Student: He’s showing off Teacher: Yes? Perhaps, he’s showing off the national flag in a very positive way?

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During work on ideology the teacher asked students towards the end of the lesson who had ideologies. A variety of answers were given as shown below with the teacher simply repeating comments but also developing and elaborating when the unexpected answer of ‘children’ is given: Teacher: Who has an ideology? Student: President Bush Student: Tony Blair Teacher: Yes, other political leaders such as Tony Blair Student: Osama Bin Laden Teacher: Yes, a very clear ideology Student: The Pope Teacher: Yes, religious leaders like the Pope Student: Children Teacher: Yes, probably consciously or unconsciously you have your own ideas about what society needs to look like During this discussion students had had an opportunity to apply what they had learned about ideology to a range of figures and then were encouraged to see how they are part of the ideological nature of society. Perhaps longer and fuller elaboration would have helped students even more. General exhortation was used as students were pressed to say more: ‘why, what’s your argument’; ‘tell us more’, ‘what do you mean?’. Probing took place by the teachers using a variety of question types and general approaches such as devil’s advocate or committed teaching styles (see Stradling, Noctor and Baines, 1984). • Allowing students to see what it is they are doing when they are producing good work The materials provided by the Citizenship Foundation have a clear substantive conceptual framework but the intention behind the project is to allow the students to develop a form of political literacy that is related to discourse. One teacher commented: the purpose of the lesson was for pupils to engage with or think about the issues. The conclusions that were reached were varied and far reaching but these were of secondary importance to me compared with the discussions that led to these conclusions. The teachers engaged the students in active discussion but also encourage them to reflect on the nature of their work. This was done

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in a number of ways. The influence of thinking skills was noticed in some teachers’ work. The technique, for example, of using imaginary situations (or ‘mysteries’) was mentioned as a way of engaging the students and a variety of open and closed questions were used. The key, however, for some was in the development of a focus on the process of discussion: after 5 minutes we stop and say things like ‘ok, how is your group working’, not ‘what have you found out’ but ‘how is your group working’. We listen to each group and then say ‘ok you have listened to the other groups and they might have ideas that you think might work well for your group’. For some teachers there was an explicit recognition of the importance of literacy in the process of developing the preferred form of political literacy. One teacher compared the shapes of lessons he used with ‘the key stage 2 strategy for English’ and argued that he was aiming not just for an awareness of issues but also ‘the skill of the language and the style in which they present’ their views. • Allowing students to consider what sort of conclusions can be drawn from a discussion by reinforcing key learning points Teachers have a key role to play in mediating the contributions of students. This can happen as they work with small groups or help individuals explain their ideas to the whole class. Most obviously, summing up can be seen at the end of lessons in which teachers are pulling various threads together. An example of this final summation occurred during a challenging lesson on political ideology in which the beliefs and practices of Martin Luther King were compared and contrasted with those of Malcolm X. The teacher summarized the key points of difference between the two individuals and reminded the students that their positions had been examined in terms of what they believed about humanity and what they felt should be done to improve society. Types of discourse used There seems to be five general types of discourse: • Contextual discourse Teachers do not place a significant emphasis on the memorization or even use of factual information. However, teachers do seem to want students to know something about the background to an issue and especially at the beginning of a lesson present a context for the students to work within. If students stray beyond that context the teachers work

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hard (not always successfully) in the ways described above to keep minds focused. • Judgemental discourse Many of the activities undertaken by students are associated with decision making. Students have to decide, for example, what should be considered as a private as opposed to a public matter, whether or not a politician should always tell the truth, what priorities should be used when deciding upon the distribution of scarce goods and so on. Decision making or the declaration of a judgement seems to be a key feature of discourse related to political literacy. • Justificatory or explanatory discourse Teachers do not want students merely to become decision makers. Rather they want to encourage students to develop their ideas. That development is closely connected to the teaching strategies discussed above. In the varied shapes of lessons there are opportunities for students to be exposed to various questioners and forms of questions. The students are asked to explain the grounds on which they have made a decision. Teachers’ use of largely devil’s advocate style can provide powerful encouragement for a valuable elaboration. • Persuasive Discourse Teachers allow students the opportunity to engage in what could be called persuasive or directional discourse. In other words students become involved either as individuals, members of a small group or as part of the whole class in preparing some sort of case. This is different from merely asking students to show they understand what is being discussed, make decisions or explain why their decisions have been made. Rather teachers may want students to build a case within a particular structure. Obvious examples include a class being asked to consider the reasons why politics should or should not be taught in schools; or asking some students to argue for public funds to be spent in specific areas. It should be emphasized that the number of occasions on which students were asked to be involved in what could be termed gladiatorial debating practices of statement and rebuttal was low. Much more usual was the exploration of an issue in a consensual manner. The issue is discussed to achieve understanding and to practise skills as opposed to a focus on winning the argument.

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• Procedural Discourse A few teachers seem to encourage students to be able to talk about the discourse they are practising or experiencing. Some comments above have been made to illustrate the ways in which some teachers encourage the students to focus on how statements are being made, and how arguments are being developed as opposed to an exclusive focus on the nature of the argument itself. Responses from students This section of the chapter is extremely speculative. A great deal more work with young people will be required before there can be any confidence about the ways in which we discuss how political literacy can be demonstrated. It is certainly not suggested that a particular model of understanding necessarily emerges from the materials produced by the Citizenship Foundation. Nevertheless there is a need to begin the process of trying to know more about how students engage in a form of public discourse that is relevant to political literacy. • A provisional framework for beginning to understand students’ responses Very generally, there seem to be two main types of student response: the procedural and the substantive (Harris, 1996). Each of the two types of response themselves may have two components (open mindedness and support mobilization; and, knowledge and understanding) i.e.: Procedural matters

Substantive matters

Open mindedness

Knowledge

Support mobilization

Understanding

It seems likely that for students to achieve high quality work not only would they have to perform well in both general areas but they would need to understand the links between them. In other words neither a very general ability to argue nor an isolated academic political understanding would be sufficient. It may be possible to develop in the future a model for encouraging high quality teaching and learning that relies on a form of interactive development and allows students to realize explicitly what they are learning. Discussions could be developed in

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which teachers consciously promoted both parts of the framework. Furthermore, each of the various sub categories displayed in the table may only be meaningful if they are seen as being closely related. For example, open mindedness is certainly not a separate feature from support mobilization. • Procedural matters This area, generally, may include a number of factors that include knowledge, dispositions and skills. Linguistic and presentational skills will be very relevant. Students should know how to use appropriate body language, tone and volume of voice and vocabulary. These skills should be used in relation to certain dispositions. Students should be willing to listen to others and they should be aware of the ways of speaking and acting that are acceptable in discussion between mutually respecting individuals and groups. It is certainly not suggested that students should be drilled into mechanistic performance that emerges from narrow behaviourist conception of the nature of debate. Open mindedness is essential if one is to avoid the possibility that discussions are undertaken only for the purpose of ramming home one’s own views dogmatically. The latter might be politically effective in certain situations but it is at times not evidence of an intelligent or democratic form of interaction. Open mindedness, however, needs to be developed in a particular way so that it can be the basis for a robust and appropriate discourse. As argued above, certain boundaries need to be in place. Thinking the unthinkable would not extend to certain types of thought or action that are clearly harmful to oneself or others. Furthermore, certain strategies can be used to allow a thoughtful exploration. The ability to use a variety of question types is important as well as the willingness and skill to have undertaken appropriate preparation so as to know what specific questions can be posed. Comments in this chapter about the unacceptability of racist comments during discussion show an example of this sort of boundary setting. The mobilization of support is complementary to an open minded approach. Students are more likely to be able to attract support if they have been able to enquire and understand others’ positions. A number of techniques can be used towards that goal. The use of persuasive language suited to particular audiences would clearly be necessary. The section of this chapter about persuasive discourse is particularly relevant here. With certain caveats (respecting others, searching for truth, using logical reasoning, seeking to persuade rather than provoke further opposition, etc.), it may be necessary for students to learn, positively

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and constructively, how to challenge others’ views. Searching for inconsistencies, a judicious use of analogies and the use of vocabulary in which one’s own position is described positively are also likely to be effective in discussion. When used carefully and infrequently interruption is a skill that can be used to great effect either to prevent another person continuing to contribute what is felt to be or to divert the discussion into safer territory. It could also be possible to learn to display the sort of body language that suits one’s purpose. The appearance of not listening as well as seeming to be totally engaged can be used for a variety of purposes. Many examples of student interruptions have been observed in classrooms. The nature and extent of this sort of interaction seems to require further investigation. • Substantive matters Students may also be able to develop the substance of an argument. There are perhaps two key considerations: are they able to show that they can use the sorts of contextual information about an issue that will help their case; and, can they display an appropriate level of broader, usually conceptual, understanding? The two areas are related although it seems from the lessons observed that far less attention is given towards the amount and type of information that students hold. Simply, students are currently not expected by teachers to display a great deal of factual knowledge. It is interesting to speculate why teachers do not currently seem to rely on factual information. Teachers have known for some time of the importance of not using a dry and misleading account of constitutional politics. The fast moving nature of politics means that it is very difficult to prepare materials or prepare lessons that incorporate the latest information. It is very difficult to be able to select appropriately from the massive range of information about political issues so that only the most pertinent factors are included. There may be a desire to avoid teaching about specific issues and instead generate a form of understanding that helps students interpret ideas and developments in a number of contexts. The lack of emphasis on knowledge in the form of information seems, generally, to be sensible and necessary. However, we should be careful that we are not imperceptibly moving towards a situation in which it is more difficult to insist upon evidence based arguments, that inaccuracies can go unchecked and that politics is seen, when presented in the form of imaginary scenarios, to be irrelevant to ‘real life’. More work may be needed on the ways in which evidence is used during discussions to develop or refute arguments.

