Democracy and Ethnic Conflict: Advancing Peace in Deeply Divided Societies

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Democracy and Ethnic Conflict Advancing Peace in Deeply Divided Societies

Edited by

Adrian Guelke

Democracy and Ethnic Conflict

Also by Adrian Guelke SOUTH AFRICA IN TRANSITION: The Misunderstood Miracle THE AGE OF TERRORISM AND THE INTERNATIONAL POLITICAL SYSTEM NORTHERN IRELAND: The International Perspective THE POLICE, PUBLIC ORDER AND THE STATE (Co-author) NEW PERSPECTIVES ON THE NORTHERN IRELAND CONFLICT (Editor) A FAREWELL TO ARMS?: From ‘Long War’ to Long Peace in Northern Ireland (Co-editor)

Democracy and Ethnic Conflict Advancing Peace in Deeply Divided Societies Edited by

Adrian Guelke Professor of Comparative Politics Queen’s University, Belfast, UK

Selection, editorial matter and Chapter 1 © Adrian Guelke 2004 Chapters 2–12 © 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 1–4039–1247–5 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 Democracy and ethnic conflict : advancing peace in deeply divided societies / edited by Adrian Guelke. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–1247–5 (cloth) 1. Ethnic conflict—Case studies. 2. Democracy—Case studies. 3. Comparative government. I. Guelke, Adrian. HM1121.D46 2004 305.8—dc22 10 9 13 12

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne

Contents

List of Tables and Figures

vii

Acknowledgements

ix

Notes on the Contributors

x

1 Introduction: Advancing Peace in Deeply Divided Societies Adrian Guelke

1

Part I Theoretical Overview

5

2 Transforming Ethnic Orders to Pluralist Regimes: Theoretical, Comparative and Historical Analysis Ilan Peleg

Part II

Case Studies

7

27

3 Divided Societies: Electoral Polarisation and the Basque Country Luis Moreno 4 The Arab Minority in Israeli Politics: Between ‘Ethnic Democracy’ and ‘Democratic Integration’ Benyamin Neuberger 5 The Autonomy Puzzle: Territorial Solutions to the Kashmir Conflict Robert G. Wirsing

29

52

80

6 The ‘Velvet Divorce’ of Czechoslovakia as a Solution to a Conflict of Nationalisms Radka Havlová

103

7 Leadership and Developing Democracy Where There is None Hugh O’Doherty

118

v

vi

Contents

Part III

Comparative Perspectives

8 Using Public Opinion Polls to Support Peace Processes: Practical Lessons from Northern Ireland, Macedonia, Cyprus, Israel and Palestine Colin Irwin 9 The Politics of Imitation: The Role of Comparison in Peace Processes Adrian Guelke

137

139

168

10 The Concept of Justice in the Early Post-Conflict Transitional Period: A Comparative Perspective Marcia Byrom Hartwell

184

11 Punishment, Amnesty and Truth: Legal and Political Approaches Tom Hadden

196

12 Deepening Democracy and Ethno-Political Mobilisation: A Survey of Five Cases Britt Cartrite

218

13 Conclusion: Democracy and Ethnic Conflict Adrian Guelke

239

Index

252


Tables 3.1

Territorial distribution of public expenditure in Spain (%) 3.2 Self-identification by Spanish Comunidades Autónomas (1990–95) 3.3 Preferences for the territorial organisation in the Basque Country (% of voters) (1996) 3.4 Preferences concerning the form of the state among Basque (1998) and Spanish (1996) respondents 3.5 Nationalist and non-nationalist voting blocs in the Basque regional elections (1980–2001) 3.6 Nationalist and non-nationalist voting blocs in the Spanish general elections (Basque Country) (1977–2000) 4.1 The vote for Mapai/ILP and the affiliated ‘Arab Lists’ (1949–77) 4.2 Seats in the Knesset gained by the left and right (1981–99) 4.3 Arab votes of the Zionist ‘peace camp’ to the left of Labour (‘integrative vote’) 4.4 Arab vote for the Labour Party as governing party (‘patronage vote’) 4.5 Arab vote for the Labour Party as opposition party (‘semi-integrative vote’) 4.6 Arab vote for the Likud as governing party (‘patronage vote’) 4.7 The share of the left in the Arab vote (1981–99) 4.8 Parliamentary seats of the left and right gained by the Arab vote (1981–99) 4.9 Arab participation in the elections (1965–81) 4.10 Arab and Jewish participation in the elections (1981–96) 4.11 Arab nationalist and DFPE (largely Communist) vote (1977–99) 4.12 Jews and Arabs in the DFPE (ICP) parliamentary faction vii

35 38 40 41 42

44 56 58 60 60 61 61 62 62 63 64 64 74

viii


5.1 Conflict-regulating practices 5.2 Population and religion, Jammu and Kashmir State (1981) 8.1 Protestant and Catholic perceptions of the causes of ‘The Troubles’ 8.2 Macedonian and Albanian causes of conflict in order of significance 12.1 Ethno-political mobilisation and relative aggregate indigenous minority size

83 89 153 157 221

Figures 3.1 Evolution of the polarised vote in the regional Basque elections 3.2 Evolution of the polarised vote in the Spanish general elections (Basque Country) 8.1 Protestant and Catholic support for the option ‘The European Convention on Human Rights should be a part of the domestic law of Northern Ireland’ 8.2 Protestant and Catholic support for the six options for what is required of North/South bodies concerning matters of mutual interest 12.1 EP support (%) – Belgium 12.2 Parti Québécois 12.3 EP support (%) – Spain 12.4 EP support (%) – UK

41 43

151

152 223 225 230 232

Acknowledgements This book had its origin in a colloquium of the International Political Science Association’s Research Committee on Politics and Ethnicity held in Belfast in July 2001. My thanks are due, in the first instance, to everyone who made the holding of the colloquium possible. In this category is the President of RC 14, Professor Jean Tournon, who agreed that Belfast would be a suitable venue for the colloquium and played his part by his eloquence in representing the participants at official functions during the colloquium. I also owe much to my then Head of School, Professor Bob Eccleshall, who helped in arranging support for the colloquium. Queen’s University of Belfast and Northern Ireland’s Community Relations Council helped with the costs of the colloquium and Maureen Drennan gave me valuable secretarial support. I would also like to thank all those who contributed to the colloquium by presenting papers or taking part in the debates the papers prompted. In planning the book I could only select some of the papers and I am grateful to the two people who anonymously reviewed the book proposal for Palgrave Macmillan for helping me in that ask and for their other valuable suggestions. My thanks are also due to those who assisted in the production of the book. They include John Guelke, who composed the index; Alison Howson and Guy Edwards at Palgrave Macmillan; and Sowmya Balaraman and her team at Integra Software Services in India. Adrian Guelke Belfast

ix

Notes on the Contributors Britt Cartrite received his PhD from the Department of Political Science at the University of Colorado at Boulder in 2003. His dissertation, entitled: ‘Reclaiming Their Shadow: Ethnopolitical Mobilization in Western Europe’, explores ethno-political mobilisation in France, Spain, and the United Kingdom from 1800 to the present. He is currently a post-doctoral fellow at the Solomon Asch Center for Study of Ethnopolitical Conflict at the University of Pennsylvania, where he is expanding his dissertation to include an assessment of social-psychological factors impacting ethnic identity subscription as the antecedent to political activism. Adrian Guelke is Professor of Comparative Politics in the School of Politics at Queen’s University, Belfast. He is the director of the Centre for the Study of Ethnic Conflict. His publications include the following single-authored works: South Africa in Transition: The Misunderstood Miracle (1999); The Age of Terrorism and the International Political System (1995); and Northern Ireland: The International Perspective (1988). He has a BA, BA Honours (Comparative African Government and Law) and MA from the University of Cape Town and a PhD (Department of International Relations) from the London School of Economics and Political Science. Tom Hadden is a part-time Professor in the School of Law, Queen’s University, Belfast and a part-time Commissioner with the Northern Ireland Human Rights Commission. He has written extensively on legal and political issues relating to the conflict and peace process in Northern Ireland and is currently working on the relationships between human rights, minority protection, conflict resolution and humanitarian intervention. Marcia Byrom Hartwell has had a long-standing interest in the underlying causes of international violent conflict and ways in which to prevent its reoccurrence. She began relevant research while completing a BA in Economics and Government, as a mature student at Smith College, Massachusetts (1996), and continued at the London School of Economics, with an MSc in Development Management (1998). She is finishing a doctoral thesis examining perceptions of justice, identity, political processes of forgiveness and revenge in early post-conflict transitions, at x


xi

the Queen Elizabeth House (Refugee Studies Centre), University of Oxford, and has done fieldwork in Northern Ireland, Serbia and South Africa. Radka Havlová is currently a PhD student and assistant at the Jan Masaryk Centre of International Relations at the University of Economics, Prague in the Czech Republic. She graduated in International Relations from the Charles University, Prague and in International Politics and Diplomacy from the University of Economics, Prague. Her research focuses on the issues of ethnic conflicts in international relations and on the role of culture in international conflicts, especially in the Arab– Israeli conflict. Colin Irwin is a Research Fellow in the Centre for the Study of Ethnic Conflict in the School of Politics at Queen’s University, Belfast. He was the principal investigator on the project ‘Peace Building and Public Policy in Northern Ireland’ funded by the Joseph Rowntree Charitable Trust. As part of the Northern Ireland peace process he conducted eight public opinion polls in collaboration with the political parties elected to take part in the Stormont talks. Since then he has extended his work to include the Balkans and Middle East, with analysis, questionnaires and reports available at www.peacepolls.org. Luis Moreno is Research Professor in Sociology and Political Science with the Spanish National Research Council (CSIC) in Madrid (www.iesam.csic.es; [email protected]). He has been a visiting scholar in several European and North American universities. His main research interests are welfare state and social policy, and the territorial dimension of power. Publications in the area of territorial politics include: The Federalization of Spain (2001); ‘Ethnoterritorial concurrence in multinational societies’, in Alain-G. Gagnon and James Tully (eds), Multinational Democracies (2001); and ‘Local and global: mesogovernments and territorial identities’, Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, Vol. 5, Nos 3 and 4, pp. 61–75, 1999. Benyamin Neuberger is Professor of Political Science and Head of the Democracy Studies Graduate Program at the Open University of Israel. He holds a PhD in Political Science from Columbia University and has taught at the University of Pennsylvania, Haverford College, the University of Cape Town, Moscow State University and Tel Aviv University. His major research interests are African and Israeli politics, nationalism

xii


and ethnicity, and religion and politics. Among his publications are: National Self-Determination in Postcolonial Africa (1986) and The Arab Minority in Israeli Politics (1997). Hugh O’Doherty (PhD) teaches courses in leadership and conflict resolution at the John F. Kennedy School of Government. For four years he was Programme Director at the Glencree Centre for Peace and Reconciliation in Ireland, directing dialogue workshops that brought together grassroots and middle-ranking political party activists with the goal of creating an environment conducive to negotiation of the conflict in Northern Ireland. From 1995 to 1997, he directed the Northern Ireland Inter-Group Relations Project, an initiative bringing together political and community leaders in Ireland to establish protocols for political dialogue. From 1997 to 1999 he directed the Ireland–US Public Leadership Program at the James McGregor Burns Academy of Leadership, University of Maryland. Ilan Peleg is the Charles A. Dana Professor of Government and Law at Lafayette College. He completed his chapter appearing in this book while serving as a senior associate member of St. Antony’s College, University of Oxford (2002–03). The author or editor of six books, he has published more than 70 papers. He is now completing a book on the democratisation of ethnic states. He is a former President of the Association for Israel Studies. He is currently serving as the editor of the Association’s publication, Israel Studies Forum: An Interdisciplinary Journal. He has appeared in the past on CNN, the Voice of America, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and (US) National Public Radio. Robert G. Wirsing (PhD) is a member of the faculty of the Asia-Pacific Center for Security Studies, Honolulu, Hawaii. A specialist on South Asian politics and international relations, he has made over thirty research trips to the South Asian region since 1965. His publications include: Pakistan’s Security Under Zia, 1977–1988 (1991); India, Pakistan, and the Kashmir Dispute (1994); and Kashmir in the Shadow of War (2002).

1 Introduction: Advancing Peace in Deeply Divided Societies Adrian Guelke

This book had its origin in a colloquium held under the auspices of a research committee of the International Political Science Association. The research committee in question was RC 14, the subfield of which is politics and ethnicity. The colloquium was held in Belfast between 25 and 28 July 2001. The theme was ‘Advancing Peace in Ethnically Divided Societies’. What follows is a selection of the papers given at the colloquium, all of which have been substantially revised since the summer of 2001. So the reader should not imagine that anything in the book was written in ignorance of the terrible events of September 11. However, that watershed in world events does not make the issues that the colloquium addressed any less important, though it must be admitted that the focus on the war against terrorism has at the very least complicated the task of making peace in deeply divided societies. In any event, this book is not an attempt to reproduce the discussions that took place during the colloquium. Thus, many excellent papers given at the colloquium could not be included in this book for a variety of reasons, among them limitations of space, competing publication commitments and the need to provide a balance among different themes, while covering various parts of the world. It would also be misleading to leave the impression that the discussions in Belfast took place in an atmosphere of pre-9/11 optimism. Many of those who were visiting Northern Ireland for the first time in their lives were shocked to discover how polarised Northern Ireland was and how fragile its peace process. In that respect at least little has changed since the colloquium. The main objective of the book is to make a contribution to the literature in three of the most rapidly growing areas of political study and analysis: ethnic conflict, peace processes and democratisation. There is huge interest in the process of transition to democracy, as well as a 1

2

Introduction

growing interest in the field of the consolidation of democracy. The focus on consolidation reflects the recognition that while multiparty elections have an important role to play in the ending of conflicts, establishing enduring democratic institutions presents an altogether larger challenge. Similarly there is an interest in peace processes that is likely to become even more intense as the appreciation dawns that there is a link between failed peace processes and international terrorism. Ethnic conflict has been at the centre of the disciplines of both Politics and International Relations since the end of the Cold War and the emergence of ethnic conflict as seemingly the primary source of political instability both domestically and internationally. The focus of the book is on democratic, which is to say liberaldemocratic forms of government. The obvious justification of this emphasis is that variants of liberal-democracy seem most likely to achieve both legitimacy and durability in the long run in ethnically divided societies and hence to advance peace, at least within such societies. In the current climate of international opinion it would be perverse to advocate any other form of government. Indeed, as a matter of practical politics, it is hard to imagine that any peace process could succeed without the participants paying at least lip service to the principles of liberal-democracy. At the same time, the concept of liberal-democracy is sufficiently flexible that it covers a variety of different political outcomes. Indeed, what Peleg dubs ethnic constitutional orders, that is, regimes committed to the promotion of the interests of a single ethnic or national group, are compatible with the existence of procedural democracy. Peleg’s chapter, which discusses the general problem of governments that embody the hegemony of one group, provides a valuable reference point for the rest of the book. However, that is not to say that the other authors necessarily agree with his prescription, which is that the transformation of ethnic constitutional orders into fully functioning democracies requires some form of consociational political settlement, involving power-sharing. Peleg draws a broad distinction between exclusivist and accommodationist models for ruling an ethnically divided society. Under the accommodationist model he discusses a variety of types of government, with the main distinction being between a liberal, individualistic approach and a group-based one. The latter includes not just consociationalism but federalism, autonomy and cantonal orders on the Swiss model as a way addressing ethnic differences through cooperative constitutional structures. Peleg argues that hegemonic statehood – the product of the exclusivist model – is an inherently unstable condition

Adrian Guelke 3

in an ethnically divided society. However, achieving stability under some variant of the accommodationist model is no simple task. Part II of the book is devoted to a series of case studies that examine different approaches to the problem described by Peleg. That is to say, they discuss a variety of ways in which attempts have been made to transform ethnic orders into pluralist regimes. Luis Moreno examines Europe’s longest-lasting violent conflict, that in the Basque Country in Spain. He analyses the obstacles to the achievement of a consensual political settlement, noting the attempts that have been made to accommodate regional nationalisms under Spain’s democratic dispensation through asymmetrical devolution. Benyamin Neuberger examines changes in the political position of the Arab minority within Israel. He argues that notwithstanding the crisis in the Israeli–Palestinian peace process, a process of the political integration of Israeli Arab citizens has been taking place, modifying the nature of Israel as a polity. Robert Wirsing examines one of the world’s most intractable conflicts, with potentially far-reaching international implications in the light of India and Pakistan’s possession of nuclear weapons. He argues that an improvement in relations between the two countries is a precondition for progress on the issue of Kashmir and for creating the context in which autonomist models for a settlement of the dispute might be applied. Radka Havlová examines the peaceful partition of Czechoslovakia in 1993. She describes the history of relations between Czechs and Slovaks before and after the formation of Czechoslovakia in 1918 to explain the impetus for the separation of the two nations, while also allowing the split to take place without violence. The case runs counter to many assumptions in the literature on ethnic conflict about partition. In particular, it is commonly argued that partition tends to exacerbate ethnic conflict. This is because it often adds a dangerous, international dimension to existing conflicts between groups. Also in so far as partition creates new minorities it lays the basis for the emergence of new cleavages and new conflicts. A question mark frequently remains over the legitimacy of the political entities that are a product of partition and that contributes to their political fragility. Hugh O’Doherty examines the issues of leadership and third-party mediation in ethnic conflicts, focusing particularly on the case of Northern Ireland. He argues further that failure to appreciate that a peace process is not complete until the formerly warring communities have adapted to a new way of living together leads mediators to leave parties in the lurch after a settlement has been reached but not yet implemented.