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Levels of understanding and performance What then should be considered as the sorts of understandings that are achieved by students? It is important to emphasize again the need to relate these points (which largely refer to substantive matters) to the procedural although of course it is not assumed that that relationship will be entirely straightforward. First, students operating at a fairly low level are likely to make a number of simple errors that arise from misunderstanding the nature of the issue being discussed. (Of course, it would be unwise always to discount as unhelpful those mistakes made by contributors to a discussion as they can help the teacher know what needs to be learned). A similarly poor demonstration of procedural skills will mean that there are no or, at best, few unclear responses. Perhaps the next better stage of performance will allow for an argument which relies principally on commonsense observations. Little explanation will be given. Instead matters are seen as simply being right or wrong. A slightly more sophisticated form of this type of response may see the inclusion of personal observations or anecdotes or, at best, the development of a generalized ‘rule’ that cannot really be explained. The significant point to be made here is that the use of an anecdote or reference to a rule is an end in itself rather than a way of explaining or illuminating a specific position. At a slightly higher level it is likely that students will be able to provide a list of separate, somewhat unrelated points that are relevant to the topic of the discussion. It is likely at the higher levels of response that these points are building towards some sort of overarching but largely undeveloped position. It is possible that students will be able to state these points clearly and audibly. The coherence in the list of separate points is likely to be achieved only by a generalized position for or against something as opposed to anything that is more clearly an argument that is dependent upon context. Some students may be able to develop their responses to show an awareness of dilemmas. In, for example, a consideration of the role of a politician students can begin to show that they understand the difficulties of both representing voters and the need to adapt ideas so that one is not merely repeating what one has heard. Similarly students can be seen considering the differences between a successful and idealistic politician. The use of these dilemmas may mean that a more nuanced argument can develop. However, it needs to be emphasized that the beginning of a more reflective approach that is signalled by this awareness of dilemmas may not lead to a coherent argument. As such it may

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appear that the more decisive but less thoughtful positions referred to above may be of greater value for particular purposes in certain discussions. Simply we need to consider carefully the possibility that an argument can appear to be ‘won’ by those who are less thoughtful. Perhaps the highest level of response that may reflect most obviously the connections between both the substantive and procedural areas is associated with persuasive hypothesis formulation, particularly if that is achieved with reference to specific contexts. The argument would be clear and based upon evidence. It would have overarching coherence but would also provide insight into a specific case. A variety of effective strategies will be used to impart the student’s views. Importantly, the word ‘hypothesis’ has been used to reflect the considered and provisional way in which the argument is made. This suggests that alteration may occur in the argument as different contexts are considered or new evidence about the existing case becomes available.

Conclusion Political literacy is perhaps the most challenging of all the aspects of citizenship education. There are however some very encouraging signs that the project discussed in this article is a useful way of developing good work. Perhaps there should be some optimism that we can now work to avoid what has happened too often in the past: a rather shameful neglect of political literacy or the use of unthinking, well intentioned classroom activities that nevertheless allow only for unfocussed disagreement.

12 Citizenship Education and Globalization Jack Demaine

Globalization and citizenship are terms that have become part of public as well as academic discourse. Neither is new and both are ‘contested’ concepts because they involve inter alia arguments about politics, identity, rights, status differentiation, equality and inequality. The notion of citizenship goes back at least to ancient Greece. The Athenian city-state males who populate Aristotle’s The Politics are distinctive citizens who share a privileged status. They are differentiated from others within and outside the state by the qualities and characteristics required by their status and by the rights and conditions without which it would not be possible for them to perform the role of citizen (Hindess, 1993). The notion of globalization also involves ideas about the status and rights of citizens but on a global rather than city or nation state basis. The notion of a ‘fearful spectre’ of global capitalism sweeping all national politics and culture before it is at least as old as Marxism. For Ulrich Beck (2000a) globalization is a current ‘scare-word’ said to point not to an end of politics but to its escape from the categories of the nation state, and even from schema defining what is ‘political’ and ‘non-political’ action. During the latter part of the twentieth century, and at the beginning of the twenty-first, citizens are urged to ‘think globally and to act locally’ and the young are said to be willing and able so to do. The notion of ‘global citizenship education’ is thought to be made more possible through the power of the Internet and other electronic media. Educationists are expected and required to teach children about citizenship, its meaning for action locally and its global implications. The idea of ‘global citizenship’ is codified in school curriculum requirements often with little or no reference to the problematical character either of the concept of ‘globalization’ or of ‘citizenship’. Nevertheless, 200

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this paper argues that for the purposes of school-based teaching, the notion of global citizenship education appears workable as long as it recognizes and acknowledges the limits of action of individual citizens confined as they are within the legal and political structures of the nation state and, in the case of members states such as the United Kingdom, the European Union (EU). Such recognition is worthwhile education in itself and is in contrast with the rather sweeping and sometimes overly optimistic, sometimes overly pessimistic, ideas that characterize many accounts of globalization and its effects. For example, a highly optimistic note was sounded at the EU Lisbon summit 2000 – dubbed the ‘dot com’ summit – where it was suggested that a ‘sea change’ in economic policies of the EU, grasping the opportunity to modernize using the power of the Internet, might lead to the creation of 20 million jobs in EU member states. On a rather less optimistic note, the World Water Forum meeting in the Netherlands during the same month, reminded observers that a third of the citizens of the world are without a clean water supply. Modern lessons in global citizenship will show that, as in the ancient world, there is differentiation today in people’s access to goods and services, and differentiated rights, powers and privileges.

Globalization in question Proponents of the idea of globalization see evidence of it almost everywhere – written on advertizing hoardings, soft drinks cans, and on the walls and roofs of hotels and fast-food restaurants around the world. Even before the recent agreement on China joining the World Trade Organisation (WTO) there were said to be 28 McDonald’s hamburger restaurants in Beijing alone. In Tian’anmen Square, citizens and tourists queuing outside Mao’s mausoleum are marshalled by other citizens wearing white baseball caps bearing the logo VOLVO. The ancient buildings in the Forbidden City bear discrete plaques acknowledging the help of American Express with the cost of their maintenance. On the other side of the globe, in Latin America, rainforests are destroyed with the use of logging equipment designed and built in North America and owned by companies registered there. Oil is extracted from countries across Africa, the Middle East and elsewhere by corporations with globally recognized names. Of course, antiglobalization, anti-capitalist campaigners organize against many of these corporations, pointing to the damage they inflict on the environment and the exploitative effects on peoples around the world. Sports

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equipment sold for tens of dollars in the West is manufactured in less prosperous counties often by the nimble fingers of children who receive a few cents for their labour. And, of course, more comfortably-off European workers are affected too as their employers strive to cut costs. Ulrich Beck’s account of a scene at Berlin’s Tegel Airport is often cited as an illustration of globalization and of the savings to be made by corporations operating globally. During the evening, airport announcements heard in Berlin are made from California because the time-difference allows an American worker to be paid a day-time rate whereas a German worker would have to be paid more for lateworking. Of course, Beck’s intention is not to condone the practice but, rather, involves a celebration of the capacities of global telecommunication. However, the cost of airport announcements is minuscule by comparison with other costs involved in turning round an airliner – cleaning the passenger cabin, restocking the galley, refuelling the aircraft and carrying out routine maintenance checks. The international airliner, that most ‘global’ of entities (leaving aside orbiting spacecraft) has its conditions of production and maintenance firmly rooted in nation states. And air travel between nation states can only occur with prior agreement between those states whose airspace is to be over-flown. Notwithstanding Beck’s enthusiasm for the notion of globalization, he suggests that ‘the concept and discourse of globalization are so fuzzy. To pin them down is like trying to nail a blancmange to the wall’ (Beck, 2000a: 20). In common with other writers, Beck makes reference to Karl Marx and Frederick Engels’ Manifesto of the Communist Party, to demonstrate that globalization is not a new phenomenon. In 1848 Marx and Engels saw capitalist relations of production spreading across the ‘whole surface of the globe’ revolutionizing or destroying all ‘old-established national industries’. The globalization of capitalist relations of production and the development of new modes of consumption involved what Marx and Engels saw as a revolution in social relations so that ‘in place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. And as in material, so also in intellectual production. The intellectual creations of individual nations become common property. National one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible’ (reprinted in Marx and Engels, 1968). In fact, during the nineteenth century the nation state increased in importance and ‘global relations’ during the twentieth century were

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characterized by wars between nations. The ending of each of these wars led to agreements, often weighted against the losers, and to the signing of treaties. Increasingly, economic agreements and treaties came to dominate the relations between nation states. Today, what is commonly refered to as the ‘global economy’ is best seen as international because, as Hirst and Thompson (1996) argue, economic flows across national boundaries are largely dependent on conditions made possible by treaties among and between nation states. Within larger entities such as the EU, the nation state remains crucially important. Intergovernmental conferences involving ongoing negotiations over treaties and agreements affect a wide range of economic and social relations. The consequences for individual citizens and for the politics of each nation state are manifest. A current example is the issue of the United Kingdom’s decision whether or not to join the European single currency. Of course, EU membership has had highly significant consequences for domestic politics not only in the UK but also for other EU member states. Paul Hirst and Grahame Thompson’s Globalization in Question provides detailed and convincing argument for regarding supposed ‘globalization’ as a matter of international relations. Whilst not seeing globalization as a blancmange difficult to nail down, they do accept that there are so many versions of the globalization thesis that it would take a lifetime’s work to review them all. If there are those who would use the term ‘globalization’ to characterize the international economy then ‘so be it’. However, they argue that the present highly internationalized economy is not unprecedented and that, in some respects, ‘the current international economy is less open and integrated than the regime that prevailed from 1870 to 1914.’ They also point out that intercontinental communication via telegraph cables laid on the seabed became possible during the second half of the nineteenth century. In many ways, this involved a more important shift than the move to computer technology during the latter part of the twentieth century (also see Gray, 2002). Of course, today’s systems make possible faster and qualitatively different modes of international communication both for individuals and for companies. Nevertheless, Hirst and Thompson argue that genuinely transnational companies appear to be relatively rare and that ‘most companies are nationally based and trade multinationally on the strength of a major national location of production and sales, and there seems to be no major tendency towards the growth of truly international companies. Capital mobility is not producing a massive shift

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of investment and employment from the advanced to the developing countries. Rather, foreign direct investment is highly concentrated among the advanced industrial economies and the Third World remains marginal in both investment and trade, a small minority of newly industrializing countries apart’. As even some of the ‘extreme advocates of globalization recognize, the world economy is far from being genuinely “global”. Rather, trade, investment and financial flows are concentrated in the Triad of Europe, Japan and North America and this dominance seems set to continue. These major economic powers, the G3, thus have the capacity, especially if they coordinate policy, to exert powerful governance pressures over financial markets and other economic tendencies. Global markets are thus by no means beyond regulation and control, even though the current scope and objectives of economic governance are limited by the divergent interests of the great powers and the economic doctrines prevalent among their elites’ (Hirst and Thompson, 1996). The prospect for the future is the further development of a newly regionalized international economy, dominated essentially by the G3, involving negotiation between the major players and other lesser parties. Richard Falk (1993, 1999) is content with the term ‘globalization’ but usefully distinguishes between what he calls ‘globalization from above’ and ‘globalization from below’. Globalization from above involves those market-oriented tendencies that are dominated by transnational corporations and international banks operating in collaboration with leading nation states – typically the G7. Globalization from below involves those social forces, movements, voluntary, non-government organization that seek to promote ‘global civil society’; a community beyond the territorial state committed to human rights, economic fairness, social justice and environmental sustainability. It is tempting to regard ‘education’ as best placed on this side of the equation but it must be borne in mind that international bankers and the managers of transnational corporations are also the beneficiaries of ‘education’. The meeting of the World Trade Organization in Seattle in December 1999 saw the emergence (on the streets and on television screens around the globe) of a particular manifestation of these forces as a movement of resistance to globalization from above. Subsequent meetings of the World Trade Organization, the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank and the G7 have attracted large and often violent protests by those opposed to organizations which they regard as agents of global capitalism operating a world economy in an anti-democratic fashion. Falk argues that the forces of globalization from above are

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much stronger than the forces challenging them. The latter are relatively weak and disorganized. Some anti-capitalist/anti-globalization protesters resort to smashing McDonald’s plate-glass windows and attacking the facades of banks and other manifestations of international capitalism. Others engage in a moral critique of capitalism and organize worldwide boycotts of the products of international corporations. Yet others, often but not always from a religious standpoint, propound ideas of ‘One World Governance’. The new millennium and easy access to Internet website design software lead to as proliferation of quasi-religious ‘one world’ and other kinds of anti-globalization movements. The capacity to organize demonstrations using Internet chat-rooms and email also alerted local police forces. A routine has been quickly established so that at the venue of the next meeting of the WTO, IMF, G3, G7, G8 etc., a ring of steel fencing is erected, water cannon summon-up and television cameras put in places to transmit images of violent protest around the globe. Such images are not without effects or consequences. They provide a kind of education in themselves, and probably do significant damage to the anti-globalization/anti-capitalism movement. A recent survey by YouGov for the New Statesman suggest that a significant majority of 16–25 year olds in Britain ‘approve of global capitalism’ (Kellner, 2002). Away from the media glare that surrounds the meetings of the ‘world leaders’, but still attracting the attention of the protesters, other forces of ‘globalization from above’ seek means by which to enhance and sustain their image. In the Spring of 2002 the New York Waldorf-Astoria provided the venue for a seminar designed to assist corporations to develop an image of responsible ‘corporate citizenship’ – conference fee US$1800, workshops US$550 extra each, cost of travel and accommodation extra. No doubt such corporate expense account events are helpful in corporate citizenship image-making (see McIntosh et al., 1998) whilst their opponents are seen around the globe as violent street vandals.

Local action and global citizenship education Citizens are frequently urged to ‘think globally and act locally’ – ordinary individual citizens have little choice in the matter. Beck, following Zygmunt Bauman (1998, and see Smith, 1999) argues that local citizens of nation states are caught up in the processes of globalization whether or not they act consciously. The neologism ‘glocalization’ is adopted to reflect the idea that globalization and localization ‘may be

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two sides of the same coin’ involving a process of ‘world-wide restratification’ which establishes a new socio-cultural hierarchy on a worldwide scale. Globalization and localization are not only two aspects of the same thing, ‘they are at once the driving forces and expressions of a new polarization and stratification of the world population into globalized rich and localized poor’ (Beck, 2000a: 55, emphasis is the original). An often politically inactive local citizenry is made global by processes beyond and outside of their control irrespective of their supposed need to think globally. This applies both to the impoverished victims of globalization and to better-off citizens largely resident in the prosperous West. ‘One thing which has thus far escaped globalization is our collective ability to act globally. Since our mutual dependence is already by and large global, our moral responsibility for each other is real as never before. Given, however, the economic bias of globalization … taking responsibility becomes yet more difficult. Our sensitivity is assaulted by sights which are bound to trigger our moral impulse to help – yet it is far from obvious what we could do to bring relief and succour to the sufferers’ (Bauman, 2001). ‘Virtually nowhere in the rich world does expenditure on overseas aid and development rise above 1% of tax returns’ and as ‘the wealth of the world continues to grow spectacularly, so does the volume and depth of human misery’ (ibid.). There is a strong sense of increasing helplessness of citizens in the face of global forces although the differing circumstances of different citizens has to be acknowledged (cf. Davies, 2001; Kenway, Kelly and Willis, 2001). Bauman spells out the dynamic effects of the process of glocalization. In the USA ten years ago ‘the income of company directors was 42 times higher than that of the blue-collar workers; it is now 419 times higher; 95% of the surplus of $l,l00 bn generated between 1979 and 1999 has been appropriated and consumed by 5% of Americans’. And ‘what happens inside every single society occurs as well in the global sphere – though on a much magnified scale. While the world-wide consumption of goods and services was in 1997 twice as large as in 1975 and has multiplied since 1950 by a factor of six, a billion people, according to a recent UN report, “cannot satisfy even their elementary needs”. Among 4.5 billion residents of “developing” countries, three in every five are deprived of access to basic infrastructure: a third have no access to drinkable water, a quarter have no accommodation worthy of its name and a fifth have no use of sanitary and medical services. One in five children spends less than five years in any form of schooling: a similar proportion is permanently undernourished’ (Bauman, 2001).