4

Introduction

He is particularly critical of approaches to ethnic conflict that view peacemaking as a matter of technical expertise that glosses over the scale of the changes that deeply divided societies have to go through to put the past behind them. Part III of the book examines comparative dimensions of democratisation and ethnic conflict. In the first chapter in this part Colin Irwin demonstrates how the use of public opinion polls conducted with input from political parties helps negotiators to identify acceptable and tolerable solutions on the issues that divided them. He stresses that the methods pioneered in Northern Ireland have applicability to other deeply divided societies and demonstrates this with descriptions of the use of this method in a number of cases, drawing particularly on his use of these methods in Macedonia. In the second chapter in this part I examine the role played by imitation in peace processes, focusing particularly on interactions between the South African transition and the Northern Irish peace process. I also discuss the influence that the Northern Irish peace process has had on political initiatives in relation to other conflicts, particularly the cases of the Basque Country and Corsica. I conclude that comparative politics as a field of study has tended to neglect the role played by comparison in political discourse and behaviour. Marcia Hartwell examines the role of justice, understood by the parties as fair treatment, in the achievement of reconciliation in a society in the period following the ending of conflict. She discusses this question in relation to Serbian attitudes to the trial of Milosevic, prisoner releases under the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland and the operation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa. The point of departure of Tom Hadden’s chapter is the stark difference in the approach of human rights lawyers and politicians to the question of amnesties in the aftermath of violent conflict. The former insist on ‘no impunity’ while the latter typically view amnesty as a necessary step in achieving peace. He puts forward a possible basis for convergence in the two approaches. Britt Cartrite discusses institutional reforms designed to facilitate access and increase participation among ethnic minorities in liberaldemocracies in the context of the literature on democratic consolidation. He examines the cases of Belgium, Canada, France, Spain and the United Kingdom and concludes that institutional reforms were actually an important factor in the onset of sudden increases in ethno-political mobilisation. The conclusion focuses on the relationship between democracy and ethnic conflict in the context not just of a post-Cold War world but a post-9/11 one, drawing on points made by previous chapters.

Part I Theoretical Overview

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2 Transforming Ethnic Orders to Pluralist Regimes: Theoretical, Comparative and Historical Analysis Ilan Peleg

Introduction The modern era is characterised by the emergence of numerous polities that could best be defined as ethnic constitutional orders, regimes committed above all to the promotion of the interests of a single ethnic or national group within their own borders. In societies that are deeply divided along ethnic lines, the commitment of regimes to establish, perpetuate and even deepen the specific ethnic character of the polity could prove problematical in terms of both the long-term stability of the polity and the genuinely democratic nature of its institutions. This chapter has a few goals. First, it offers a definition and several examples of ethnic constitutional orders while pointing out the inherent tension between such orders, on the one hand, and contemporary notions of democracy, equality and human rights, on the other; this section also dwells on the political instability that ethnic orders are likely to generate. Second, the chapter develops what could be regarded as a preliminary theoretical framework for the analysis of ethnic regimes. Third, it deals in some detail with the transformation of ethnic orders; it does so by identifying several historical cases where such transformation seems to have occurred. Finally, it offers several tentative generalisations about transformation of political systems in divided societies. These generalisations could be considered as hypotheses for further research. 7

8

Theoretical Overview

The essence of ethnic order Among ethnic constitutional orders in the modern era we find different kinds of regimes. France during the 19th century, where peasants were transformed into ‘Frenchmen’, in the language of Eugene Weber, 1 was an ethnic order based on the desire of the state to create cultural unity around the French language. Hungary prior to the First World War, and even later, carried out an aggressive policy of ‘Magyarisation’ forcing the Hungarian culture and language on all its inhabitants. 2 Poland and Serbia between the two World Wars were decidedly ethnic polities. By many accounts even Canada until the 1960s was an ethnic AngloSaxon entity 3 and Spain until the death of Franco was described as reflecting primarily the ‘Castilian spirit’.4 Ethnic constitutional orders are, however, not merely or even mainly an historical curiosity or a relic of the past. They are often found today in different regions of the world. Countries such as Sri Lanka, Turkey, Estonia, Israel, Serbia, Slovakia, Malaysia, and Greece, despite all their differences, are often dominated by the ethnic character of their regimes.5 Moreover, if Kymlicka is right that ‘the process of nation building inescapably privileges members of the majority culture’,6 then the ‘ethnicisation’ of a polity is inherently linked to its very establishment. Moreover, since the vast majority of contemporary states are ethnically diverse, 7 and in many cases deeply divided along ethnic lines, the character of their ethnic order, and the implication of that order for their stability, is likely to dominate the domestic politics of many countries and the international politics of several regions for years to come. But, before we even begin the analysis of ethnic states, the rationale and consequences of their behaviour, we have to identify the essential characteristics of an ethnic order: 1. An ethnic constitutional order privileges, as a matter of principle, one ethnic group – the ‘core nation’8 – over all other groups within the borders of the polity. 2. This ethnic dominance might be established by law, although more often it is carried out more aggressively through governmental policies or societal practices which are semi-legal or even extra-legal.9 3. In established ethnic orders the ethnic hierarchy is so deeply internalised both by members of the dominant ethnic group and members of the dominated group that it is rarely challenged directly: Gramsci’s notion of ‘hegemony’ is useful in understanding why an ethnic challenge often becomes unthinkable.10

Ilan Peleg 9

4. In contemporary ethnic orders, the state itself becomes the primary instrument for the creation and the perpetuation of the ethnocentric regime. Classical writers (such as de Tocqueville and Marx), as well as contemporary analysts11 have captured the centralised power of the modern state, but further emphasis must be placed on the specific role of the ethnicised state in converting a multiethnic social setting into a uniethnic political order. 5. Finally, an ethnic constitutional order is inherently unstable, particularly in today’s world where values of democracy, equality and human rights are increasingly dominant; once such values penetrate the ‘hegemonic order’, by influencing both members of the ethnic minority and elements within the majority, the ethnicised state may be forced to transform.12 An ethnic constitutional order (ECO) could, then, be defined statically as a regime privileging one ethnic group over all others by law, policies or practices and via the actions of the state. Dynamically, it must be recognised that while an ECO could be sustained for a long time through coercive means or by widespread ‘hegemonic’ acceptance of its fundamentals, the seeds of its own destruction are often found in the contradiction between these fundamentals and the values of the outside world.

Hegemonic ethnic order: a theoretical framework In deeply divided societies, especially those split along ethnic or national lines, the relationships between the demographically dominant group and all other groups are often highly problematical. While the tension could be conceptualised in numerous ways, the focus here will be on the relationships between democracy within the ethnically divided polity and the vision of the state adopted by members of the dominant ethnic group and particularly its leading élite(s). The concept of ‘democracy’ itself, as a standard for judging political performance, is given to numerous definitions, some more complicated than others.13 One such definition, offered by three prominent students of democracy, 14 views democracy as a system of government that maintains three conditions: (a) meaningful and extensive competition among individuals and groups for all elective positions; (b) highly inclusive level of participation in the selection of leaders and policies, so that no major group is excluded; and (c) a level of civil and political liberties sufficient to ensure political competition and participation,

10


including freedom of expression and the freedom to form and join organisations. While all the conditions specified by Diamond, Linz and Lipset apply to ethnically divided societies, in such societies special attention should be given to participatory inclusion that guarantees the involvement of all significant ethnic groups. Full equality – in law and in practice – to all individuals and groups, regardless of ethnic or national identity, should be promoted, and the state may assume, proactively and aggressively, the role of protecting minorities against the almost-natural tyrannical tendencies of the majority. In reality, however, numerous ethnically divided states do not adopt such accommodationist model(s) – political solutions designed to bring about highly inclusive participation of all individuals and groups in society – and often prefer exclusivist model(s), solutions designed to maintain, enhance and perpetuate the dominance of one ethnic group over other groups. In the exclusivist variant the state is often the tool for establishing hegemony; genuine democracy is often its victim. Two major accommodationist models are available for demographically ethnic majorities. Both ought to be viewed as Weberian ideal types, useful (under the best of circumstances) for analysis but rarely perfectly applicable to any specific case. The first accommodationist type is based on individual rights and it could be called the liberal model. In its Anglo-American (Anglo-Saxon) origins, the model’s philosophical foundations were laid by the likes of Locke, Jefferson and both Mills (James Mill and John Stuart Mill). It influenced decisively some of the French revolutionaries and made inroads deeper into the continent (e.g. Kant). Its greatest ‘applicator’ today might be Robert Dahl. 15 There are several principles to liberalism, all relevant to the concerns of this analysis: (a) civic equality of all individual citizens within society; (b) protection of political rights via an array of constitutional means (e.g. protected and usually written constitutions, extensive bills of rights) and institutionalised arrangements (e.g. judicial review by powerful supreme courts, special protection to identified minorities or even historically discriminated majorities); (c) minimisation of state intervention in the ‘private sphere’.16 For the purpose of the current study it is essential to note, however, that in its pure form liberalism is intensely individualistic: as a matter of principle and preference, it does not recognise group rights. While social reality (such as long-term discrimination) sometimes forces pure liberalism to establish special protections for discriminated groups (but, invariably in order to equalise their conditions within society!), the individualistic

Ilan Peleg 11

orientation of liberalism might make it a necessary but insufficient solution for ingrained ethnic hegemony (see below). In so far as ethnicity is concerned, the liberal solution is to privatise it. Individuals belonging to different ‘ethnicities’ – the definition of which is often unclear and highly subjective – may organise and form associations (places of religious worship, community centres) as part of civil society. Yet, the liberal state remains neutral in relation to ethnicity: it does not encourage or discourage it and, above all, it generally does not give preferential treatment to one ethnicity over another. A second variant of accommodationism is the ‘consociational model’. Continental rather than Anglo-American in origin and orientation, consociationalism accepts the necessity for recognising the existence of distinct ethnicities as major, legitimate components in deeply divided societies. Such recognition could lead to the establishment of a stable, just and democratic polity. Consociationalism, as developed by Arend Lijphart, 17 while recognising the rights of all citizens to the standard, individual liberties, argues that when a society is ethnically divided, ethnic groups ought to be recognised as political players and, as such, negotiate a political deal for the protection of their particularistic interests. Several crucial elements within modern consociationalism differentiate it from what I have called an ethnic constitutional order (ECO): (a) the state itself is not identified with any single ethnic group but, typically, with a few (usually two) groups; 18 (b) the state is committed, ideologically and constitutionally, to an accommodationist solution, that is, to reconciliation between its major constituent ethnicities, often in the face of serious social conflict and intense hatreds;19 (c) the fundamental consociational arrangement, the grand compromise, the power-sharing ‘deal’, is always the product of genuine negotiation between power élites, not the result of coercion, imposition, and unilateral action by the dominant group (as it is in ethnic orders). It is important to realise that consociationalism is but one out of several group-based constitutional orders designed to accommodate different ethnic or national groups in deeply divided societies. Other such orders might include federal, autonomous or cantonal orders, but they all reflect a concentrated effort to solve ethnic strife via some type of cooperative constitutional structure. In presenting the liberal and the consociational models as ethnically accommodationist in nature, one should not ignore their drawbacks in other areas. Thus, the liberal model, with its emphasis on political equality, often tolerates economic inequality. Similarly, while consociationalism may be a fair solution to those ethnic groups that participate in the foundation agreement,

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it often ignores the interests of other ethnic groups.20 At the same time, it is important to highlight the potentially compromising character of these two regime types and their compatibility with accommodation within multiethnic settings. In contrast to liberalism and consociationalism, viewed here as accommodationist, there are two exclusivist models within my analytical framework. An exclusivist regime is one which privileges one ethnic or national group over all others, often by enshrining its preferential status as a permanent feature of the polity (even in a metaconstitutional manner!), and by establishing institutions designed to perpetuate the ethnic hegemony of that group over all others. One could distinguish between two different variants of an exclusivist regime: 1. A minority hegemonic model, in which the minority appropriates the state forcefully and completely for its own ‘use’, as was done in South Africa,21 while negating the most basic rights of other group(s), including the right of participating in the political game. The term ‘Herrenvolk democracy’22 as a description of such an ‘arrangement’ is a misnomer since the negation of the voting rights of the majority is, ipso facto, undemocratic. The existence of ‘democracy’ among members of the master group does not change the overall character of the regime as grossly undemocratic. 2. A majority hegemonic model in which one group, an ethno-cultural ‘core nation’23 uses the state as an instrument for the establishment, enhancement and perpetuation of its exclusivist control over the public sphere, to the exclusion of all other groups. While Smooha calls such a model ‘ethnic democracy’24 his assumption that genuine democracy (in any of its definitions) is, in fact, sustainable in such a state, especially in the long run, ought to be critically examined. The hegemonic model is based on the notion of the transformation of the democratic state from a neutral arena for competition between conflicting interests within society (an ideal which is rarely achieved in reality) to an arena expropriated for the exclusive use of a single ethnocultural group. My concept of the hegemonic ethnic state is, at least in part, Gramscian, in so far as there is within the dominant ethnic majority a hegemonically unchallenged assumption that the state is the exclusive domain of the ‘core nation’. This assumption, shared by élites and masses alike, makes it unlikely, if not entirely impossible, for members of the ethnic majority to view ‘their’ state as non-democratic. Having

Ilan Peleg 13

been internalised, hegemonic ethnicity is perceived as ‘natural’, making the use and abuse of state power for exclusive ethnic goals normal and non-controversial. It is ‘a relatively hegemonic situation in which a given cultural definition of reality dominates the society at large’ 25 and, equally important, it is likely to have a decisive impact on all of the state institutions, making the state itself ‘hegemonic’. It is important to note that the hegemonic state and all its agents view themselves as acting on behalf of the ‘core nation’. Yet, hegemonic statehood runs into serious difficulties with the implementation of genuine democracy, especially when substantial numbers of citizens are not, in fact, members of the core nation (that is, in divided societies). The democratic problem of hegemonic statehood is that it is based on the intersection of two extremely powerful social forces that in this particular regime form reinforce each other to the detriment of genuine democracy. The first force is the ethnic or national force, reflecting individuals’ supreme allegiance, commitment and loyalty to ‘their’ particular group. The second force is the enormous power of the modern state. When these two forces intersect in an ethnically divided society, the modern state can become a potent instrument in negating minority rights. Following Theda Skocpol,26 my approach to the state – within the framework of hegemonic statism – follows that of de Tocqueville. The brilliant Frenchman’s two masterpieces, The Old Regime and the French Revolution and the better-known Democracy in America, emphasise the importance of the state within societies. States matter because of their overall patterns of activity, their effect on organisational configurations, their encouragement of certain collective political actions (but not others), and so forth. In today’s world, in contrast to the one known to de Tocqueville, the state, with its centralised control over education, enormous economic and military resources, dominance over mass media and communication, and now computerised capabilities, is a political instrument of unparalleled strength in human history. When this instrument is monopolised by an ethnic majority against an ethnic minority, democratic norms are, inevitably, violated. The theory of the relationship between hegemonic statehood and democracy rests, then, on several propositions: (a) The combination of passionate ethnic force and centralised state power in a deeply divided society creates a controlling socio-political reality which is likely to overwhelm all other countervailing realities (e.g. claims for individual or minority rights, demands for equality, humanitarian instincts within the majority).