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In contrast, Bauman adds that ‘three of the richest men in the world have private assets greater than the combined national product of the 48 poorest countries; the fortunes of the 15 richest people exceed the total product of the whole of sub-Saharan Africa’ and according to the UN Development Agency, ‘less than 4% of the personal wealth of the 225 richest people would suffice to offer all the poor of the world access to elementary medical and educational amenities as well as adequate nutrition. Even such a relatively minor redistribution of basic necessities is unlikely to occur; not in the foreseeable future at any rate’ (ibid.). Notwithstanding the overwhelmingly pessimistic character of his argument Bauman lends support to those who see a way forward in the socialization of children. Citing Richard Rorty, he argues that ‘we should raise our children to find it intolerable that we who sit behind desks and punch keyboards are paid ten times as much as the people who get their hands dirty cleaning our toilets and 100 times as much as those who fabricate our keyboards in the third world’ (Bauman, 2001). Indeed we should, but will ‘our children’ insist on paying more for their keyboards and sports equipment? And in the unlikely event that some of them would like so to do, Beck and Bauman’s own arguments rightly imply that there is little or no prospect of purposeful action that might lead to global change. The ‘immorality’ of global inequality is graphically detailed by both Beck and by Bauman but the price of keyboards, or any other good of course, is not set by rightthinking youngsters. There is a degree of ‘taken-for-grantedness’ about the idea of young people’s global citizenship expressed, for example, in a Times Educational Supplement editorial which suggested that ‘perhaps the younger generation know instinctively what it is to be a global citizen, because that is what they are’ (op cit. 1999). Many school-aged children do demonstrate an enthusiastic sense of the global which can be explained without needing to resort to the notion of ‘instinct’. It appears to be fed by easy access to electronic modes of transmission of information and images via global television and the worldwide web. By early 2002 about 45% of British homes were said to be connected to the Internet. Global sports coverage, war reporting, global Internet games and global business news all feed a sense of closeness of everything on earth. Children appear to have taken to global television and commuterbased communications just as readily as data-hungry business people. By contrast, local television is usually lacklustre and local news presentation often uninteresting. Local politics can often appear more remote than national politics and international events. Indeed, it is the

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decline of local and national politics that has prompted renewed interest in citizenship education. Politics today is, for most people, debated on the television and it seems less than certain that citizenship education will bring about a revitalization of local political activity amongst the young. In England during the 1990s, driven largely by a fear of political disengagement amongst the ‘new generation’, the question of citizenship education was explored (inter alios) by a House of Commons Speaker’s Commission on Citizenship (1990), the National Curriculum Council (1990), the Children’s Society (1991), the Commission on Social Justice (1994) and the Citizenship Foundation (1995). The Crick Report (Advisory Group on Citizenship, 1998) set out detailed recommendations on the teaching of citizenship in schools which have been adopted by the Labour government (DfEE and QCA, 1999). Citizenship education became part of the English primary school National Curriculum in September 2000. It was introduced across the curriculum in secondary schools in September 2002, and includes a ‘global dimension’ (QCA, 2000). There is no shortage of material available to help foster the development of children’s awareness of global citizenship. Key concepts to be explored in understanding global citizenship are said to include the idea of ‘sustainable development’, ‘social justice’ and the notion of interdependence that has been enhanced by globalization, understanding conflict and conflict resolution, human rights and responsibilities. Global citizenship is said to be concerned with specific issues and underlying values and attitudes, encouraging young people to question and explore their own and other’s values within their community and in different parts of the world. Learning materials are available which provide opportunities for pupils to become active and informed citizens not only in their own school and local community but also in making choices which might have an impact on people in other parts of the world. Young people are encouraged to see themselves growing up in an increasingly global context and there is emphasis on the global dimension to the food they eat, the clothes they wear, other pupils from different parts of the world in their schools and community (Brownlie, 2001; Oxfam, 2000; DFID, DfEE, QCA, DEA and The Central Bureau, 2000, passim). The citizenship curriculum requires pupils to develop knowledge and understanding, skills of enquiry and communication and become involved in participation and responsible action at a level appropriate to age and conceptual development. These requirements are to be met in a variety of ways across the curriculum and will become embedded

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in teaching methodology and the school ethos. Skills, knowledge and understanding can be developed across the secondary curriculum in many subject areas as well as in allocated PSHE and Citizenship sessions. In English pupils might compare the reporting of a world issue in different newspapers, and on the Internet, and critically assess the reports for bias and varying points of view. In Mathematics, concepts such as ‘mean, mode and median’ can be used to investigate average wages around the world. In Geography pupils can explore world trade, the idea of ‘fair trade’ and explore the impact of global relations on the lives of individuals along a trade route. Helen Walkington (1999) demonstrates how Geography and global citizenship education have complementary aims, and provides detailed accounts of classroom strategies used by teachers who have successfully taught global citizenship through Geography. Walkington argues that enquiry-based, participatory approaches to citizenship can help pupils acquire appropriate useful knowledge, skills and understandings. School pupils appear to be well disposed to discussion surrounding the question of the environment (see for example, Gilbert, 1996). Global citizenship education can give particular emphasis to United Nations Agenda 21, an environmental plan of action to be taken globally, nationally and locally by organizations of the UN and national governments. Agenda 21, the Rio Declaration on Environment and Development, and the Statement of principles for the Sustainable Management of Forests were adopted by 178 governments at the UN Conference on Environment and Development in Brazil in 1992. A UN Commission on Sustainable Development was created later in the same year to monitor and report on the implementation of the agreements at the local, national, regional and international levels. Pupils can be encouraged to find out about local action in response to a global issue by investigating local plans and priorities for sustainable development – Local Agenda 21. Pupils can be encouraged to find out how local priorities are established and monitored, how people are consulted by their local authority, and can learn how ideas about sustainable development affect different aspects of local and national government planning and policy decisions. Geography, Science and Mathematics teachers are encouraged to come together to help pupils to learn how citizens might contribute to local decisions that will influence their quality of life and the environment. Pupils are encouraged to appreciate how Agenda 21 is addressing problems and preparing for global challenges of the future. Some secondary schools have already developed their global citizenship curriculum by becoming involved in long-term projects and

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school-linking, particularly in the EU (see Osler et al., 1995). Many already have a strong element of citizenship within their whole-school ethos, their policies and curriculum. Some schools have ‘Councils’ giving pupils a voice in the organization of the school and encouraging them to take part in decision-making on anti-bullying and antiracism policy, for example. Some schools are more active than others in encouraging such ‘participation’ but there are serious concerns about the quality of citizenship teaching and the motivation of some school children. For example, will the overwhelmingly pessimistic accounts of globalization characterized by the work of Bauman, Beck and others become the dominant discourse, and if so what effects might that have? Can space be made for accounts that do not render citizens powerless in the face of ‘global forces’? It is questionable whether children are likely to be motivated, even by well prepared material, if it does little more than make them aware of their powerlessness; however competent and well-intentioned their teachers may be. There are questions to be raised about the training of teachers in aspects of ‘global citizenship’ and about the possible effectiveness of school-based citizenship education programmes more generally (see Lister, Middleton, and Smith, 2001). As with ‘globalization’, the very notion of ‘citizenship’ is problematical and there may be too few school teachers with the necessary skills and competence to teach it at more than a rudimentary level. These are, of course, empirical questions and in due course the outcomes of citizenship education will no doubt be assessed by the Office for Standards in Education (Ofsted). But is likely that, as with so much else that goes on in school and more especially in ‘fringe’ subject areas covered by PSHE, there will be a degree of difference both in the quality of teaching and of learning (Reynolds, 1999). The global dimension of citizenship will be taught well in some classes in some schools and in a perfunctory manner at low cost in others.

Conclusion Whilst there is no shortage of excellent material for the teaching of global citizenship, the extent to which worthwhile global citizenship will be well taught in schools remains to be seen. It will be governed and sometimes limited by the capacity of teachers to make effective use of available recourses and to motivate pupils’ interest in thinking and learning. Since many young people often already have an interest in environmental issues, have access to the worldwide web and global

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television, these are possible starting-points. Global citizenship education will expose inequalities between citizens’ rights and resources both within and between nation states. In the relatively rich West some notion of ‘global citizenship’ will continue to appear possible, in part, as a consequence of easy access to global communications networks; the UK government hopes to have most households ‘online’ by 2005. Citizens of poorer countries are less likely to be able to access the Internet but if they do they will find websites offering items they do not have the means of affording. And if they are able to read they will gain access to ideas that they may or may not have the possibility of developing or acting upon. Although electronic media (television and the Internet) can be a force for change, global electronic citizenship is likely to continue to mean differentiated economic, social and political statuses of citizens both within and between nation states. It is impossible to know what the effects might be but after 50 years of television, which has indeed had important effects, global inequality is, as Bauman shows, greater now than it was half a century ago. Nevertheless, educating new ‘citizens of the globe’ by helping to provide them with an understanding of cultural, political, legal and economic structures in different parts of the world is a worthwhile activity for those school teachers who have the capacity to engage in such work. An important aspect of such understanding will be that, whilst the idea of global citizenship appears to offer the possibility of bringing the people of the world together, national citizenship has the effect of dividing them between nation states (see Hindess, 1998). Global divisions involve fundamental inequalities of resources, rights to residence and much else. Acknowledgements I am grateful to the publisher and editors of International Studies in Sociology of Education for permission to reproduce a version of an article first published in Volume 12, Number 2 of that journal.