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(b) This overwhelming socio-political reality – hegemonic statehood – is bound to damage seriously the quality of democracy within the polity, and possibly suffocate and destroy democracy altogether, especially if democracy is perceived and defined as requiring equality. (c) Contrary to common perception, hegemonic statehood is not only fatal to its ‘natural’ victims – members of the ethnic minorities within the state – but also to its alleged beneficiaries, members of the ethnic majority. Democracy is, simply put, indivisible: once it is destroyed in one part of the polity (that is, in the majority–minority relationships), its pathology is likely to spread, cancer like, to other parts of the body politic. The determination and possible destruction of democracy in hegemonic states is particularly likely when several conditions prevail. First, the ‘core nation’ – the demographic majority in control of the state – enjoys multidimensional superiority in all important socio-economic areas: level of education, technological know-how, control over the means of production, and so on.27 Second, there is a deep, bitter, violent historical conflict between the ethnic groups in the state.28 Third, the state lacks a formal constitutional order, political culture or legal tradition supportive of equal treatment under the law, due process, and protection against arbitrary action by the state itself, the government in office, or the majority. 29 Fourth, the majority within the dominant ethnic group is, fundamentally, intolerant. Fifth, there is no significant international pressure on the majority to treat the minority with fairness and in accordance with democratic principles. When all of these conditions (or even some of them) exist, one might expect, under the best of circumstances, the emergence of an illiberal democracy,30 and not the kind of genuine democracy that the Diamond–Linz–Lipset definition calls for. This illiberal democracy, under hegemonic statist conditions has, in fact, two quite different variants: (a) a separationist variant, easily the more common one, in which the dominant group desires to keep itself separate and superior vis-à-vis the dominated group (examples are countries such as Israel, Sri Lanka, Nigeria, etc.); (b) an assimilationist integrative variant, in which the dominant group tries to convert the dominated group and makes it like itself (e.g. Turkey’s attitude toward the Kurds, the policy of Magyarisation in Hungary after 1867). In an ethnically divided society, as in politics in general, the role of the political élite is crucial. The élite of the ethno-cultural majority can push the majority, although not easily, in the direction of full equality, minority protection, and genuine democratisation. Nevertheless, the

Ilan Peleg 15

temptation to use the minority for the purpose of generating political support, especially via ‘scapegoating’, is often irresistible for majority politicians. Moreover, the push toward total ethnic domination in what, after all, members of the majority view as their state could prove, in reality, irresistible, an historical inevitability. Ethnic politicians are not known for their inclination to commit suicide: they usually jump on the train, not under it. Ironically, the existence of democracy within the ethnic majority and the establishment of procedural democracy in the polity as a whole – both compatible with ethnic statehood – may prove dysfunctional in terms of the development of genuine democracy within the polity. The reason is that in such a situation, majority politicians are likely to gain, sustain and enhance power by either using actively the ‘ethnic card’ or, at the least, refusing to appear ‘soft’ on the minority by initiating a programme for dismantling the hegemonic, ethnicised state. 31 Be that as it may, a divided society with an historical ethnic conflict, and élite commitment to democracy that is, at best, secondary to its commitment to the ethnic interest (and desire to stay in power), is likely to lead to low-quality, flawed democracy. Such flawed democracy is unlikely to achieve the reasonably moderate conditions of Diamond, Linz and Lipset. Meaningful competition for power will be limited by constraints on the minority and ‘disloyal’ elements within the majority. Inclusive participation will be outlawed or at least be realistically unachievable, and liberties will be violated by law or through practice. Most importantly, these deviations are not the result of personalities but inevitable problems linked to and flowing from the very structure of the hegemonic state itself. In fact, the problems associated with ethnic statehood are so deeply rooted in the very essence of the system that, more often than not, they are not even recognised for what, in fact, they are – major deviations from democratic principles – by the majority within the dominant ethnic group. Moreover, a vibrant but nevertheless procedural democracy – periodic elections, free press, freedom of association – often camouflage the low level of democracy in the ethnicised state.

The transformation of hegemonic regimes Hegemonic statehood, it should be noted, is an inherently unstable condition, especially when compared to the two accommodationist models presented above. The tension between the self-proclaimed ‘ethnic’ nature of the state, on the one hand, and its commitment, however

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pro forma, to ‘democracy’ on the other hand is a source of constant, often unrelenting pressure. So how might this inherent tension be addressed? There are several possibilities: (a) The status quo is maintained. Despite the tension between the ethnic nature of the polity and democratic forces, the hegemonic state succeeds in maintaining its low-quality, procedural democracy and the pressure for greater pluralism is ignored. (b) Moderate, ‘cosmetic’ changes toward increasing democratisation are introduced, gradually dismantling the most flagrant violations of the democratic credo but without the erasure of the fundamentally ethnic character of the state. (c) Radical revision toward genuine pluralism and democracy is implemented by transforming the ethnic state into either a liberal or a consociational democracy. Such a process, of which there are several historical examples (see below), requires a decisive move in which the ethnic polity accepts not merely the idea of individual equality (that is, liberal democracy) but also group rights guaranteed in a power-sharing deal (that is, consociational democracy or a similar constitutional deal such as federalism, autonomy, cantonisation, etc.). In a country with a significant ethnic minority this means the granting of substantial autonomy (personal, cultural and even territorial) to the minority as well as genuine power-sharing in all central political institutions or a division of powers. (d) Relatively mild changes toward further ethnicisation of the state are implemented through a strengthening of its ethnically hegemonic institutions. Such a policy is likely to meet the effective opposition of the minority group(s), unless it has mostly symbolic (rather than material) meaning and is carried out by a state that is powerful both internally and externally (e.g. India, Russia). (e) Radical action is taken by the ethnic élite toward the transformation of the multiethnic state into a purely ethnic state (or an apartheid state) via harsh means such as mass expulsions, ethnic cleansings, and even full-fledged genocides. The Yugoslav and Rwandan cases indicate that the international community is becoming less tolerant toward this kind of ‘solution’ to ethnic difference. While the theory of hegemonic ethnic statehood cannot predict what might happen in specific multiethnic states, it can, and should, identify the forces that may influence the results of these dynamics. These forces, it is clear, do not necessarily push in the same direction, but often in opposite ones. On the one hand, one has to appreciate the enormously powerful force of passionate ethnicity and modern statehood in the

Ilan Peleg 17

hand of a determined majority (discussed above). This combination is essential for an understanding of the Balkans over the last decade and a half. On the other hand, there are powerful countervailing forces, balancing this deadly, often bloody combination. In today’s world, with enhanced international attention to civil and human rights, instant global communication, and increasing democratisation, aggressive hegemonic behaviour is likely to be counterproductive and probably unsuccessful. Even in the past, the policy of aggressive ethnicisation was often unsuccessful (e.g. Germany’s policy in its eastern provinces during the 19th century, Poland’s interwar nationalising behaviour, Serbian policies in Yugoslavia, Hungary’s Magyarisation push, etc.). As often is the case, within the hegemonic structure one finds the seeds of its own destruction, and the more aggressive hegemonic statehood is, the more quickly it may destroy itself. By its very nature, the hegemonic state politicises its victims, radicalises them, and forces them to organise effective resistance, often with the support of the world community. Despite the high stakes involved in hegemonic policies, it is often the case that hegemonic states cannot change their nature. Often the very essence of the polity is defined by its ethnicity, and to change its ethnic definition would be a form of collective suicide. While workable solutions to excessive ethnicity and unreasonable hegemony could theoretically be found, the majority in its blindness, sense of powerfulness, and insensitivity may not be psychologically open to adopt them. A full understanding of hegemonic statehood requires a focus on the definition of citizenship (as well as the various forms of citizenship) within hegemonic states. There are two types of citizenships in an ethnically hegemonic state: full and real citizenship, and formal and nominal citizenship.32 While both types of citizenship include the enjoyment of basic rights and liberties, only members of the dominant majority receive full and real citizenship, a status that enables them legitimately to participate in determining the public good. 33 Membership in the ethnos, not mere residence in a country, or even the holding of its identity card and/or passport, determines whether a person enjoys full or partial citizenship, and whether he/she has real or nominal, maximal or minimal rights.34 The struggle of the minority is often about transforming its status from that of nominal to real citizenship. The ethnic majority, on the other hand, is likely to insist on its hegemony, and even its exclusivity, in all matters of the public good. A state defining itself ethnically is unlikely to allow ‘its’ non-ethnics free and equal access to the public good. While there is a widespread

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perception that such policy requires coercive means, democratic means (and, even more often, semi-democratic ones) can often achieve the same goals at a lower cost. A unified ethnic majority can easily exclude a minority by using such means as elections, referenda, coalition-building, parliamentary votes, and supreme court decisions. The appropriation of all power over state institutions for the majority and the exclusion of the minority can be achieved via means that most individuals within the ethnic majority, and perhaps even many within the international community, would view as politically and legally legitimate. The dismantling of the hegemonic ethnic state is difficult to achieve because the dimensions of hegemonic statehood are many and diverse. They typically include, but are not limited to the following areas of public policy: (1) the dominance or even exclusivity of the majority’s language; (2) control over the educational system (including that of the minority); (3) hegemony over all mass media; (4) land control in order to effectively marginalise the minority; (5) careful supervision of immigration, emigration, and citizenship in the polity, so as to enhance the demographic advantage of the dominant group; (6) control of the national iconography, enshrined symbols and collective memory, including museums and monuments, as well as names of places; (7) employment in the public sector; and (8) control over the legal system. All of these and many other areas of public policy are zealously controlled by the hegemonic state. The more comprehensive and inflexible the overall policy, the more likely there will be a crisis in the relations between majority and minority and the more severe it is likely to be. Moreover, the larger the number of marginalised citizens within the hegemonic state, both in absolute numbers and as percentage of the total population, the more severe the eventual crisis is likely to be. In terms of the quality of democracy in the hegemonic state, the larger the number of dominated ‘citizens’, and the more marginalised they are, the less democratic the polity is. Modern democracy requires, especially in its liberal form, congruence between citizenship and rights. The ethnically hegemonic state not only violates this principle, its entire raison d’être is the violation of this principle. As such, it cannot but be marginally democratic, at best. So how can a hegemonic ethnic order be transformed? Do we have concrete historical examples to indicate that a transformation is indeed possible? In principle, the transformation of an ethnicised state can take two quite different modes:

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1. A liberal mode, in which all citizens are recognised as equal, but only as individuals. The problem with liberal democratisation is that it is often insufficient to end deep-seated hegemonic control. Therefore, says Sisk, ‘the international community need not always advocate simple forms of majoritarian democracy’.35 2. The second type of transformation is a consociational mode, in which political recognition is accorded to the most important ethnic groups in the polity and they are granted collective rights via consociational, federal, autonomous or cantonal structures. While the liberal mode tries to erase differences, the consociational mode recognises differences and tries to better ‘manage’ them.36 Moreover, while liberalism is individualistic, all other solutions are group-based. Consociational solutions are about power-sharing or power-division, solutions agreed upon by ethnically diverse élites: cantonisation, federal solutions, proportional or protected representation for minorities, and constitutional guarantees of various kinds are among consociationalism’s arsenal. Transformation of an ECO could be of two kinds: cosmetic and procedural, or comprehensive and substantive. Contemporary Israel might be moving now toward a form of cosmetic transformation, although it does it extremely slowly, almost glacially. For example, the Supreme Court decision of 8 March 2000 affirming the equal rights of Arabs in purchasing land (the Qaadan/Katzir case) was a significant move toward pluralism. 37 Yet the overall character of the Israeli regime remains ethnically Jewish. The ongoing Israeli kulturkampf – the internal Jewish debate over the character of the state – is likely to focus more and more on the relations between majority and minority. It typifies the notion that an ethnic order is not merely about majority–minority relations, although these relations are an important component of it. However, there are several historical cases in which fundamental transformations of ethnic orders have occurred, in addition to the relatively new case of South Africa. 38 There are several interesting historical transformations: (a) Spain until Franco’s death was described not only as an authoritarian state but as a centralised Castilian state, designed to protect the ‘old and unpolluted Castilian spirit’ from the country’s ethno-territorial peculiarities.39 The interesting phenomenon in Spain is not merely that it has gone over the last quarter century through a remarkable process of democratisation, but also through an equally remarkable

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process of ‘pluralisation’. The Spanish have not only recognised individual civil rights but also territorially based, collective ethnic/ national rights. (b) Northern Ireland is another fascinating example of a potentially transformative political settlement. The 1998 Good Friday Agreement is, fundamentally, a consociational deal40 based on the assumption that stability does not mean simple majority within the polity as a whole but endorsement of governmental action by majorities within each major community.41 (c) Canada is another example of the power of constitutional processes to transform the character of existing polities. Historically, Canada was a product of one settler society (the British) defeating another settler society (the French). Once the country became independent (1867), it became the target of a large number of immigrants, especially from Eastern Europe. According to Sheridan, these newcomers ‘were expected to conform to the dominant Anglo-Saxon culture as quickly and as thoroughly as possible’.42 Until 1969, when the Official Language Act was adopted, immigrants had to learn English, and only English, before they got their citizenship. It was only in the 1960s that Canada began to shift. In 1971, a policy of multiculturalism (on top of the federalist, limited consociationalism) was adopted. While many Canadians criticise this policy today, the real question is whether Canada could even have survived as a unified country, without some kind of combination of strong federalism and multiculturalism. (d) The last example of possible transformation is Slovakia. While under Meciar the country adopted an aggressive Slovak nationalist stance, especially toward the Hungarian minority, in the postMeciar era it has moved toward ethnic accommodation: (1) three representatives of the Hungarian minority were invited to join the government; (2) a law making Slovak the state’s only official language was withdrawn; and (3) relations with neighbouring Hungary have improved.

Generalising about ethnic transformations What kind of general conclusions could be drawn from the theoretical analysis, the historical cases mentioned here, and the contemporary Zeitgeist (the spirit of our time, the dominant political culture in the post-Cold War era)? I would like to formulate six such conclusions, however tentatively: 1. In the contemporary world, majority political élites in ethnically divided societies are under increasing pressure to treat minorities

Ilan Peleg 21

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

equally, democratically, and even sensitively. Heavy-handed ethnic oppression is almost universally condemned and is likely to backfire. The pressure on political élites to find new solutions for ethnic problems, is especially intense when there is resistance (often among both majority and minority) to either assimilation or integration. Consociational solutions then become attractive.43 These are solutions that focus on difference-management rather than on difference-elimination44 and many are group-based. A liberal solution to the ethnic dilemma – granting all individuals equality under the law – is a necessary but frequently insufficient condition for long-term stability in a society plagued by long-term division, conflict and violence. What is often required in divided societies plagued by violence is a transformative constitutional settlement granting the major groups in society collective rights: language rights, equal or at least significant share in the polity’s economic resources, protected political representation, and so forth. Creative solutions of that nature are, of course, not a firm guarantee for long-term political stability. In fact, several consociational deals have collapsed over the last thirty years (e.g. Lebanon, Cyprus). But without creative consociational solutions, all hope for stability is gone. The challenges to a consociational deal are likely to come from two places: (a) Radical groups within the minority that reject any deal with the ‘oppressive majority’ and demand full independence (ETA in Spain, certain elements within the Quebecois, the Real IRA in Northern Ireland, etc.); and (b) Conservative groups within the majority that are afraid, often irrationally, of losing power and, even more so, of allowing the polity to change its fundamental character.

Moreover, for a power-sharing deal to work, the ethnic gulf cannot be too wide: unlimited ethnic warfare is not a promising recipe for stable power-sharing. Also, the power differential between the majority and the minority cannot be too large; a measure of equality between the groups is required for a constitutional power-sharing deal to work. In assessing any power-sharing transformation it is essential to compare it to its alternatives. Refusal to share power in a deeply divided society could be, in today’s world, an invitation to the minority to engage in violence and wreck the status quo. Sri Lanka and Macedonia are but two recent examples.

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Consociational solutions are particularly attractive for native minorities (rather than immigrant minorities) when the minority is in a clearly inferior position but where it is determined to maintain its uniqueness (rather than integrate or assimilate into the majority). Native, nonimmigrant groups such as the Turks in Cyprus, the Maronites in Lebanon, the Arabs in Israel, the Tamils in Sri Lanka or the Catholics in Northern Ireland are examples of groups that could potentially be pacified or placated via an historic grand compromise. It may be the only way to avoid a bloodbath in deeply divided societies. The post-Cold War era has shown us the alternative to constitutional deals involving powersharing: genocide, ethnic cleansing, violent partition, and hegemonic domination (which breeds resentment, resistance and massive violence). In contrast to these, the option of power-sharing (despite its inherent difficulties) does look quite attractive, not just to the minority but also to the majority.

Notes and references This chapter is part of a larger project on ‘Democratising the Hegemonic Ethnic State’. Some of the research was carried out when the author was a senior associate member of St. Antony’s College at the University of Oxford, 2002–03. 1. Eugene Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914, Stanford University Press, Stanford 1976. 2. On ‘Magyarisation’, see Rogers Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 1996, p. 115. 3. See, for example, Gordon E. Cannon, ‘Consociationalism vs. control: Canada as a model’, Western Political Quarterly, Vol. 35, 1982, pp. 50–64; William Sheridan, ‘Canadian Multiculturalism: Issues and Trends’, Library of Parliament, Ottawa 1987, 17 pp. 4. Luis Moreno, ‘Federalization and ethno-territorial concurrence in Spain’, Publius, Vol. 27, No. 4, 1997, pp. 65–84; see also his ‘Federalisation in Multinational Spain’, a paper delivered at a conference on ‘Multinational Federations: Concept, Case Study, Comparison’, University of Hull, 1–5 April, 2003, p. 10. 5. For a general analytical framework, see Ian Lustick, ‘Stability in deeply divided societies: consociationalism vs. control’, World Politics, Vol. 31, April 1979, pp. 325–44; on Sri Lanka, see, for example, Robert N. Kearney, ‘Ethnic conflict and the Tamil separatist movement in Sri Lanka’, Asian Survey, Vol. 25, No. 9, September 1985, pp. 398–9; on Slovakia, see Martin Butora and Zora Butorova, ‘Slovakia’s democratic awakening’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 10, No. 1, January 1999, pp. 80–95; on Israel, see Oren Yiftachel, ‘Democracy or ethnocracy? Territory and settler politics in Israel/Palestine’, Middle East Report, Summer 1998, pp. 8–13; Ian Lustick, The Arabs in the Jewish State, University of Texas Press, Austin 1980.

Ilan Peleg 23 6. Will Kymlicka, ‘The impact of group rights on fear and trust: a response to Offe’, Hagar, Vol. 3, No. 1, 2002, pp. 19–36 (quote is on p. 29); see also Will Kymlicka, Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights, Clarendon Press, Oxford 1995. 7. Ted Robert Gurr, Minorities at Risk, United States Institute of Peace, Washington D.C. 1993, and Peoples versus States, United States Institute of Peace, Washington D.C. 2000; Christopher Hewitt and Tom Cheethan, Encyclopedia of Modern Separatist Movements, ABS-CLIO, Santa Barbara 2000. 8. Brubaker, 1996. 9. David Kretzmer, The Legal Status of the Arabs in Israel, Westview Press, Boulder 1990. 10. While Gramsci’s notion of ‘hegemony’ is used in a different context here, it is analytically very useful. For theoretical considerations, see Robert Bocock, Hegemony, Tavistock, London 1987. 11. On the role of the state, consult Peter B. Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer and Theda Skocpol (eds), Bringing the State Back In, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 1985, and especially Skocpol’s essay in it (pp. 3–43), as well as Joel Migdal, Strong Societies and Weak States, Princeton University Press, Princeton 1988. 12. See, for example, Ilan Peleg, ‘Culture, ethnicity, and human rights in contemporary biethnic democracies: the case of Israel and other cases’, in Lynda Bell, Andrew Nathan and Ilan Peleg (eds), Negotiating Culture and Human Rights, Columbia University Press, New York 2001, pp. 303–33. 13. On ‘democracy’, see the classic Polyarchy, Participation and Observation by Robert Dahl (Yale University Press, New Haven 1971), as well as Larry Diamond, Developing Democracy: Toward Consolidation, Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore 1999, and David Held, Models of Democracy, Second Edition, Stanford University Press, Stanford 1996. 14. Larry Diamond, Juan Linz, and Seymour Martin Lipset, Politics in Developing Countries: Comparing Experiences with Democracy, Lynne Rienner, Boulder 1990, pp. 6–7. 15. See Dahl, Polyarchy, Participation and Observation, as well as his Democracy and Its Critics, Yale University Press, New Haven 1989. 16. Juergen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, Polity Press, Cambridge 1992. 17. Lijphart’s books include The Politics of Accommodation: Pluralism and Democracy in the Netherlands, University of California Press, Berkeley 1968; Democracy in Plural Societies: a Comparative Exploration, Yale University Press, New Haven 1977; Patterns of Democracy: Government Forms of Performance in Thirty-Six Countries, Yale University Press, New Haven 1999; and Democracies: Patterns of Majoritarian and Consensus Government in Twenty One Countries, Yale University Press, New Haven 1984. My own use of the notion of ‘consociationalism’ in this chapter is significantly broader than Lijphart’s. 18. Belgium, for example, is clearly identified with its two major constituent ethnic groups, and is traditionally a model of consociationalism. 19. On ‘otherness’ as reflection of ethnic rejection, see Ilan Peleg, ‘Otherness and Israel’s Arab dilemma’, in Laurence J. Silberstein and Robert L. Cohn (eds), The Other in Jewish Thought and History, New York University Press, New York 1994, pp. 258–60.

24


20. On the notion of ‘founding nations’, see Kymlicka, 1995. 21. On the case of South Africa, see Dunbar T. Moodie, The Rise of Afrikanerdom, University of California Press, Berkeley 1975; Allister Sparks, The Mind of South Africa: The Story of the Rise and Fall of Apartheid, Heinemann, London 1990; Rupert Taylor, ‘South Africa: consociation or democracy?’, Telos, Vol. 85, 1990, pp. 17–32; Adrian Guelke, ‘Ethnic rights and majority rule: the case of South Africa’, International Political Science Review, Vol. 83, No. 4, 1992. 22. Sammy Smooha, ‘Ethnic democracy: Israel as an archtype’, Israel Studies, Vol. 2, No. 1, Fall 1997, pp. 198–241. 23. Brubaker, 1996; Peleg, 2001. 24. Sammy Smooha, ‘Minority status in ethnic democracy: the status of the Arab minority in Israel’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, Vol. 13, July 1990, pp. 389–413. 25. Myron Aronoff, Israeli Visions and Divisions: Cultural Change and Political Conflict, Transaction Press, New Brunswick 1989, p. xiv. 26. Skocpol, 1985, p. 21. 27. When the demographic majority is also superior socio-economically, as it is, for example, in the United Kingdom, it has to restrain itself to maintain a genuine ‘majoritarian democracy’ and prevent it from becoming a majority, ethnic hegemony. 28. Israel/Palestine, Sri Lanka, Estonia and Latvia, Slovakia and Romania are but some examples of such bitter historical conflict. 29. On the Israeli case, see Ashley C. Beuttel, ‘Policies of ethnic preference: collective vs. individual rights in Israel’, Middle East Policy, Vol. 5, No. 3, September 1997, pp. 69–89; Gideon Fishman and Arye Rattner (eds), Justice for All? Jews and Arabs in the Israeli Criminal Justice System, Praeger, Westport 1998; Pnina Lahav, ‘Rights and democracy: the court’s performance’, in Ehud Sprinzak and Larry Diamond (eds), Israeli Democracy Under Stress, Lynne Rienner, Boulder 1993, pp. 125–52; Ilan Peleg, ‘Israel’s constitutional order and Kulturkampf: the role of Ben-Gurion’, Israel Studies, Vol. 3, No. 1, 1998, pp. 237–61, and Human Rights in the West Bank and Gaza: Legacy and Politics, Syracuse University Press, New York 1995; Nadim Rouhana, Palestinian Citizens in an Ethnic Jewish State: Identities in Conflict, Yale University Press, New Haven 1997. 30. Fareed Zakaria, ‘The rise of illiberal democracy’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 76, No. 2, November–December 1997, pp. 22–43. 31. See Jack Snyder, From Voting to Violence: Democratization and Nationalist Conflict, W. W. Norton, New York 2000. 32. Gershon Shafir and Yoav Peled, ‘Citizenship and stratification in an ethnic democracy’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, Vol. 21, No. 3, May 1998, pp. 408–27. 33. See Yoav Peled, ‘Ethnic democracy and the legal construction of citizenship: Arab citizens of the Jewish state’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 86, June 1992, pp. 432–3. 34. See Oren Yiftachel, ‘Democracy or ethnocracy? Territory and settler politics in Israel/Palestine’, Middle East Report, Summer 1998, No. 8, p. 13. 35. Timothy Sisk, Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflict, United States Institute of Peace, Washington D.C. 1996, p. 93. 36. See John McGarry and Brendan O’Leary (eds), The Politics of Ethnic Conflict Regulation, Routledge, London and New York 1993, especially Introduction.

Ilan Peleg 25 37. On the Qaadan–Katzir case, see the articles by Alexandre Kedar and Gerald Steinburg in Israel Studies Bulletin, Vol. 16, No. 2, pp. 3–18. 38. See Taylor, 1990, Guelke, 1992. 39. Moreno, 1997, p. 67. 40. Andrew Reynolds, ‘A constitutional pied piper: the Northern Irish Good Friday Agreement’, Political Science Quarterly, Vol. 114, No. 4, Winter 1999/2000, pp. 613–37; Geoffrey Evans and Brendan O’Leary, ‘Northern Irish voters and the British–Irish Agreement: foundations of a stable consociational settlement?’, Political Quarterly, Vol. 71, No. 1, January–February 2000, pp. 78–101. 41. McGarry and O’Leary, p. 19. 42. Sheridan, 1987, p. 2. 43. Evans and O’Leary, p. 81. 44. McGarry and O’Leary, Chapter 1.


Part II Case Studies


3 Divided Societies: Electoral Polarisation and the Basque Country Luis Moreno

Introduction Territorial politics in Spain can be regarded as the expression of a mode of multiple ethno-territorial concurrence,1 which relates sub-state mobilisation with the interplay among central institutions and Comunidades Autónomas.2 After the death of dictator Franco in 1975, Spain went through a deep process of democratic decentralisation, achieved in a climate of consensual politics. A broad inter-party democratic agreement has allowed since 1978 for a process of deep decentralisation of powers to the regions and an implicit federalisation.3 Following the analytical framework of ethnic regimes proposed in this book, 4 Spain can be regarded as a remarkable example of how an exclusivist ethnic order (Franco’s dictatorship), modelled after the idea of a Castilian hegemonic Volkstaat or core-nation,5 has evolved into a liberal, plural and consociational democracy. Likewise, the consensual agreement made explicit in the 1978 Constitution can be interpreted as an unwritten pledge to extend the procedures of political dialogue and consociationalism into the future. This constitutional model of asymmetrical decentralisation did not pre-define the ways and means by which the different territories in Spain could be finally articulated. In Spain, the ‘historical nationality’6 of the Basque Country has been subject to political violence since the times of late Francoism. In its initial phase, ETA’s armed actions could be regarded as a reaction against Francoist political repression.7 However, the Basque Country has lately 29

30

Case Studies

witnessed a ferocious increase in political terrorism carried out by ETA secessionists, as evidenced by party sectarian assassinations and actions throughout Spain.8 This course of action has further encouraged a division between Basque nationalists and non-nationalists9 regarding proposals to eradicate political violence. This chapter briefly analyses relevant historical events in contemporary Basque Country with the purpose of framing the nature of the present political conflict. It reflects on recent developments that were triggered after the signing, by the nationalist parties, of the Pacto de Lizarra on 12 September, 1998. It also examines the results of the latest Basque elections held on 13 May 2001, and the declaration in September 2002 of the Basque President, or Lehendakari, proposing a status of ‘free association’ between the Basque Country and Spain.