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Index Ackerman, B. 142 Adams, R. 45 adolescents anticipated political engagement in Australia, England, Norway and United States 41 civic engagement modes among 14-year-olds in 28 countries 46 results concerning correlates of four types of 54 civic participation organizational-participation correlates of four types within four countries 53–4 multiple modes of 47, 56 Adorno, T. W. 116, 167 adult citizens election campaign 47 voting, importance for 48 advanced industrial economies 204 Advisory Group on citizenship see United Kingdom Alexander, J. 33, 158, 168 Amadeo, J.-A. 42, 45, 49, 57 American Express 201 Amsterdam Treaty 126 Andolina, M. 52 androcentric view of political liberalism 160 anti-globalization, anti-capitalist campaigns 201, 205 APEC forum 97 Arab empire of the Middle Ages 64 Arato, A. 30 Araujo, H. 174 historical research of politics in Portugal 174 Arendt, H. 158, 164–5, 177 Aristotle’s The Politics 200 Arnot, M. 158, 160–1, 166, 180

Ashby, R. 183 Atkins, R. 43 Australia 45 addressing challenge of citizenship education 87–9 analysis contrasting types of participation 48 birthplace of ‘new civics’ in 103 citizenship 77 civic education elite constructions of 90 and Keating’s ‘big picture’ politics 94–101 new 91 political contexts supporting 94–4 revival in schools 104 view of policy elites 101–4 civic engagement, four types of 50–1 Civics Expert Group (CEG) 76, 78, 90, 99, 101–4 recommendations on civic education in Australian schools 93 report 79, 94 survey 82 contemporary youth 76 political knowledge and attitudes of 80 conversion to republic 99, 104 Discovering Democracy 75–8, 80, 87–9 Election Study survey (1996) 79 electorate, ‘big picture’ and 104–6 generational gap 76, 89 girls in male public world in schools 164 Labour Party’s Evatt Foundation 102 links with Britain 97 national identity 93 230

Index 231 negative image of political system 78 parliamentary and electoral systems 79 policy elites and policy making 91–3 political culture, negative view of 79 political education and political culture 75–89 Republic Advisory Committee 99–101, 104 Whereas the People 90 see also Keating Australian students democratic citizenship 82 democratic government, lack of knowledge of principles of 81 interest in politics 85–6 items measuring concepts of citizenship among 83 political knowledge 80 political participation 83–5 political trust 86–7 secondary, study of political activism among 84 Avelling, N. 85–6 Baines, B. 182, 192 Baldi, S. 48, 50 Ball, S. 91 Bandura, A. 52 psychological theory of 44 Barnes, S. 46 Barry, B. 60–1 Bataille, P. 13 Batho, G. 181 Batteson, C. 91 Batty, H. 110–11 Bauman, Z. 205–7, 210 BBC see United Kingdom Beck, U. 108–9, 114, 116, 200, 202, 205–7, 210 world risk society thesis 115–17, 120 Beijing Declaration 173–4 Beijing World Conference on Women 173

Belgium 45 Bell, D. 67 Benhabib, S. 162, 166, 170, 177 Best, F. 6 Bhabha, H. 36 Bhavnani, K.-K. 43 binaries between men and women 37 biodiversity 118–20 bioinvasion 118–20 Bishop, R. 60 Blacks African-Caribbean primary teachers and Black pupils 172 male writers 175 politics 35 supplementary schooling 175 women educators 175 interventions into British state education, analysis of 175 Blackness, political attempts to create ‘sacred spaces’ of 175 Bleicher, J. K. 146 Blenkinsop, S. 183, 186 Booth, M. 11 Boothroyd, B. 11 Boston, K. 102–3 Bourdieu, P. 33, 159–60, 167–8, 173, 180 Bourgeois, K. 183 Brady, H. 43 Brady, L. 5 Brah, A. 177 Bramwell, A. 107, 112–15 Britain see United Kingdom British Youth Council 15 broadcasting commercial 145 media, double perspective 157 systems comprising a commercial and a public sector as dual systems 149 Brown, W. 161, 166, 176 Brownlie, A. 208 Bruner’s work on social education 183 BSE 116

232 Index Buchbinder, D. 36 Bulgaria 45 Burns, N. 52–3 Butler, J. 35–7, 165–6 Calhoun, C. 35, 167 Callender, C. 172 Campbell, C. 95 capital mobility 203 Caputo, J. 107, 121–2 Carew, E. 95 Castells, M. 25 Castoriadis, C. 25 Catholic Church 17 CEG see Australia, Citizens’ Expert Group Challenging Democracy 170, 180 Chamberlin, C. 114 Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union see European Charter Chernobyl 116 Chile 45 China 64 entry into World Trade Organisation (WTO) 201 Chisholm, A. 112 citizens in face of global forces, increasing helplessness of 206 of globe, educating 211 as individual or group-self 72–4 involvement in Australian politics 77 rights 124–40 as symbolic identity 163, 169 see also European citizen’s rights citizenship 44 concept of 170 and ecocentrism 113 and ecological obligations 107 education 3 and globalization 200 and national identity 8–14 programmes, methodology 6–8 and nation-state 26 and public broadcasting in Europe 141

and public sphere 141–4 and public service broadcasting 144–7 risks 89 sessions 209 and society, definitions of 25 as symbolic identity 163, 169–70 theorists 112 Citizenship Foundation see United Kingdom Civic Education Study 41–6, 183, 186 basic analysis 47 framing questions 7, 18 National Research Co-ordinators 44 Phase 1, national cases studies of 49 Phase 2 European countries participating in 45 Item Response Theory (IRT scaling) 44–5 survey for teachers 49 standards 45 see also International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA) civic engagement 47 civic participation, four types 53–6 likelihood of informed voting 54 likelihood of joining a political party 54 likelihood of participating in nonviolent protests 55 likelihood of volunteering for community service 55 predictors of four different aspects of participation in Australia, England, Norway and United States 54–8 civil society, culture and public space 30–4 Clark, M. 99 Clark, N. 107–8, 120 climate change 107, 120–2 Cloonan, M. 181 Cohen, J. 143 Cohen, L. 30

Index 233 Cole, E. 43 Colebatch, H. 79, 88 collective efficacy 44 Colombia 45 colonial struggles 16 communication science 144 community betterment activities 46 concepts of 14–18 leader, nation of 16–17 Connor, D. 90, 101 Considine, M. 91–2, 102 ‘inside-initiative model’ 93 ‘constancy of structure’ in gender relations 160 consumer 141 contemporary political ecology, unifying impulse 114–15 contemporary youth and teaching force 76 Conventional Citizenship, measure of 48 Cook, T. E. 41 Corbett, B. 183 Cormack, I. 67 corporate citizenship 205 Corsican independence movement 21 cosmopolitan/s 108 consciousness 33 ecological citizenships 122–3 negotiation of difference 114 Costa-Lascoux, J. 4 Counter-Enlightenment forces 61 romanticism 68 Cram, F. 63 Crane, G. 95 Crick, B. 11, 181–2 Crick Report see United Kingdom cultural and symbolic exclusion, processes of 36 cultural citizenship 24–40 development of idea of 39 cultural inclusion 30 cultural politics, binaries 37 cultural respect 33 cultural rights 27 culture, schools or classrooms 57

Cumming, F. 94 Cyprus 45 Czech Republic 45 Dahl, R. 91, 142 Davies, I. 2, 11, 181 Davies, L. 206 Davis, M. 120 de Maistre, J. 61 Dekker, P. 53 Delli Carpini, M. 51 Demaine, J. 200 democracy/democratic 30, 44 civil orders 34 institutions 44 tradition 78 democratizing potential of female agency 167 Denmark 45, 84 Dewitte, P. 21 Dickinson, A. 183 Dillabough, J. A. 158, 160–1, 166 discourse contextual 193 judgemental 194 justificatory or explanatory 194 persuasive 194 procedural 195 Discovering Democracy see Australia diversification and fragmentation of public tastes and lifestyles 26 Dobson, A. 110–11, 114, 122 Donald, J. 169, 179 Downs, A. 142 drag, politics of 37 Driver, R. 183 duality, Western – indigenous construction of 60 earth’s climate, natural oscillations 121 Eastern European intellectuals, interest in civil society 30 ECJ see European Court of Justice Eckersley, R. 113–14 ecocentrisms 112 ecocitizenship 111, 116 living with ambivalence 118–22

234 Index ecocitizenship – continued non-discriminatory approach to non-human, distant and future others 114 ecological citizenship see ecocitizenship ecological shock 116 Ecologist’s Blueprint for Survival 109 ecology, identifying with 112–16 economic bias of globalization 206 economic flows across national boundaries 203 education for citizenship in schools, new programmes of 1 feminism 159 encounter with citizenship, limitations and future directions 175–6 feminists 171 educational system ‘degendering’ system 160 and female citizenship 163 institutional racism 1 Edwards, J. 93–5 Ehman, L. 186 Eisenberg, E. 123 electronic media 200 Elliott, L. 118 Ellis, B. 99 Ellis, J. 145 Engels, F. 202 England see United Kingdom Enlightenment vision of world citizen 107 Western culture and modernity, period of break between 65 Enslin, P. 174–5 Entwistle, H. 181 environment/ environmental activism 108 issues, language of rights for dealing with 111 rights and ecological obligations 110–12 equality of opportunity 159 equity and female citizenship, struggle for 163 Erduran, S. 183