Historical background The Basque Country is geographically situated at the western end of the Pyrenees and covers territories in both Spain and France. The most populated area of Euskalherria10 is located in Spain, which is a compound state incorporating various degrees of internal ethno-territorial plurality. Modern political unification of Spain took place by means of a dynastic union under the Catholic Kings in 1469 (Isabella of Castille and Ferdinand of Aragon). However, its constituent territories (crowns, kingdoms, principalities, dominions, provinces) maintained their autonomous existence. Aside from the incorporation of such territories, the Hispanic monarchy was achieved at an early stage of the European Modern Age, centuries before the processes of national homogenisation carried out by other European monarchies. Prior to the union of the Catholic Kings, the Castilian princes achieved through conquests and royal marriages the unification of Leon and Castille (1230), as well as the incorporation of the Basque provinces of Gipuzkoa (1200), Araba (1332) and Biscay (1379). According to Salvador de Madariaga 11 (1979) the three Basque provinces located in Spain were not a constituent part of the Basque Country. This has in fact been the result of a modern political creation. However, at the time they joined the Castilian Crown, all three provinces preserved their local rights or fueros: ‘They would not recognize Lord or King without the prior and solemn pledge for honouring their fueros.’12 During the 19th century, many territories of Spain, particularly those with a strong historical identity and tradition of self-government, perceived liberal centralism as unnatural and stifling. This, in turn, provoked

Luis Moreno 31

these regions to demand the restitution of their fueros and control of local home rule. In Navarre, the Basque provinces and Catalonia, the homogenising attempts of centralist reforms were most vehemently contested. The circumstances of the time ensured that the rebel Carlistas were able to benefit from peripheral hostility towards the government in Madrid. After the Carlist defeats in the civil wars of 1833–40, 1846–48, and 1872–75, the Basque Nationalist Party (Partido Nacionalista Vasco– Euzko Alderdi Jetzalea, PNV–EAJ) was founded in 1895 by an early Carlist himself, Sabino de Arana Goiri. In its early stages, Arana’s nationalist proposals developed in the province of Biscay, not in the whole of the Basque Country, with the label of bizkaitarrismo. In 1893 Arana published Bizcaya por su independencia (‘Independence for Biscay’). At the beginning of the 20th century, the PNV–EAJ was however less successful in contesting elections in the Basque Country than the Catalanist Lliga in obtaining a class-wide support in Catalonia. This was due, at least partially, because of its religious focus and its ethnocentric claims. The effects of rapid industrialisation involved a considerable influx into the Basque Country of migrants from the rest of Spain at the turn of the 20th century. Early Basque nationalism stressed traditional community values, which opposed the bourgeois industrial society. A primitive Basque mentality of a racist character was the ideological basis for early Basque nationalism. This ideology, combined with powerful populist elements and ethno-religious exclusivity, produced a philosophy quite distinct from that of Catalan civic nationalism. Overall, both forms of stateless nationalism can be perceived as manifestations of a strong periphery that contrasted to a weak and ineffective central state. In spite of its short existence, the Second Republic (1931–39) contributed largely to the resolution of ethno-territorial conflicts in Spain. The most notable improvement was the constitutional design of state as a regional model, situated somewhere between a unitary and a federal state. This led to the achievement of statutes of autonomy for Catalonia, the Basque Country and Galicia, the three ‘historical nationalities’. Three days after the proclamation of the Second Republic in 1931, an assembly of Basque mayors organised by José Antonio Aguirre, leader of the Basque Nationalist Party, claimed their right to autonomy and home rule within a Spanish federal republic, by the legendary Oak of Gernika. Months later, another assembly of mayors met in the city of Estella (Lizarra) and passed the proposal for a statute of autonomy, ratified also by the Navarran local councils and the Carlist representatives. However, parliamentary approval of the proposal by the Spanish Parliament was thornier than the Catalan statute. The most hotly contested issue of the

32

Case Studies

inter-party negotiations had been the claims made by the Basque nationalists to establish an independent and bilateral relationship between Euskadi and the Vatican. Many Basque nationalists, fervent Catholics, resented the anti-clerical republican climate. They proposed an independent Concordat between the Basque Country and the RC Church. 13 A new statute project for the Basque Country was prepared in 1932, but rejected by the Navarran local councils. By the end of the following year, the statutory project did not include Navarre and was supported in a referendum by 47 per cent in the province of Araba, and almost 90 per cent of Biscayans and Gipuzkoans. The proposal was put forward in the Spanish Parliament in December 1933, but two years later it had still not been passed. After the left-wing victory of the Popular Front in the February 1936 elections, the members of parliament for the Basque Country presented the proposal, approved by referendum in October 1933, once more to the Spanish Parliament. By the beginning of the Civil War, the Parliamentary Commission had practically completed its approval of the proposal. On 1 October 1936, the Basque Statute of Autonomy was finally passed, with similar rights and powers to that of Catalonia. Representatives of all Republican parties were present at the ceremony of the appointment of José Antonio Aguirre as Lehendakari, or President of the Basque autonomous government. At the same time, Manuel Irujo, representative of the PNV–EAJ, became a member of the Spanish central government. Later on, during the Civil War (1936–39), [. . .] Basque governmental officials behave as if they were running an independent state. Furthermore, they maintained secret bilateral contacts not only with Britain and the Vatican, but also with fascist Italy so that a separate armistice could be worked out [for the Basque Country] . . . However, after Franco took control of the territories in the Northern coast of Spain, the Basque leaders moved to Barcelona where they continued to participate in the Republican Government and to support the Republican Army [during the rest of the Civil War]. 14 After the Civil War, the country fell firmly into the hands of a deeply centralist reactionary coalition, which had even ‘imperialist’ pretensions. The end of the dictatorship did not occur until General Franco died in 1975. For Francoism ‘eternal Spain’ was the ideological expression of an old and unpolluted ‘Castilian spirit’ with a universal language and

Luis Moreno 33

ideals beyond the limits of time and space – a Spain, in short, which had emerged victorious and misunderstood in the midst of a turbulent era for humankind. Francoism regarded Spanish ethno-territorial peculiarities as quaint signs of the unique Spanish ‘soul’. Any deviation from this Castilian concept of ‘core nation’15 was not only illegitimate but also dangerous and punishable. Spain was, however, very different from such a view. Not surprisingly, and as often happens, attempts to impose by force such programmes of unitary nation-building contributed to a further delegitimisation of political centralisation and an accentuation of periphery’s distinctiveness. In the Basque Country, the secessionist guerrilla group ETA found considerable popular support and, given the oppressive political circumstances during Franco’s dictatorship, it became intertwined with the democratic movement. In 1973, ETA assassinated Admiral Carrero Blanco, Franco’s Prime Minister, appointed by the dictator to become his political heir. Those who then advocated political violence against Franco’s repression were not regarded without sympathy by many sectors of the population at large, and not only in the Basque Country but also in the rest of Spain. With the advent of liberal democracy, many of these people would eventually distance themselves from ETA and the intensification of its actions. The military nucleus of ETA continued to insist that the militants of the Basque national liberation movement were the only victims of police torturers and of representatives of Spain’s centralist oppression. ETA reinforced its anti-Spanish stance and aimed at imposing – by means of political violence – a view of an independent Basque Country where nationalism and socialism would go hand in hand. This view conflicted with the notion of an Estado de las Autonomías put forward by the democratic Constitution of 1978. The Spanish 1978 Constitution was made possible by a wide inter-party agreement. Conservatives, Centrists, Nationalists, Socialists and Communists ended up hammering out an agreement for the implementation of the federalising Estado de las Autonomías. On 6 December 1978, the Spanish Constitution received in popular referendum 87.9 per cent ‘yes’ votes, 7.8 per cent ‘no’ votes, and 4.3 per cent null or blank votes (abstention reached 32.9 per cent of the registered electorate). The ‘outlier’ territory in the general pattern of massive support for the 1978 Constitution was the Basque Country. In two of the three ‘historical territories’ (Gipuzkoa and Biscay), abstention reached 56 per cent, but a majority of 67 per cent of the total turnout in the Basque Country voted ‘yes’ for the 1978 Constitution. 16 These figures have been subjected to no little speculation. The abstention percentage – particularly in

34

Case Studies

Gipuzkoa and Biscay – has been interpreted as a manifestation of the limited extent of the Spanish state’s legitimacy in Euskadi, something which could have given an incentive to the continuation of ETA’s terrorism and the intensification of political violence since the transition to democracy.17

Twenty years of home-rule-all-round During the period 1978–2000, Spain has undergone a widespread process of political decentralisation and home-rule-all-round. The level of self-government reached by the Spanish Comunidades Autónomas is high as compared with most of the decentralised countries in the world. Note that the final budgetary say in the running of ab novo programmes and policies implemented by the Spanish nationalities and regions is entirely autonomous. This usually implies the setting of budgetary priorities within the aggregate of policies and services to be complied statutorily. Certainly, the Basque Country and Navarre with a system of fiscal quasi-independence have been able to fund their policies more generously. The financial system of concierto allows them to collect taxes such as income tax, corporation tax and VAT and, since 1997, those corresponding to ‘special taxes’ (petrol, tobacco and spirits). As a matter of fact, Basque and Navarran institutions collect practically all taxes. Subsequently, they transfer a previously agreed quota to the Spanish central treasury. These transfers represent compensation for Spanish common expenditure, and to cover the costs of running those state administrative bodies. As a result of this arrangement, the per capita level of public expenditure in the Basque Country is much higher as compared to the Spanish mean. As compared with the autonomous public spending in the other two ‘historical nationalities’ (Catalonia and Galicia), the Basque per capita expenditure in 1995 was 1.8 times higher. 18 The territorial re-allocation of general public spending in Spain during the last twenty years, following the process of decentralisation of powers to the nationalities and regions, has been greatly modified. Table 3.1 illustrates the significant increase in regional expenditures since the approval of the 1978 Constitution. Regional nationalist parties in Spain (PNV and CiU) have been active not only as regards the quest to secure higher degrees of home rule for their own power bases, but also in the general governance of Spain as a whole. The agreements reached between the PP (Spanish Government) and the Basques (PNV), Canary (CC) and Catalan Nationalists (CiU) during the term of office 1996–2000 are very illustrative in this respect.

Luis Moreno 35 Table 3.1

Central Regional Local

Territorial distribution of public expenditure in Spain (%) 1981a

1984

1987

1990

1992

1997

2000b

87.3 3.0 9.7

75.6 12.2 12.1

72.6 14.6 12.8

66.2 20.5 13.3

63.0 23.2 13.8

59.5 26.9 13.6

54 33 13

a

Beginning of the process of decentralisation. Government’s estimates. Source: Estudio sobre reparto del gasto público en 1997 entre los distintos niveles de administración (Ministerio de Administraciones Públicas, Madrid 1997). b

Let us remember that in such a period the PP minority Government needed the extra support provided by the Nationalists at the central Spanish Parliament, something that obtained throughout that legislative period. The plural territorialisation of politics in Spain has manifested itself in a proliferation of regionally based parties.19 Internal asymmetries in Spain have also expressed themselves in a wide and varied mosaic of political parties. This is not a hindrance for parties with countrywide aspirations. As a matter of fact, political organisations receiving statewide public support have structured themselves in line with the federal texture of Spain. This aspect brings about a further element of ‘pork barrel politics’20 to a system where the territorial dimension has become decisive. During the democratic process of home-rule-all-round, the situation in the Basque Country has been highly conditioned by political violence and, in particular, by an intensification of the terrorist strategy carried out by ETA.21 Such a course of action has followed the action–repression– action spiral first deployed by ETA during late Francoism, and which aimed at consolidating a counter-state and counter-society – the latter of some numerical significance – operating with their own laws and code of conduct.22 As a reaction to this strategy of violence, a Basque democratic inter-party platform in search of consociational solutions to achieve peace was articulated. During the period 1988–98, all major democratic parties operating in the Basque Country set up the Pacto de Ajuria Enea with the aim of co-ordinating their policies against terrorism. This Pact was in line with the societal reaction against ETA’s terrorism. 23 On 12 September 1998 the Pacto de Lizarra (Estella), inspired by the 1998 Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland, was signed by the Basque nationalist parties (Partido Nacionalista Vasco, Herri Batasuna, later transformed into Euskal Herritarrok, and Eusko Alkartasuna). Ezker Batua,

36

Case Studies

the Basque federated organisation of the Spanish coalition Izquierda Unida (United Left) also signed the Pact. Both the Basque organisations of the main Spanish political parties (PP and PSE–EE/PSOE) did not participate in such a forum, nor did the anti-nationalist Unidad Alavesa. The leadership of the Basque Nationalist Party believed the timing was right to attempt to ‘democratise’ political supporters of ETA, thus bringing them into the realm of a non-violent path towards Basque nation-building and eventual independence. ETA regarded this move by the PNV as a confirmation of its own ultimate aspiration for secession, and as an opportunity to ‘guide’ PNV’s political strategy in the Basque Country. The main claim of the Lizarra Pact was to articulate a political negotiation with the Spanish central state on issues of political sovereignty, territoriality and self-determination. The Pact was signed a few days prior to the declaration of a unilateral truce by ETA, a development clearly linked to the Pact. Since the Lizarra Pact, political dialogue and negotiation among the Basque political forces themselves and with the central government, have proved to be difficult. Meanwhile, the results of the 1998 Basque elections, held on 25 October 1998, had produced something of a political stalemate. The ceasefire declared by the Basque terrorists in September 1998 was unilaterally revoked fourteen months later. Such an announcement opened up a new situation of political instability and tension for both political parties and citizens at large. Shortly after that, there was a qualitative change in the terrorism deployed by ETA, which focused its actions in the outright killing of representatives of the non-nationalist parties, mainly PP and PSE–EE members. Such action has dramatically polarised the political situation in the Basque Country. The strategy of sectarian terrorism deployed by ETA can be regarded as a prolonged attempt aimed at breaking the mould of Basque dual selfidentification. This is a societal feature not only characteristic of the Basque Country, but of Spain’s plural ethno-territorial composition, which helps to explain the degree of internal consent and dissent in decentralised Spain, and which is briefly analysed in the following section.