Esmé Fairburn Foundation 181, 183 see also United Kingdom, Citizenship Foundation Estonia 45 ethnic revivalism 60, 69 ethnicity, use as boundary marker 67 Eurocentrism/Eurocentric 38 approach to knowledge 61, 64 see also New Zealand, Maori European Charter 124, 134, 137–8 human rights 134 ‘modern’ rights 134 prohibition of refoulement 134 of Regional Languages 5 right to asylum 134 on Social security and social assistance 135–6 on ‘Solidarity’ 135 vulnerable groups 134 European citizen’s rights 126–33 current procedural rights to access documents of EU institutions 132 to address EU institutions in one’s own language 132 to diplomatic and consular protection (Art. 20 TEC) 131 to petition to the European Parliament (Art. 21, 194, 195, 255 TEC) 131 to seize the EU Ombudsmann (Art. 21, 194, 195, 255 TEC) 131–2 to vote (Art. 19 TEC) and to stand as candidate at municipal elections in the Member State 130 to vote (Art. 19 TEC) for the European Parliament 130 current treaty based citizens’ rights 126–32 freedom of movement (Art. 18 TEC) 126 future charter based citizen’s rights 132–3 human rights 133–6

Index 235 future charter based human rights 134–6 European Commission 124 European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) 2, 10, 133 European Council 124 European Court of Justice (ECJ) cases Bickel and Franz 128–9 Grzelczyk 129, 140 Martinez Sala 127–8, 138 Van Gend en Loos v. Nederlandse Administratie der Belastingen 125, 138 European Parliament 124, 137 European rights 124–40 see also European citizen’s rights European Union child-raising allowances 138 citizenship 136 ‘green book’ on convergence 150 Lisbon summit 2000 201 membership 203 nationals 130 school linking 210 Treaty of the European Economic Community (TEC) 125 ‘four freedoms’ 125 Treaty of the European Union (TEU) 124, 133 universalist approach in 137 exclusion or discrimination 18 faith groups 17 Falk, R. 204 Farnen, R. 5, 41 Fearnley-Sander, M. 89 Featherstone, M. 107 Felman, S. 168 female agency 165 and human rights 173 female autonomy 159 problematical and contradictory elements of 163 female citizenship 158 and agency, discursive struggles over 173 critical vision of 168 in education magnified image of 158

restaging 170–1 in nation-state 162 liberal challenges to symbolic domination 158 female political communities, cultural formation of 175 female political representation, equal opportunity and citizenship 169 femininity 36 feminism/feminist 35 critiques of liberal democracy 159 of political liberalism 161 politics of citizenship 177 debates about citizenship, repositioning 166 historical consciousness of citizenship 176 materialist approach to agency 168 neo-marxist critiques of state 164 research on citizenship 177 theorists and traditional claims of neutrality and objectivity 163 see also gender Figueroa, P. 11 Finland 45 schools, nationhood and citizenship identity in 171 Flanagan, C. 43 Ford, D. 43 foreign direct investment 204 Foster, V. 90, 164 Foucault, M. 92 concept of ‘genealogy’ 68 romanticization of the local 69 France 2, 141 citizenship details of acquiring 12 education 4–6 class councils (conseil de classe) 17 communautés 5 conseil d’administration 17 Constitution of the IV Republic, preamble to 13 examples of programme structures in 151

236 Index France – continued football team, multiethnic 20 ghettos or ethnic minority or religious communities 5 Groupe Technique Discipline, éducation civique 2 Haby reform (1876) of collège unique replacement with éducation civique 5 headscarf affairs 5 human rights 1 indivisibility, principle of 21 institution morale et civique 4 instruction civique et morale 5 Jules Ferry law, Article One of 4 Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, principles of 4 Ministère de l’Èducation Nationale de la Recherche et de la Technologie 2, 4, 12 paysage audiovisuel francaise, French mediascape 151 programme for education for citizenship 1 and United Kingdom, comparison 22–3 programme of study 20 community in 16–18 significance of living in Republic 20 social cohesion 20 emphasis on human rights 14 public service broadcasting 151–3 republic values 1 secondary school students 12 six main national symbols 12 and state schooling 5 television output, hours of 153–4 urban violence associated with the presence of minorities 1 Vichy law, 1940 21 women’s struggle for parity 21 France Télévision 153 Franz Weber Foundation 119 Fraser, N. 37, 161, 164, 166, 168, 175, 177, 179 free elections 82

freedom of expression 82 ‘freedom summer’ of civil rights workers 43 Freiberg, H. 57 Friedman, J. 60–1, 64, 66, 69 Gaia hypothesis 112 Gallagher, G. 69 Galston, W. 49 Gaspard, F. 5, 22 Gates, H. L. 39 gender education and citizenship, links between 172 equity policies 159 hierarchies in contemporary nation-states 158 inequality, symbolic forms of 169 relations, struggle, against symbolic domination in 167 see also feminism/feminist gendered and colonial notions of citizenship 165, 171 gendered formations of citizenship 179 genetically-modified foodstuffs 116 Gerhards, J. 142 Germany/German 45, 84, 141 broadcasting system, rulings of German constitutional court 149, 155 different requirements for commercial and public service broadcasters in 155 examples of programmes structures in 151 Media Perspektiven Basisdaten 155 public service broadcasting 151, 155–7 television output in 157 Gewirtz, S. 91 Giddens, A. 112 Gilbert, R. 75, 90, 107, 112, 209 Gill, J. 86, 89, 90 Gilroy, P. 175 Girard, G. 5 Giroux, H. 35, 39 Glazer, N. 67

Index 237 global citizenship 113 education 200, 211 and environment 209 notion of 201 global civil society 109 global economy 203 global environmental transformation 107 global governance, issues of 108 global markets 113, 204 globalization localized responses to 60 of politics 26 in question 201–5 ‘globalization from above’ 204 movement of resistance to 204 ‘globalization from below’ 204 glocalization 205 dynamic effects of process of 206 Goffman, E. 92 Goot, M. 79 Gordon, M. 93, 95–6 Gordon, T. 57 agentic embodiment 171 Gourd, A. 145 Gray, J. 203 Gray, T. 110–11 Greece 45, 64 Grossberg, L. 25 Grzelczyk case see European Court of Justice Gutmann, A. 143 Haberman, D. L. 74 Habermas, J. 31–2, 73, 142–3 analysis of civil society 32 idea of morality and ethics 31 on the public-sphere 31 ‘self-conscious traditionalism’ 60 Hahn, C. 48, 52, 57, 84, 186 Hahn, C. L. 183 Hall, S. 34–5 Halligan, J. 95 Hamm, A. 22 Haraway, D. 122 Harris, D. 195 Hart, D. 43 Hawke, Bob 93, 95 Heater, D. 112, 114, 179, 181

Held, D. 108 Hickethier, K. 144 Hillman, B. 183 Hindess, B. 200, 211 Hingangaroa Smith, G. 59 Hirst, P. 203–4 history education 183 Hobsbawm, E. 67 Hoffmann-Riem, W. 150 Hoffmeister, F. 124 Hogan, D. 89–90 Hogarth, S. 181 Holland 57, 171 Holton, R. 90 home political atmosphere 52 homoeroticism 36 homophobia 36 homosexuality 35–6 Hong Kong (SAR) 45 Honneth, A. 33 Honig, B. 162, 166–7 Howard, C. 86, 90 Howard, J. 105 Howard, S. 91 Huddleston, T. 182–4 Hughes, A. 183 Hughes, J. 76, 78 human commonality 123 human rights 124–40 as concept, linked to overseas aid, development and charity 11 European Charter 133–6 female agency and 173 France, emphasis on 14 United Kingdom 1998 Human Rights Act 2 United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights 10, 13, 133 see also rights Hungary 45 Hunter, A. 92 Husfeldt, V. 45 identity difference and cultural politics 34–7 spaces, emergence of three types of 66

238 Index ideological premises of citizenship 179 IEA see International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement IMF see International Monetary Fund immigration policies, discriminatory 78 ‘immorality’ of global inequality 207 Independent Television (ITN) 153 Independent Television Commission (ITC) 153 India 64 indigenous people, dispossession of 78 indigenous species, protecting 119 indigenous tribal organization, destruction of 65 individualized-self 73 inequality, global 211 information processing strategies 32 society 24 Inglehart, R. 53 injustice, willingness to protest against 46 inter-cultural dialogue 38 International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA) 6–7, 82, 41, 80 see also Civic Education Project; IRT scale (Item Response Theory) international communication 203 international economy 203 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 204–5 Internet 146, 200 website design software 205 invasive species, control or eradication in New Zealand and Australia 119 Item Response Theory (IRT scale) 51 Confidence in Participation at School 52 Discussion with Parents 52 items relating to trust in government-related institutions 52