Dual identity and compound nationality The case of Spain shows the lack of a single and all-embracing national state identity extended throughout the country. Spain’s multiple ethnoterritorial identities expressed in the 17 Spanish ‘historical nationalities’ and regions are indicative that the problems derived from a lack of internal accommodation correspond not only to the countries that

Luis Moreno 37

have recently achieved independence. In fact, the persistence of a dual identity or compound nationality reflects the ambivalent nature of internal ethno-territorial relations that have existed within Spain throughout its long and dense history. The concept of dual identity or compound nationality concerns the way in which citizens identify themselves in sub-state nations or regions. It incorporates in variable proportions the regional (ethno-territorial) identity and the national (state) identity. As a result of this, citizens share their institutional loyalties at both levels of political legitimacy without any apparent fracture between them. 24 The quest for selfgovernment by meso-level communities is in full accordance with the variable manifestation of such duality in citizens’ self-identification: the more the primordial regional (ethno-territorial) identity prevails upon modern state identity, the higher the demands for political autonomy. Conversely, the more developed the national (state) identity is, the less likely it would be for ethno-territorial conflicts to arise. At the extreme, complete absence of one of the two elements of dual identity would lead to a deep socio-political division. If this were the case, demands for self-government would probably take the form of a claim for outright sovereignty and independence. In other words, when citizens in a sub-state community identify themselves in an exclusive manner, the institutional outcome of such antagonism will also tend to be exclusive. The consistency in the results provided by periodical surveys on dual identity in Spain, and reproduced in Table 3.2, is to be underlined. Note that in the Basque Country and the Canary Islands exclusive ethnoterritorial/regional identity was higher than 20 per cent (26.8 per cent and 21.7 per cent, respectively).25 Likewise, in both Comunidades Autónomas regional identity – considered as the aggregation of both categories of ‘Only Basque/Canarian’ and ‘More Basque/Canarian than Spanish’ – was most prevalent although their respective percentages (46.7 per cent and 47.3 per cent) did not reach half of the population. Indeed, the Basque Country and Canary Islands may be labelled as ‘exclusivist’ Comunidades Autónomas showing a degree of identity polarisation. In the Basque Country this development has intensified with the characterisation of two partisan blocs between those who call themselves – and vote for – Basque nationalists and those who do not. These labels are somewhat ambiguous. In the 2001 Basque elections (briefly analysed below) some sections of the non-nationalist bloc (also called ‘autonomist’ or ‘constitutionalist’) sought to emphasise electoral messages making nationalism and secession analogous concepts. In the nationalist camp (PNV–EA), messages put forward by the Lehendakari

Self-identification by Spanish Comunidades Autónomas (1990–95) Andalusia

(a) Vertical percentages Only Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. More Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. than Spanish As Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. as Spanish More Spanish than Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. Only Spanish Don’t know Totals (b) Aggregated vertical . percentages Single identity Dual identity Regional identity Equal identity Spanish identity Don’t know Totals

Aragon

Asturias

Balearic Islands

38

Table 3.2

Basque Country

Canary Islands

Cantabria

Castille and Leon

Castille-La Mancha

5.6

4.9

11.3

11.9

26.8

21.7

3.4

3.1

2.4

18.1

12.9

21.2

10.8

19.9

25.6

6.6

8.5

4.4

57.5

50.4

45.6

41.2

30.8

34.4

40.9

44.2

41.8

7.4

6.8

6.5

4.9

6.3

3.5

12.7

10.8

7.6

9.4 2.0

22.4 2.6

12.1 3.3

29.9 1.3

10.0 6.2

11.2 3.6

34.6 1.8

30.0 3.4

41.2 2.6

1825.0

345.0

310.0

205.0

592.0

382.0

144.0

720.0

464.0

15 .0 83.0 23.7 57.5 16.8 2.0

27.3 70.1 17.8 50.4 29.2 2.6

23.4 73.3 32.5 45.6 18.6 3.3

41.8 56.9 22.7 41.2 34.8 1.3

36.8 57 46.7 30.8 16.3 6.2

32.9 63.5 47.3 34.4 14.7 3.6

38 .0 60.2 10 .0 40.9 47.3 1.8

33.1 63.5 11.6 44.2 40.8 3.4

43.6 53.8 6.8 41.8 48.8 2.6

9346.0

1808.0

1634.0

1041.0

3584.0

2021.0

761.0

3764.0

2372.0

(a) Vertical percentages Only Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. More Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. than Spanish As Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. as Spanish More Spanish than Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. Only Spanish Don’t know Totals (b) Aggregated vertical percentages Single identity Dual identity Regional identity Equal identity Spanish identity Don’t know Totals

12.5

7.5

15.4

2.9

2.3

3.4

9.7

2.5

5,006 (8.9%)

18.9

14.6

21.1

8.3

6.1

9.7

26.5

8.0

8,390 (14.9%)

38.9

53.6

47.9

73.5

43.4

54.3

50.8

43.6

26,055 (46.2%)

9.8

8.5

6.8

7.6

7.4

10.5

5.1

10.9

4,689 (8.3%)

16.7 3.2

12.8 3.0

6.7 2.1

5.1 2.4

36.2 4.6

19.8 2.3

5.5 2.4

32.5 2.5

11,574 (20.5%) 686 (1.2%)

1703.0

294.0

793.0

75.0

1305.0

278.0

136.0

1034.0

56,400 (100%)

29.2 67.6 31.4 38.9 26.5 3.2

20.3 76.7 22.1 53.6 21.3 3.0

22.1 75.8 36.5 47.9 13.5 2.1

8.0 89.4 11.2 73.5 12.7 2.4

38.5 56.9 8.4 43.4 43.6 4.6

23.2 74.5 13.1 54.3 30.3 2.3

15.2 82.4 36.2 50.8 10.6 2.4

35.0 62.5 10.5 43.6 43.4 2.5

16,580 (29.4%) 39,134 (69.4%) 13,396 (23.8%) 26,055 (46.2%) 16,263 (28.8%) 686 (1.2%)

9126.0

1519.0

4574.0

409.0

6851.0

1402.0

751.0

5431.0

56400 (100%)

Notes Single identity includes ‘Only Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc.’ and ‘Only Spanish’. Dual identity includes ‘More Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. than Spanish’, ‘As Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. as Spanish’ and ‘More Spanish than Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc.’. Regional identity includes ‘Only Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc.’ and ‘More Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. than Spanish’. Equal identity includes ‘As Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. as Spanish’. Spanish identity includes ‘Only Spanish’. Source: Elaboration by Moreno, Arriba and Serrano (1998) on CIRES data (1990–95).

39

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Juan José Ibarretxe insisted that Euskadi is a country for all residents of the Basque Country. This statement counteracts the message put forward by some EH activists and ETA supporters, that immigrants from other Spanish regions and residents of the Basque Country were not to be given the right to vote in an eventual referendum for independence. Many nationalist voters have repeatedly proclaimed that they do not want the Basque Country to secede from the rest of Spain (Table 3.3). At the same time they want the Basque Country to enjoy a high degree of political autonomy which would preserve its political distinctiveness within a democratic Spain, and a European Union where mesocommunities should have greater say in the running of public affairs. 26 Note that only around a fifth of the PNV voters were in favour of full independence for the Basque Country. 27 Full independence may not be regarded as a viable option according to the majority of opinions expressed by both Basque and Spanish populations (Table 3.4). However, the considerable support for this option among Basque respondents is to be highlighted (n.b. in 1998 the percentage had increased up to a quarter of the total surveyed population). This translates into a critical support for ETA’s strategy to further polarise Basque society and – what is crucial to understand – to divide it further into two separate communities with divergent attitudes, perceptions and beliefs. If this strategy was to succeed, a fracture in Basques’ dual identity could be interpreted as the preamble for an open civil confrontation.

The 2001 Basque elections The results of the Basque elections held on 13 May 2001 showed a polarisation of voters’ preferences into two blocs of similar electoral Table 3.3 Preferences for the territorial organisation in the Basque Country (% of voters) (1996) Basque Country

PNV

EA

HB

6 34 22 19 19 1615

5 33 35 18 8 309

1 21 42 21 15 69

– 2 9 83 5 143

Centralised Autonomy as current More autonomy Independence Don’t know N Source: F. Pallarés et al., 1997, Table 10.

Luis Moreno 41 Table 3.4 Preferences concerning the form of the state among Basque (1998) and Spanish (1996) respondents Basques (1998) %

Spaniards (1996) %

4 37 25 25 9 1600

16 44 21 8 11 2500

Centralism Autonomy Federalism Independence Don’t know/No answer N Source: F. Llera, 2000, Table 2.

weight: nationalist and non-nationalist. As shown in Table 3.5, in no other previous Basque elections have the two blocs been as close to each other in electoral support. In 1998, nationalist parties (PNV–EAJ, Eusko Alkartasuna, and Euskal Herritarrok) collected fewer votes (55 per cent) as compared to the 1994 elections (56.5 per cent). In 2001, votes cast for the nationalist parties decreased to 53.2 per cent of the total, whereas the non-nationalists obtained 46.8 per cent of the vote.28 The trend indicates a narrowing of electoral preferences for either of the two blocs (Figure 3.1). An interpretation of the electoral evolution of this polarised vote could be made as if the Basque electorate sought to avoid a clear victory of one camp over the other. In other words, this electoral polarisation would have served the purpose of preventing political

70 60 50 40 Nationalist Non-nationalist

30 20

Figure 3.1

2001

1998

1994

1990

1986

1984

0

1980

10

Evolution of the polarised vote in the regional Basque elections.

Source: Own elaboration of data provided by the Department of Political Science, University of the Basque Country.

42

Table 3.5

Nationalist and non-nationalist voting blocs in the Basque regional elections (1980–2001)

Year

1980

1984 a

1986

1990 b

1994 b

c

1998

2001

Nationalist (%)

596,971 (67.4)

704,952 (66.0)

776,706 (68.3)

670,919 (67.6)

575,629 (56.5)

679,829 (55.0)

747,320 (53.2)

Non-nationalist (%)

288,912e (32.6)

363,352e (34.0)

360,709e (31.7)

321,926e (32.4)

442,730f (43.5)

555,744f (45.0)

658,729g (46.8)

59.8

68.5

69.6

61.0

59.7

70.3

79.0

Turnout (%)

Notes: Votes for other minor parties have been discarded. a PNV–HB–EE. b PNV–HB–EE–EA. c PNV–EA–HB/EH. d PNV–EA (Note: HB/EH did not contest). e PSE/PSOE–PP–UCD/CDS–PCE/IU (In 1977, PSOE includes also PSP + PSOE (h) + ASD.//PP corresponds to AP + GU (1977), UFVP (1979), CP (1982–86) and PP (1989)//UCD/CDS relates to UCD + DCV + DIV (1977), UCD (1979) and CDS (1986–89)//PCE/IU accounts for PCE (1977–79–82) and IU (1986–89–93–96–00). f PSE/EE–PP–IU–UA. g PSE/EE–PP/UA–IU.

Luis Moreno 43

imposition of the victorious over the defeated. However, lessons following this speculation do not seem to have been actively internalised by the political representatives of the two blocs. Let us remember that the preferred solution for a future Basque government as expressed by the voters prior to the celebration of the 2001 elections was a Basque executive comprised of a coalition of nationalists and non-nationalists and, in particular, between PNV/EA and PSE–EE. Furthermore, a priority or the Basque government to re-build the unity among all democratic political parties29 (nationalists and non-nationalists) was considered to be the first priority (54 per cent of all surveyed Basques prior to the celebration of the 2001 elections), with a greater support than the second priority of ‘ . . . finishing with ETA’. The voter turnout in the 2001 elections was the highest in all Basque elections held since 1980. This was most likely a consequence of the hotly contested electoral campaign. The significance of this fact has to do with alleged claims of fears and of a ‘democratic deficit’. It simply refutes the presumption that a higher voter turnout would have allowed for the sorpasso, or the victory of the non-nationalist bloc. According to this way of thinking, many non-nationalist voters had been reluctant to vote in the Basque elections because mainly in some rural areas voters were intimidated by the social pressure exerted by ETA supporters. This inhibiting climate, which was the result of political violence, had been regarded as the main factor explaining why voter turnout for the Basque elections was lower than for the Spanish general elections (Table 3.6, Figure 3.2).30 70 60 50 40 Nationalist Non-nationalist

30 20

1996

1989

1982

0

1977

10

Figure 3.2 Evolution of the polarised vote in the Spanish general elections (Basque Country). Source: Own elaboration on data provided by the Department of Political Science, University of the Basque Country.

44

Table 3.6

Nationalist and non-nationalist voting blocs in the Spanish general elections (Basque Country) (1977–2000)

Year

1977

1979

1982

1986

1989

1993

1996

2000

Nationalist (%)

396,326a (40.6)

505,075 a (53.5)

649,319a (55.0)

597,807a (55.9)

659,667b (61.7)

580,419c (50.4)

581,438c (48.1)

434,124 (40.0)

Non-nationalist (%)

579,880e (59.4)

438,843e (46.5)

531,715e (45.0)

471,209e (44.1)

408,976e (38.3)

570,542f (49.6)

628,026g (51.9)

652,111 (60.0)

Turnout (%)

76.4

69.9

80.6

67.8

66.9

69.7

71.5

63.8

Notes: Votes for other minor parties have been discarded. a PNV–HB–EE (In 1977, HB votes correspond to ANV + ESB). b PNV–HB–EE–EA. c PNV–EA–HB/EH. d PNV–EA (Note: HB/EH did not contest). e PSE/PSOE–PP–UCD/CDS-–PCE/IU (In 1977, PSOE includes also PSP + PSOE (h) + ASD//PP corresponds to AP + GU (1977), UFVP (1979), CP (1982–86) and PP (1989)//UCD/CDS relates to UCD + DCV + DIV (1977), UCD (1979) and CDS (1986–89)//PCE/IU accounts for PCE (1977–79–82) and IU (1986–89–93–96–00). f PSE/EE–PP–IU–UA. g PSOE–PP–IU.

Luis Moreno 45

Overall, the most significant result of the 2001 Basque elections was the decline of Euskal Herritarrok (EH), the coalition sponsored by ETA. This development can be regarded as a rejection by a majority of Basques to accept ETA’s strategy of terrorism in order to achieve the goal of independence. Note that EH representation in the Basque Parliament of Vitoria-Gasteiz was reduced by 50 per cent (from 14 MPs in 1998 to 7 MPs in 2001). The popular vote for EH dropped dramatically from 17.8 per cent in 1998 to 10.1 per cent in 2001. Undoubtedly, there was an almost linear transfer of votes from EH to the coalition formed by PNV and EA. This can be interpreted as a political statement against the sectarian killings carried out recently by ETA, by those who identify themselves as nationalists but who do not want a Basque nation built on assassinations and extortion. These results seem to validate the interpretation that a large majority of Basques want to avoid a societal fracture that could lead to civil confrontation. 31 The clear victory of the PNV/EA coalition can be interpreted not only as support for a coalition of democratic nationalist parties but also as a reaction against the Spanish media campaign which portrayed PNV and EA as ‘demons’, or as being ‘the same’ as ETA. The aggressive campaign of the PP in the Basque Country, where it hoped to win the elections after the signing of a ‘Pact for the Liberties’ with the PSOE, also contributed to produce an electoral ‘backlash’ against its pretensions. As has often been the case in Spain since the transition to democracy, nationalists in the three ‘historical nationalities’ (Basque Country, Catalonia and Galicia) have gained support in elections by portraying themselves as ‘victims’ of political attacks by the Spanish state, whether this is dictatorial or democratic. According to such discourse, the embodiment of ‘Madrid’ as the external adversary giving cohesion to all-party political nationalism has proved to be a powerful instrument to achieve electoral success. 32

Conclusion: a New Pact for Basque–Spanish Cohabitation? There are various and open-ended scenarios for the future of the Basque Country. There is no doubt that political uncertainty remains highly conditioned by ETA’s terrorism. After the 2001 elections the level of tension between the two blocs (nationalist and non-nationalist) has not been significantly reduced. The Spanish Premier, José María Aznar (PP), made it clear that there is no place for self-determination outside the constitutional procedures established to reform the Basque Statute of Autonomy and the provisions of the 1978 Spanish Constitution. From

46

Case Studies

a different standpoint, some nationalist leaders have insisted on an alternative a la irlandesa (‘Irish via’) in a rather voluntaristic manner. Such an option ought not to ignore the many dissimilarities between the case of the Basque Country and Northern Ireland. On 27 September 2002, the Lehendakari (President) of the Basque government made a statement before the Basque Parliament that has galvanised public debate about the feasibility of a new Pact for Cohabitation (Pacto para la Convivencia) to be based on the free association and co-sovereignty between the Basque Country and Spain. According to Juan José Ibarretxe, the citizens of the Basque Country are entitled to self-determination33 and to decide in a popular referendum the future of its political status and the sharing of its sovereignty within a plurinational Spain. The Lehendakari announced that during the year 2003 he would engage himself in consultations with political parties in the Basque Country and would take into consideration initiatives from the Basque civil society in order to make a proposal of his Pact of Cohabitation. The big question remains as to whether the popular ratification of his proposal would take place in a situation of non-violence and without exclusions, as he pledged in a solemn manner. Non-nationalist parties have rejected this plan as an unworkable scheme that favours ETA’s maximalist strategy of secession, while their activists are the targets of the sectarian killing of the armed secessionists. In a climate of strong international struggle against terrorism after the events of September 11, the Spanish PP government was prepared to make no political concessions to Basque nationalists. Self-determination of the kind advocated by the Basque Nationalist Party (PNV) does not preclude the survival of dual identities and compound nationalities. It mainly refers to the preservation of an autonomous sphere of political power free from interference by Spanish central institutions. Doubts arise as to how this sophisticated manner of reconciling civic integration and political self-government can survive the brutal and desperate attempts by ETA to provoke a civil confrontation among the Basque people. In the recent past, consociational practices between nationalists and non-nationalist parties to accommodate the various Spanish idiosyncrasies and identities have had a positive impact on processes both of democratisation and of decentralisation. They have also provided the basis for political agreement for most of the period of Basque home rule since 1980. It remains to be seen whether these practices can return to the Basque Country, or else further polarisation will be the excuse for pushing imposition from either side.