Open Classroom Climate for Discussion 52 Irwin, K. 60 issues-centered social studies 183 methodology 183 Italy 45, 53 ITV channels 155 Jahnke, H. 63 Janoski, T. differences in the domains of citizenship action 57 ‘state sphere’ 46 theory of citizenship and civil society 42 Jenkins, K. 52, 60 Jennings, M. K. 43 Johnson, C. 98 Johnson, P. M. G. 64 Johnson, S. 146 Junn, J. 49 Ka’ai, T. 60 Kaase, M. 46 Kadushin, C. 103 Kant, I. 65, 68, 72–3 universal objective knowledge 74 universalistic thinking of 31 kaupapa Maori see New Zealand Keane, J. 30 Keating, P. 90, 93, 97, 104 Australian republic vision for an 97 big picture 95–6, 98 and his specific initiatives in civic education 95 civic education initiatives 105 election victory 93 post election agenda 95 see also Australia Keeter, S. 42, 51 Kellner, P. 205 Kelly, P. 206 Kemp, D. 77 Kennedy, K. J. 76, 78, 80, 90–1, 94, 101 Kenway, J. 206 Kerr, D. 7, 49, 183, 186

Index 239 Khosrokavar, F. 5, 22 kin-based communal-self 73 Knight, J. 91 knowledge wave 66 Koori (Australian Aboriginals) Kumar, K. 30

119

labour markets, segregation and stratification by divisions of sex, race and class 160 Lahelma, E. 57, 171 Latin America, rainforests 201 Latvia 45 Latzer, M. 149 Lauby, J.-P. 20–2 Lave, J. 43 and Wenger, situated cognition view of 43 Lawrence, D. 11 Lawrence, Stephen see Macpherson Report Le Pen, J. M. 1 Lean, A. 81, 85–6 Lee, P. 183 Leftwich, A. 181 Lehmann, R. 45, 48 Levinas, E. 122 Levine, R. 44, 52 liberal vision of female citizenship 176 liberal-representative model of public sphere 142 Lines, A. 183, 186 Lister, I. 182 Lister, R. 210 Lithuania 45 Lloyd, M. 37 local action and global citizenship education 205–10 Locke, J. 142 Long, N. 183 Lucey, H. 166 Lyotard, J. 68 Maastricht Treaty 126 MacDonald, G. 94 Macintyre, S. 99, 101–3 Macpherson Report (1999) of the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry 1, 3

male progressive theorists, anti-democratic and exclusionary practices of 172 Manifesto of the Communist Party 202 Maori see New Zealand Maraffi, M. 53 Margulis, L. 121 market freedoms, holders of the 125–6 and public sphere, concepts of 145 sphere 42 Marshall, C. 91 Marshall, T. H. 25, 91 on cultural citizenship 26–30 Martin, M. 45 Martinez Sala case see European Court of Justice Marx, K. 64–5, 202 masculinity 36 mass media, public sphere 144 see also media McAdam, D. 43 McAllister, I. 79 McGrew, T. 108 McIntosh, M. 205 McNay, L. 167 Mead, S. 60 media conglomerates, commercial 146 public sphere and commercial activities of the 145 structures 146 system, commercialized 157 Mellor, S. 80–6 Melody, W. H. 145 Melucci, A. 24 membership, belonging, rights and obligations 24 Meredyth, D. 90 Middle East 201 Middleton, S. 210 Mill, J. S. 142 Mills, C. W. 91 Milner, H. 51 Minc, A. 61 ‘New Middle Age’ 62 Mirza, H. 175

240 Index misogyny 36 Mitchell, D. 91 Mitterrand, F. 20 modern political identity 111 Monk, M. 183 monoculturalism 38 Morgan Gallup Poll 79 Morris, M. 96 Morrow, R. 165 Morton, J. 119 Mouffe, C. 33 Moxon, M. 119 Moyihan, D. P. 67 multicultural and cultural citizenship 37–9 multi-cultural education, central aim of 38 multiculturalism 37 deconstructing identities of power 39 Munz, P. 61, 63, 65, 69 Murdoch, R. 145 Naess, A. 114 nation state 202 allegiance with 113 national contexts for citizenship education 2–6 national identity and relations between nations 7, 44 framing questions on 6 nature-society boundary 117 negative image of political system 87 Nembrini, J.-L. 5 Neotraditionalism 67 Nepe, T. 60, 62 Netherlands, the 84 ‘New Middle Age’ 61 New Zealand 59 education system, ethnic boundary, constructing an 66–72 educational studies 69 expansion of tertiary education 66 Treaty of Waitangi 71, 118 Waitangi Fisheries Commission in New Zealand 70 Western culture of the Pakeha or

European system 59 New Zealand (kaupapa) Maori 119 anti modernism, ‘closed’ knowledge system of 62 culture colonization of 60 early childhood centers (kohanga reo), role of 71–2 education 59, 69 impoverishment and dispossession 59 indigenous status 71 and Pakeha, creation of essentialist ethnic boundary between 69 ‘post-colonial trauma’ 59 research 63–4 discourse, anti-Western or anti-modern 64–6 revival 59 society 70 Te Kohanga Reo National Trust, guiding principles of 72 theory 59 newly industrializing countries 204 Newton, K. 53 Newton, P. 183 Nice Summit 124 Niemi, R. 43, 49 Nikolova, R. 45 Noctor, M. 182, 192 Norris, P. 52 Norway 45 analysis contrasting types of participation 48 civic engagement, four types of 50–1 open approach to knowledge 65 Oppenheim, A. N. 41, 52 organic response to Western knowledge 60 organizational participation, four types of civic participation 53–5 Osborne, J. F. 183 Osler, A. 1, 9, 12, 210 Ostrove, J. 43 Oswald, H. 45, 48 Oxfam 208 Ozga, J. 91

Index 241 Pakulski, J. 27 Pankhania, J. 11 Parekh, B. 37 ‘operative public values’ 38 Pascoe, S. 101–3 Pateman, C. 164 critique of European political philosophy 164 peer groups role in research on citizenship and political development 43 Peters, B. 143 Pihama, L. 60, 68 plurality and difference 34 Poland 45 police force, institutional racism 1 policy elites in civic education 91 policymaking, two basic approaches to studying 92 political agency and category of ‘woman’ 165 constraints on 171 political decision-making, participation in process of 124 political ecology 108, 112 political engagement 46 political life, aspects of categories 183 political literacy 183 ‘big issues’ model 182 ‘civics’ model 182 class room climate 186, 188 developing appropriate teaching styles 189–98 establishing appropriate context for discussion 186–8 framework for 182–4 ground rules for discussion 187 inclusion among individual students 188 issues for teachers and learners 181–99 levels of understanding and performance 198–9 ‘public discourse’ model 183 teachers’ actions to develop political literacy 186 teaching styles focusing students’ minds 189–93

responses from students 195–7 ‘shapes’ of lesson 189 types of discourse used 193–5 Political Literacy Project 181, 184 discussion, enthusiastic response 185–6 political party, joining 51 political public sphere, concept of 141 political socialization 46, 57 Politics Association in United Kingdom 2 politics of difference, shift from identity politics to 35 nature of 181–2 Portugal 45 historical research of politics in 174 post-colonial and queer theory, discursive strategies of 35 post-modernism 66 and neotraditionalism 73 post-modernization of culture 26 primitivism 66 Print, M. 76, 78, 90 Prosser, J. 57 protest march, participating in a non-violent 51 PSHE see United Kingdom, Personal and Social and Health Education (PSHE) public communication within democracy 148 public responsibility for broadcasting 149 public service broadcasters/ broadcasting 157 audience share in France, UK and Germany 152 challenges 148 in commercial environment 147–9 essence of 147 in Europe 150 public service programmes and citizenship 151 public sphere 42 deliberative model of 143

242 Index public sphere – continued ‘ideal’ criteria for 148 in modern media age as ‘signaling device’ 31 as normative idea, models 142 pupils agency and teacher control, interface between 171 as ‘learner citizen’ 171 see also students; teachers Putnam, R. D. 53 QCA

see United Kingdom, Qualifications and Curriculum Authority

Raboy, M. 145 racism and political support for racist agendas 1 Rata, E. 59, 66 Reay, D. 175 Reid, A. 89–90 Republic Advisory Committee see Australia Reynolds, D. 57, 210 Richardson, R. 4 Richardson, W. K. 41 rights citizen’s rights 124–40 cultural rights 27 environmental rights, ecological obligations 110–12 European Charter human rights 134 expanding circle’ approach to 114 female agency and human rights 173 language for dealing with environmental issues 111 ‘modern’ rights 134 to physical integrity in fields of medicine and biology 134 see also human rights Rio Declaration on Environment and Development 209 Roche, M. 26 Roker, D. 4 Roman colonization of France, Britain and Germany 64–5