Luis Moreno 47

Acknowledgements I would like to thank the Spanish Secretary of State for Education and Universities (PR2002–0200) for financial support during the writing of this piece of research. I am also thankful for comments and suggestions made on an earlier version of this chapter by André Lecours and Enric Martínez-Herrera.

Notes and references 1. See L. Moreno, ‘Multiple ethnoterritorial concurrence in Spain’, Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, Vol. 1, No. 1, Spring 1995, pp. 11–32. 2. Plural Spain is composed of three ‘historical nationalities’ (the Basque Country, Catalonia and Galicia) and fourteen regions (Andalusia, Aragon, Asturias, Balearic Islands, Canary Islands, Cantabria, Castille and Leon, Castille-La Mancha, Extremadura, La Rioja, Madrid, Murcia, Navarre and Valencia). The North African cities of Ceuta and Melilla also have chartered status as self-governed territories. 3. See L. Moreno, The Federalization of Spain, Frank Cass, London 2001 and L. Moreno, ‘Decentralization in Spain’, Regional Studies, Vol. 36, No. 4, June 2002, pp. 399–408. 4. See Chapter 2. 5. See R. Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 1996. 6. The democratic Spanish Constitution of 1978 recognises the status of three territories as ‘historical nationalities’: the Basque Country, Catalonia and Galicia. In general, it is not easy to distinguish conceptually the term ‘nationality’ from that of ‘nation’. Such a terminological distinction was to a great extent a consequence of the dichotomy between ‘nation-state’ and ‘state of the nationalities’ as regards the cases of the Austria-Hungary and Ottoman Empires at the beginning of the 20th century. In broad terms, nationality can be referred to as a minority nation – or stateless nation – that has acceded to a degree of institutional autonomy or independence within a multinational state and which concurs or co-exists with a majority nation and/or other ethno-territorial groups. See J. Krejcí and V. Velímsky, Ethnic and Political Nations in Europe, Croom Helm, London 1981 and A. Lecours, ‘Ethnonationalism in the West: a theoretical exploration’, Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, Vol. 6, No. 1, Spring 2000, pp. 103–24. 7. Arguably, the first homicide by ETA occurred in 1961, when a baby died in an explosion of a device placed at a train stop. ETA, who first took responsibility for the death of a policeman in 1969, never confirmed the 1961 action – see E. Martínez-Herrera, ‘Nationalist extremism and outcomes of state policies in the Basque Country, 1979–2001’, MOST: Journal of Multicultural Societies, Vol. 4, No.1, 2002, www.unesco.org/most/vl4n1martinez.pdf. 8. This development has been especially intensified after ETA unilaterally revoked its ceasefire 14 months after it was declared in September 1998.

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9. Or Spanish nationalists as labelled by some Basque nationalists. Many of them preferred to consider themselves as ‘autonomists’, marking in this way a boundary between aspirations for home rule, along the lines of the 1978 Constitution, and outright independence, as pursued by ETA. Note that by Basque nationalists we refer to those activists and parties that explicitly declare themselves as such and have as an ultimate – although in some cases vague – aim, the achievement of independence for the Basque Country, and the secession from Spain and France of Euskalherria, the lands where Euskera (Basque language) is spoken. Non-nationalist autonomists correspond to those political formations favouring political home rule for the Basque Country along the lines of the 1978 Constitution and, thus, accepting Spain as the political state of reference and inclusion. Among the former PNV (Basque Nationalist Party), EA (Basques’ Reunion) and EH (Ourselves, the Basque People) have been the prominent political formations. In the latter, PSE–EE (Basques socialists federated with the Spanish PSOE), Basque PP (regional organisation of the Spanish Popular Party), UA (Alavese Union, foralist provincial party in Araba) and Ezker Batua/Izquierda Unida (United Left, ex-communists and radical socialists) could be included. 10. For Basque nationalism, Euskalherria is an ethno-territorial nation made up of the Spanish ‘historical territories’ (provinces) of Araba, Gipuzkoa, Biscay, as well as Navarre (all of these located in Spain) and the French districts of Labourd (Lapurdi), Soule (Zuberoa) and Lower Navarre (Behenafarroa) in the French département of the Atlantic Pyrenees. 11. See S. de Madariaga, España: Ensayo de Historia Contemporánea, 14th edn, Espasa-Calpe, Madrid 1979. 12. F. Pi i Margall, Las nacionalidades, 4th edn, Librería de los Sucesores de Hernando, Madrid 1911, p. 251. 13. Note that at the end of 1931, the central government had decided to suspend 12 Basque newspapers because they were encouraging a popular uprising against civil authorities so that ‘[. . .] the interests of the Catholic religion could be defended’ (Madariaga, España: Ensayo de Historia Contemporánea, p. 331). 14. I. Olábarri Gortázar, ‘Un conflicto entre nacionalismos: La “cuestión regional” en España, 1808–1939’, in F. Fernández Rodríguez (ed.), La España de las Autonomías, Instituto de Estudios de Administración Local, Madrid 1985, p. 135. 15. No single ethno-territorial group in Spain can be identified as constituting the political centre. This has rather been formed by contingent coalitions of regional élites (e.g. Andalusian landowners, Castilian agrarian producers, Valencian traders), which have counted on the traditional support provided by military officers and state officers recruited mainly from nonindustrialised areas (e.g. Andalusia, Aragon, Castille, Extremadura, Galicia). Neither can it be argued that the centre has exploited a generally more prosperous Spanish periphery (Catalonia and the Basque Country). See S. Giner and L. Moreno, ‘Centro y periferia: La dimensión étnica de la sociedad española’, in S. Giner (ed.), España. Sociedad y política, Espasa-Calpe, Madrid 1990, pp. 169–97. 16. Note that the PNV was in favour of an ‘active abstention’. The ‘yes’ votes in the whole of the Basque Country amounted to 31.3 per cent of the registered electorate.

Luis Moreno 49 17. Subsequently, the Statute of Autonomy of the Basque Country was also approved in a popular referendum in 1979. As many as 90 per cent of those who voted (59 per cent of the registered electorate) gave support to it. Once again, activists and sympathisers of ETA used the figures to contend that the Statute does not have a high degree of legitimacy because it received the ‘active’ support of little more than the simple majority of the eligible votes (53 per cent according to data provided by the Basque Government). See J. J. Linz et al., Conflicto en Euskadi, Espasa-Calpe, Madrid 1986; J. Díez Medrano, Divided Nations. Class, Politics and Nationalism in the Basque Country and Catalonia, Cornell University Press, Ithaca NY 1995; and F. Reinares, Terrorismo y antiterrorismo, Paidós, Barcelona 1998. 18. The mean, non-financial, per capita regional spending of the governments in Catalonia and Galicia amounted to the sum of 1370 €, which compared to 2505 € of spending in the Basque Country. See N. Bosch and A. Castells, ‘La reforma del sistema de financiación autonómico: implicaciones financieras’, in Informe Pi I Sunyer sobre Comunidades Autónomas 1995–1996, Fundació Carles Pi I Sunyer d’Estudis Autonòmics i Locals, Barcelona 1997. 19. See F. Pallarés, J. R. Montero and F. J. Llera, Francisco José, ‘Non state-wide parties in Spain: an attitudinal study of nationalism and regionalism’, Publius: The Journal of Federalism, Vol. 27, No. 4, Winter 1997, pp. 135–69. 20. This expression should not be understood only as a mere illustration of the practices of politicians and government officials to dip for ‘pork’, or funds for regional and local projects, from the national treasury. It also implies the manner in which support from regional parties is sought by national parties to stay in power at the centre. 21. A third of all the assassinations by ETA occurred during the critical period of transition to democracy (1978–80). A second wave of terrorism coincided with the formation of the nationalist/non-nationalist coalition government by PNV and PSE. Spanish governmental policies to mitigate Basque terrorism have been classified as to whether they correspond to ‘public order’ or ‘responsive’ frames. A one-sided traditional ‘public-order’ approach without respecting human rights seems to have been counterproductive, as was the case during the period of the ‘dirty war’ promoted by members of the police state apparatuses (see Martínez-Herrera, MOST, 2002). 22. See F. Letamendía, ‘On nationalisms in situations of conflict: reflections from the Basque case’, in J. R. Beramendi, R. Máiz and X. M. Núñez (eds), Nationalism in Europe. Past and Present, Vol. 1, Universidad de Santiago de Compostela, Santiago 1994, pp. 247–75. 23. F. J. Llera, ‘Basque polarization: between autonomy and independence’, in W. Safran and R. Máiz (eds), Identity and Territorial Autonomy in Plural Societies, Frank Cass, London 2000, pp. 101–20. 24. The question put to them in successive surveys has been as follows: ‘In general, would you say that you feel . . . (1) Only Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc.; (2) More Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. than Spanish; (3) As much Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc. as Spanish; (4) More Spanish than Basque, Catalan, Galician, etc.; (5) Only Spanish; (6) Don’t know; (7) No answer’. In the period October 1990–June 1995 a degree of duality was expressed by around 70 per cent of the total Spanish population (i.e. categories 2, 3 and 4). Approximately 30 per cent of all Spaniards expressed a single identity

50

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

Case Studies (‘Only Spanish’ or ‘Only Andalusian, Basque, Catalan, etc.’) (see Moreno, 2001, pp. 110–17). For an analysis of the case of Catalonia, see L. Moreno, A. Arriba and A. Serrano, ‘Multiple identities in decentralized Spain: the case of Catalonia’, Regional and Federal Studies, Vol. 8, No. 3, Autumn 1998, pp. 65–88. In the case of Scotland/United Kindom, surveys using a similar scale were first carried out in the mid-1980s, see L. Moreno, Decentralization in Britain and Spain: The Cases of Scotland and Catalonia (University of Edinburgh, PhD thesis, 1986), pp. 439–41. For the relationship between nation-building and building identification in the three Spanish ‘historical nationalities’, see E. Martínez-Herrera, ‘From nation-building to building identification with political communities: consequences of political decentralization in Spain, the Basque Country, Catalonia and Galicia, 1978–2001’, European Journal of Political Research, Vol. 41, No. 4, 2002, pp. 421–53. In a survey immediately carried out before the 2001 Basque elections, those who declared themselves to feel ‘only Basque’ were 23 per cent, whereas 41 per cent identified themselves ‘as Basque as Spanish’. Note that among PNV voters, a third declared themselves to be ‘only Basque’, the same amount of those who identify themselves ‘as Basque as Spanish’ (El País, 7 May 2001). See M. Keating, The New Regionalism in Western Europe. Territorial Restructuring and Political Change, Edward Elgar, Cheltenham 1998, and L. Moreno, ‘Local and global: mesogovernments and territorial identities’, Nationalism & Ethnic Politics, Vol. 5, Nos 3 and 4, 1999, pp. 61–75. Xabier Arzallus, leader of the PNV, expressed his opinion that with just 51 per cent of ‘yes’ votes in a hypothetical referendum for independence it would be enough to secede from Spain. In such a situation the PNV would expect its voters to vote in favour of independence. However, the same day this statement was made to the media, Iñaki Anasagasti, leader of the PNV parliamentary group at the Spanish Parliament in Madrid expressed a contrary view by saying that, ‘[. . .] it would be politically absurd to propose an independent Basque Country in a united Europe’ (El País, 14 December 1999). Both viewpoints reflect the ambivalent stance of the PNV towards this delicate issue. A clear approach in either of the two directions would unequivocally alienate sections of PNV voters. These percentages translated into 40 MPs and 35 MPs for nationalists and non-nationalists, respectively. Less than 90,000 votes separated the two blocs (the total cast votes were 1,400,000, approximately). See F. Pallarés, ‘Las elecciones vascas de 2001’, in E. Aja (ed.), Informe Comunidades Autónomas 2001, Instituto de Derecho Pública, Barcelona 2002. As it has occurred with the Pacto de Ajuria Enea between 1988 and 1998. The re-elected Lehendakari made it explicit that no new inter-party forum for the search of peace would include parties that had not condemned ETA’s terrorist killings (El País, 16 May 2001). Note, however, that the turnout in the 2000 Spanish general elections in the Basque Country reached just 63.8 per cent, much lower than the percentage of 79 in the Basque regional elections a year later (see Tables 3.5 and 3.6 and Figures 3.1 and 3.2). G. Jaúregui, Entre la tragedia y la esperanza: Vasconia ante el nuevo milenio, Ariel, Barcelona 1996.

Luis Moreno 51 32. See J. Solé Tura, Nacionalidades y nacionalismos en España. Autonomías, federalismo, autodeterminación, Alianza, Madrid 1985 and L. Moreno, 1986. 33. Already on 15 February 1990, the Basque Parliament voted in favour of the right to self-determination by an absolute majority of its members (38 out of 75) and without the support of Herri Batasuna (ETA’s political arm).

4 The Arab Minority in Israeli Politics: Between ‘Ethnic Democracy’ and ‘Democratic Integration’ Benyamin Neuberger

‘I am sure the world will judge the Jewish state according to how it will behave towards the Arabs.’ – Chaim Weizman, Israel’s first president, 1947 – a year before the foundation of the state.