Romania 45 Rorty, R. 207 Rosaldo, R. 33 Rosel, J. 70–1 Rötzer, F. 146 Rowe, D. 182–4 Roy Morgan Research 79 Royal Tangaere, A. 71–2 Ruddy, K. 168 Rushdie, S. 38 Russian Federation 45 Rust, K. 45 Ryan, M. 94, 96, 98 Sachs, J. 91 Saha, L. 84–5 Sala, Martinez see European Court of Justice Satanic Verses 38 Schagen, I. 183, 186 Schlozman, K. 43, 52–3 schools citizenship education programmes 210 civic-related education in the context of family and community 41 and individual correlates of four types of civic participation within four countries 51–3 National Assessment of Education Progress (NAEP) in United States 49 role as framework for examining data from four countries 49 see also pupils; students; teachers Schulz, W. 45, 48 Schumpeter, J. 142 Schwille, J. 42, 49 science education 183 Sedgwick, E. K. 36 Segal, L. 37 Seidman, S. 35–6 self-efficacy, sense of 44 Serbian and Croatian ethnic hatred and violence 69 services via internet and via wireless techniques 150 Settles, I. 43

Index 243 sex and gender, ‘performed’ nature of 37 sexual contract theory and the erasure of women from politics 163–5 Sharples, P. 59 Sherrod, L. 43 Simon, S. 183 Singleton, G. 93, 95, 97 situated cognition approach 42 Skinner, Q. 162, 168 Slovak Republic 45 Slovenia 45 Smee, M. 88 Smith, D. 205 Smith, G. H. 60 Smith, J. 90, 210 Smith, L. T. 60, 63 Smith, M. J. 111, 122 Smith, N. 119 Smith, R. 91 social cohesion 44 and cultural diversity 18–22 and social diversity 7, 44 see also Civic Education Study social contract theory 170 Social Frontier journal 172 social reproduction of gender inequality 165 see also gender; feminism sociocultural theories 43 South Africa post-apartheid education and gender in 174 Starkey, H. 1, 12, 22 state sphere 42 Statement of principles for the Sustainable Management of Forests 209 Stein, T. 57 Steiner-Khamsi, G. 42 Stephenson, L. 74 Stevenson, N. 24, 29, 109, 113 Stewart, A. 43 Stone, L. 180 Stradling, R. 182, 192 students conceptualizations of norms for good citizen, measures of 47

councils, high school 43 response, types of 195 see also pupils; teachers Sweden 45 Switzerland 45 ‘symbolic’ society 24 Taiapa, J. 63 Tangaroa, “lore” of 62 see also New Zealand Te Papa, National Museum of New Zealand 62 teachers Black African-Caribbean primary, and Black pupils 172 as ‘citizen worker’ 171 control, pupil agency and interface between 171 International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA) Civic Education Project Phase 2 survey for teachers 49 political literacy issues for teachers and learners 181–99 training in aspects of ‘global citizenship’ 210 white, with Black secondary school pupils 172 technological challenge under commercial conditions digital public service broadcasting 149–51 television 146 free to air 150 Third World 204 Thomas, J. 90 Thomass, B. 141, 148 Thompson, D. 143 Thompson, G. 203–4 Thompson, M. 95 Times Educational Supplement on young people’s citizenship 207 Tingle, L. 96, 98 Torney, J. 41, 52 Torney-Purta, J. 7, 41–2, 45, 47–8, 57 Torres, C. 165

244 Index Touraine, A. 37, 61–2 ‘closed communitarian society’ 62 traditionalism 66 training of teachers in aspects of ‘global citizenship’ 210 transnational companies 203 trans-national spheres of governance, development of 26 Treaty of the European Economic Community (TEC) 125 ‘four freedoms’ 125 Treaty of the European Union (TEU) 124, 133 see also European Union Treaty of Waitangi see New Zealand Trenz/Eder 144 Triad of Europe, Japan and North America 204 tribal kinship social relations 72 tribalism, age of 61 Tuhiwai Smith, L. 59 Turner, B. S. 2, 26, 123 revival of citizenship studies 123 Turton, D. 60, 66–7, 69 Tutu, Archbishop, D. 11 UN see United Nations United Kingdom (England) (Britain) 45, 84, 141, 149, 203 1998 Education Reform Act 2 1998 Human Rights Act 2 Advisory Group on Citizenship 2–3, 11, 181–2, 208 analysis contrasting types of participation 48 assimilation or integration, process of 9 BBC 151, 153, 155–6 The Central Bureau 208 children’s awareness of global citizenship material available for development of 208 Children’s Society 208 citizens, black 9, 175 citizenship cultural diversity in 1 curriculum 208 education 1–4

as inclusive of national and regional differences between England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland 8 National Curriculum subject 181 and racism 10 Good Thinking series 183 materials provided by the 192 Citizenship Foundation 181, 183, 195, 208 civic engagement, four types of 50–1 colonial approach to black British communities 9 Commission on Social Justice 208 Crick report 2–4, 6, 10, 14–15, 18, 181, 183 establishment of Community Forums 16 Advisory Group on Citizenship 8 view of visible minorities in British society 18 cultural diversity 9 Curriculum and Qualifications Authority 103 Department for Education and Skills 181, 183 Department for Education and Employment (DfEE) 15, 208 Esme Fairburn Foundation 181, 183 ethnic minorities, visible 9 examples of programmes structures in 151 and France, comparison national programmes of study of citizenship education 22–3 global capitalism 205 House of Commons Speaker’s Commission on Citizenship 208 human rights as concept 11 institutional racism 1, 4, 23 internal colonization 65 Labour government 98, 208

Index 245 national context, historical development of civil, political and social rights 26 National Curriculum booklet for Citizenship inclusion 19 at Key Stages 3 and 4 10 National Curriculum Council 208 Office for Standards in Education (Ofsted) 210 Personal and Social and Health Education (PSHE) 209–10 curriculum recommendations on 15 Programme for Political Literacy 181, 184 programmes of study, lack of national identity 12 public service broadcasting 153–5 Qualifications and Curriculum Authority (QCA/DfEE) 2, 208 schools and Finnish schools, nationhood and citizenship identity in 171 pastoral role of 15 survey by YouGov for the New Statesman 205 teaching of citizenship in schools 208 television, hours of output in the 155–6 United Nations Agenda 21 209 Universal Declaration of Human Rights 10, 13, 133 United States 45, 53–4, 84, 206 analysis contrasting types of participation 48 civic engagement, four types of 50–1 National Assessment of Education Progress (NAEP) in United States 49 national report 50 University of Michigan, protest activities during the late 1960s at the 43

United Nations Commission on Sustainable Development 209 United Nations Conference on Environment and Development in Brazil 209 United Nations Convention of the Rights of the Child 10, 13 United Nations Development Agency 207 United Nations Human Development Index 48 United Nations Report Our Common Future 110 United Nations Education Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) 173 Unterhalter, E. 173–4 Urry, J. 113 Uslander, E. 53 Van Gend en Loos Case see European Court of Justice van Steenbergen, B. 110–12, 114 Verba, S. 43, 52–3 Vienna Convention Art 8 on Consular Relations 139 Art 34 on the Law of Treaties 139 Art 46 on Diplomatic Relations 139 Villa, D. 162 Voet, R. 165 volunteering in the community 43, 51 voting in national elections 51 Waite, T. 11 Walford, G. 91 Walkerdine, V. 166 Walkington, H. 209 Walsh, L. 90 Walzer, M. 30 Warnke, G. 34 Watson, D. 75, 101–2 Watts, O. 94 Webb, S. 175 Webster, F. 161, 166, 168 Weiler, K. 172

246 Index Weir, A. 166, 168, 170, 178 idea of women as social actors 167 Wenger, E. 43, 57 Western colonization and decolonization 65 or ‘hetrosexual’ life styles 35 indigenous duality, construction of 60 Westminster system of government 77 Whereas the People see Australia Whiteley, P. 53 Wieviorka, M. 1 Williams, R. 25, 27–8 on cultural citizenship 26–30 culture 28 ‘emergent’ consumer society 27 industrialism 29 labour movement 29 long revolution 27–8 Willis, H. 206 Winter, N. 43 Wirt, F. 91 Woldt, R. 149 womanhood constructed by Republicans, Catholics and Anarchists, definitions of 174 women and ‘agency’, categories of 166 child-bearing and sexuality through marriage, control of 164 citizenship in ‘developing world’ 173 constrained social actors embedded in social structures 166 and ‘domesticity’ symbolic categories 168 as embedded social actors 162 and girls, differently positioned in nation-state 176 identification with particular state practices 167

liberal practices causing disenfranchisement from citizenship 164 as ‘mothers’, conceptualization of 174 as political category 170 political empowerment 165 position in US 176 reflexive responses to embeddedness in state 178 rights, access and opportunity 161 social entrenchment in symbolic forms of female dominance 160 status as political actors and agents 163 symbolic and material constraints 165 as the ‘victim’ 167 vision of their own political selfhood 178 Wood, A. 4 World Bank 173, 204 world citizenship 107 World Commission on Environment and Development 110 world risk society of Beck 115–17, 120 World Summit at Johannesburg, 2002 109 World Trade Organization 204–5 World Water Forum meeting in the Netherlands 201 Wright, C. 172 Yates, M. 53 Yeich, S. 44, 52 Young, A. 70 Young, I. M. 34 Youniss, J. 43 Yuval-Davis, N. 39, 158 Zucker, A. 43 Zukin, C. 52