Introduction In the first decades of the Israeli state, the Arab minority did not play any meaningful role in Israeli politics. Although it enjoyed formal citizenship, legal equality and the right to vote, it was effectively controlled and neutralised by the Jewish establishment. A regime, in which an ethnic minority has formal democratic rights but is in fact heavily discriminated against and powerless to change the situation is sometimes called ‘ethnic democracy’. Smooha defines ‘ethnic democracy’ as ‘located somewhere in the democratic section of the democracy/non-democracy continuum’.1 Peleg’s ‘ethnic constitutional order’, a ‘regime privileging one ethnic group over all others via law, policies and practices and via the actions of the state’ is a similar concept. 2 We argue that Israel was in this sense an ‘ethnic democracy’ or an ‘ethnic constitutional order’ in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. We further argue that in the 1980s and 1990s Israel moved towards ‘democratic integration’, a regime in which the minority has influence and power and is gradually moving away from ‘ethnic democracy’ marginality. We further argue that since 1999 Israel has, once more, moved away from integration. The coming years will tell if this reversal is a temporary episode or a dramatic failure of ‘democratic integration’. 52

Benyamin Neuberger

53

Up to the late 1970s, Jewish experts on Arab affairs in the ‘Arab Departments’ of the government ministries, the Labour Party and the Histadrut (the Israel Labour Federation) firmly controlled the Arab population. 3 Even in education and religious affairs, where the Arabs possessed a large measure of autonomy, at least in principle, the top decision-makers were almost all Jews. The Jewish establishment could effectively veto decisions concerning the school curriculum, the appointment of teachers in Arab schools and the composition of religious courts. During the 1950s and 1960s, the rights of Arab citizens were severely curtailed. From 1948 to 1966, the military government in the Arabpopulated areas of Israel restricted the freedom of movement and right of association of the Israeli Arabs. 4 All attempts by the Arabs to establish nationwide political organisations to fight for Arab rights were foiled by the government and the security services. As late as 1980 Prime Minister Menachem Begin accepted the ‘professional’ advice of the security services and prohibited the convention of a nationwide Congress of the Arab Masses5 and in 1984 the General Security Service recommended that Defence Minister Moshe Arens use the Emergency Defense Regulations in order to prevent the establishment of the Progressive List for Peace (PLP), a recommendation disregarded by the more liberal Arens.6 The Israeli Arabs were first represented in the Knesset by Maki (The Israeli Communist Party) and, after 1965, by Rakah (the New Communist List) and the ‘Arab Lists’ aligned with Mapai (which became the Israel Labour Party [ILP] in 1968). Both the Communists and the ‘Lists’ condemned the Arabs to political impotence. For the vast majority of Israeli Jews, the Communists were beyond the pale. Their subservience to the USSR, which armed the Arab states and followed a violently anti-Israel policy throughout the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, their declared anti-Zionism and their sympathy for Arab nationalism made them outcasts in Israeli politics.7 The ‘Arab Lists’ were basically electoral lists created, financed and controlled by Jews. They were typical patronage parties, which gave their support to the dominant Mapai/ILP for personal (e.g. commercial licenses, unification of families) or collective benefits (e.g. electricity, water pipelines, health services or roads). 8 They had no influence on coalition formation, on the government’s ‘Arab policy’ or on foreign affairs. Arab political influence was thus close to nil because the Arab vote went either to Communist outcasts or opportunistic ‘yes-men’ (some Israeli commentators called the Arab notables of the Arab Lists ‘pragmatists’, but pragmatism is connected to empirical liberalism while opportunism is something else). 9

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During the 1950s and 1960s, Arabs could not become members of Zionist parties. The left-socialist Mapam was the only Zionist party that opened its ranks to Arab members, and even Mapam did so only in 1954 after the Ahdut Ha’avoda component (which opposed Arab membership) had broken away from the united party. The Labour Party did not accept Arab members until 1973 (although Druze and Arabs who had served in the Israeli security forces were accepted from 1970 onwards). Golda Meir defended this policy of exclusion by ‘explaining’ that Arabs could not be asked to support Zionism, Aliya (Jewish immigration) and kibbutz galuyot (the ingathering to the exiles).10 Even in the early 1990s, some right-wing nationalist parties (e.g. Tehiya, Moledet and Tsomet) formally restricted party membership to Jews. The politics of exclusion of the mainstream parties in the 1950s and 1960s thus became the politics of the lunatic fringe in the 1980s and 1990s. Amnon Lin, a former Mapai/ILP ‘expert on Arab affairs’ who switched to the Likud in the 1970s but returned to Labour in the early 1980s, represents a policy which aimed to keep the Arabs docile, passive and powerless. In an article written in 1987, Lin criticised both Labour and Likud for abandoning the policy of control: We have never allowed the Arabs to become a political tool in the Jewish political game at the expense of the interests of the State of Israel. In the last years Labor and Likud have been willing to sacrifice the vital interests of the Jewish people in order to further their imaginary party interests. Both parties court the extremists in order to gain their sympathy. 11 Lin advocated that only ‘positive’ Arabs, who behave like the notables he nurtured in the 1950s and 1960s and who did what the Jews told them to do, be supported by the government. There were several reasons why the political impact of the Arabs was so marginal until the late 1970s. The Arabs were, first and foremost, regarded as a ‘security problem’. Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion said bluntly that ‘the Arabs have to be judged according to what they could do and not according to what they have actually done’.12 Israel’s Arabs were regarded as part and parcel of the Arab world and thus a potential ‘fifth column’. The imposition of the military government in the Arabpopulated areas (1948–66) very much reflected the security concern of Israel’s policymakers. The fact that a considerable number of the Prime Minister’s Advisors on Arab Affairs came from the military intelligence or the security establishment points in the same direction.

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Other reasons for Arab political isolation were linked to the demographic and social composition of the Arab minority, as it emerged after Israel’s War of Independence. Most Arabs who stayed in Israel after 1948–49 were rural, poor and peripheral in Arab society. Almost all the more modernised and westernised Arab intelligentsia fled to the neighbouring countries. The Arabs who stayed in Israel were a community traumatised by war, defeat, the flight of hundreds of thousands of fellow Arabs and the destruction of Arab towns and villages. After 1948, the Israeli Arabs remained leaderless and lived in constant fear. Their relatively small number and high age led to feelings of helplessness and despair. The phenomenon of the Arab Lists reflected this helplessness that bred subservience and opportunism. The emergence of the Communist vote as a vote of defiance (24 per cent in 1965, 30 per cent in 1969, 37 per cent in 1973 and 51 per cent in 1977) did not lessen Arab political powerlessness. It merely served to convince the Jewish establishment that state security was indeed endangered by the ‘extremist’ and allegedly disloyal Arabs, who allied themselves with the enemies of the Jewish state – that is the Arab confrontation states and the Soviet Union, which had supported the Arabs in wars with Israel in 1956, 1967 and 1973. Until the early 1980s, the Arab minority was indeed politically powerless. It had no influence on election results, coalition formation, government policy, internal party politics or the balance of power in the Histadrut. There was an almost complete overlap of the Arab socio-economic and political status at the bottom of Israeli society and politics. Those years provide ample proof for Peleg’s contention, that a unified majority can easily exclude a minority by using such means as elections, referenda, coalition building, parliamentary votes and supreme court decisions.13 Things began to change in the 1980s. The Arab minority, which had the power to swing the election either way could no longer be ignored as a political force. In the Israeli context, a situation in which the Arabs had the potential to determine who would rule the country marked a radical break with the earlier period of powerlessness. In 1984, 1988 and 1992, the Arab vote was crucial in determining what coalition would emerge. 14 In the elections of 1996, 1999 and 2001 the situation was different because of the ‘Direct Election of the Prime Minister’ system. Nevertheless in 1996 and 1999 the Arab vote could have been crucial. Peres lost the elections by less than 1 per cent in 1996. Had he won it would have been due to the Arab vote. 15 In 1999 Barak won by gaining 58 per cent of the votes, but his margin in the Jewish electorate was less than 2 per cent. Arab electoral influence was dependent both on the

56

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level of participation and on the way Arabs vote. The Israeli Arabs have made use of their potential power, though not to the full. A higher Arab participation rate could easily have tipped the 1996 election in favour of Peres. The growth of Arab political power, as perceived by the Jewish majority, was clearly discernible in several ways. Until 1981, for example, the Arab population was not included in pre-election polls and few bothered to report its conclusion. The Arab electorate was simply regarded as irrelevant to electoral contests. In 1984, poll-takers were careful to inform the public that their polls did not include the Arabs.16 Since 1988 polls have been conducted in the Arab sector because it has become clear that the crucial Arab vote cannot be ignored. Another phenomenon of the 1980s and 1990s was the intensive courting of the Arab vote. The bulk of the Arab vote could no longer be ‘bought’ by patronage. It had to be courted. Both Labour and the Likud realised the importance of the Arab vote. An Arab department – similar to the one Mapai/ILP had had since 1948 – was established by the Likud in 1982. 17 Since 1977 when a Druze was first elected on the Likud list, the Likud faction in Parliament has always had a Druze MP. In 2003 two Druze MPs were elected on the Likud list. The Likud actively courted the Arabs, especially the Druze and the Christian and the Bedouin Arabs – the minorities of the minority. Likud leaders paid official visits to Arab towns and villages and tried to convince the Arabs that on the ‘Arab question’ there was no difference between Labour and Likud. They insisted that on bread-and-butter issues the Likud was doing more to improve their lot. While in the 1950s and 1960s the bulk of the Arabs were in Mapai’s pockets (through the Arab Lists), in the 1980s and 1990s it became clear that they had become more independent politically (Table 4.1). The gradually growing political clout of the Arab population could also be seen in their ability to veto some of the government’s decisions and initiatives. They succeeded in reversing a government decision on discriminatory fees for university students and in undoing all initiatives of right-wing MKs to link the right to vote with military service. Arab political clout also brought about the abolition, by the Rabin government, of the discriminatory practices with regard to child allowances. Table 4.1 Year %

The vote for Mapai/ILP and the affiliated ‘Arab Lists’ (1949–77)18

1949 61.3

1951 66.5

1955 69.5

1959 63.1

1961 53.7

1965 56.8

1969 57.8

1973 49.0

1977 32.4

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‘Fire Area No. 9’, an area in Galilee which had been taken over by the army for training purposes and therefore could not be cultivated, was returned to its Arab owners. Druze villages were formally accorded equal treatment, and governmental allocations to local Arab authorities were steadily increased. The Rabin and Peres governments (1992–96) increased allocations to the Arab sector from 502 million IS in 1992 to 1302 million IS in 1995. They further abolished the discrimination against the Arab towns and in the prestigious slum clearance project, cancelled the planned expropriation of Arab-owned lands in East Jerusalem and introduced affirmative action schemes towards Arabs in the public service. 19 Another indication of growing Arab political power was the way the debate on constitutional reform – specifically the proposal to introduce a semi-presidential system (‘Direct Election of the Prime Minister’) – was conducted. The Likud had vehemently opposed the idea, and torpedoed its introduction in the 1992 elections, for fear that the Arab vote would assure victory to a Labour candidate. Labour, perhaps for the same reasons, was all for the change. The Arab parties – the Arab Democratic Party (ADP), the PLP and the Democratic Front for Peace and Equality (DFPE) – supported the bill, which they sensed would make the Arab vote much more cohesive and decisive. 20 The debate resulted in the adoption of a watered-down version of the original bill for the 1996 elections, clearly showing that the Arab electorate was no longer irrelevant to the major debates and power struggles in Israeli politics. How can the changes in the status and power of the Arab minority be explained? One important factor is demographic. By the year 2000 Israeli Arabs numbered more than one million people, or about 18 per cent of the population and 15 per cent of the eligible voters. Their numbers and a high birth rate instilled in them a growing sense of self-confidence. The Israeli Arabs of the 1980s and 1990s were no longer the small, downtrodden community of the late 1940s and early 1950s. Their literacy rate had significantly risen; tens of thousands had academic degrees and had adopted a modern life style. The young Arab generation speaks Hebrew fluently, reads Hebrew papers and is well versed in all walks of Israeli life – including Israeli politics. 21 They know what they want, they know what their rights are as Israeli citizens and they know how to use their rights to demonstrate, strike, organise politically and vote freely according to their preferences and interests. The transformation of Israeli politics from a Dominant Party System to a Two-Bloc System further enhanced the relative importance of Arab voters and parties. 22 The parity between the left (including the Arab parties) and the right (including the Orthodox

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Case Studies Table 4.2 Seats in the Knesset gained by the left and right (1981–99) Year

1981

1984

1988

1992

1996

1999

Left Right

54 64

60 60

55 65

61 59

52 57

62 58

parties) (Table 4.2) made the Arab vote crucial to the chances of the left to gain political power. The depth of the cleavage between Jewish doves on the left and Jewish hawks on the right, which grew significantly in the 1980s, also contributed to the integration of the Israeli Arabs into the mainstream of Israeli politics. On issues such as the future of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, negotiations with the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) and the Palestinian right to self-determination, many doves on the Zionist left felt closer to the Israeli Arabs than to their fellow Jews from the radical right and the Likud. 23 The growing tension between left and right made it easier for the left to regard Arab voters and parties as legitimate and important allies in its efforts to defeat the right – the common political rival of the Zionist left and the Israeli Arabs. During the Dominant Party System era (1948–77), when Mapai/ILP was dominant, the major opposition party was right-wing (General Zionist/Herut/Gahal/Likud) and relatively small. The Arab voters and parties had no influence at all on the political scene. The large gap between Mapai/ILP and the major opposition party left the Arabs without any possibility to tilt and maintain the balance. Even in the context of a narrowing gap between a Labour government and a Likud opposition (such as occurred in the years 1974–77), the Arab opposition (at the time represented by the DFPE) could never join hands with the Jewish nationalist and anti-Arab right. The 1977 elections became a watershed – for the first time Israel had a Likud government and a major left-Zionist opposition with which the Arab opposition parties and voters could establish tactical and even strategic political alliances.24 The new political reality encouraged large sectors of the Arab political body to become part and parcel of the Israeli political system and enhance their integration into Israeli mainstream politics. The chairman of the National Committee of the Heads of Arab Local Authorities, Ibrahim Nimr Husayn, called on the Arabs to become an ‘integral part of the party system in the State’.25 In 1988, ADP founder ‘Abd al-Wahab Darawsha called on the Arab parties to play (like the Jewish Orthodox parties) the ‘normal’ game of Israeli politics. As the Orthodox parties had tipped the

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balance in favour of the Likud since 1977, it was suggested the Arab parties do the same with regard to Labour. Darawsha called on the Arabs to abandon the futile politics of protest and engage in an effort to influence the course of events pertaining to their lives.26 He staunchly supported the idea of joining a Labour-led coalition, an initiative that for decades had been anathema to Arab nationalists and Communists. Darawsha looked forward to seeing a first Arab minister. He even argued that ‘a government without an Arab representative is not a government of the whole people’.27 PLP leader Muhammad Mi’ari, a more radical Palestinian nationalist than Darawsha, was against compromising his principles by joining a Labour government, but he also favoured supporting such a government by becoming part of a ‘blocking majority’ (a ‘negative’ majority that would ‘block’ the Likud’s way to power, as opposed to the ‘positive’ coalition majority envisaged by Darawsha). 28 The integrative drive, symbolised by Darawsha’s readiness to join a left-Zionist government, was not comparable to the ‘pragmatism’ of the collaborationist notables of the past. Darawsha emphasised that he had been elected by Arabs, not by Jews (in 1984 he was selected for the Labour slate by Arab delegates of the Labour Party convention, and in 1988, 1992 and 1996 he ran an independent Arab List – the Arab Democratic Party). In the 1980s and 1990s, nationalist Arab parties declared their intention to create coalition alliances with Zionist parties, an indication that the Arabs had adapted themselves to the new political situation in the same way as the Jews had. Paradoxically, organisational and institutional separation does not contradict Arab integration into mainstream Israeli politics. It was not accidental that Darawsha’s ADP, which was ready to join a coalition led by the Labour Party, was the first ‘purely’ Arab nationalist party in Israel’s parliament. The tendency of the Arabs to found autonomous organisations and institutions had been consistent since the mid-1970s. These organisations (e.g. the National Committee of the Heads of Arab Local Authorities, the Committee for the Defence of Arab Lands, the Supreme Follow-up Committee for Arab Affairs, the local and nationwide Arab Student Committees) were separate, not separatist, for their intention was not to break away from the state but to assemble enough political power to achieve tangible political, economic and social gains for their Arab constituency.29 While in the 1950s and 1960s the protest campaign against the military government had been organised and led by Jews, the Arabs of the 1980s and 1990s did not hesitate to declare general strikes (e.g. Equality Day, Peace Day, Land Day, Home Day) and call for political demonstrations. While in the 1950s protest campaigns

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against the military government had been organised and led by Jews, in the strikes and demonstrations of the 1980s and 1990s, the themes, slogans, organisation, leaders and protesters were all Arabs. Jewish leaders of the DFPE took part in the protest activity, but their role in most cases was ceremonial and marginal. These Arab parties and organisations could be compared to Sephardi parties (Tami and Shas), and to organisations (Association of Jewish Immigrants originating from Islamic countries) and lobbies (the Forum of the Development Towns) that helped the Sephardi community obtain their fair share of the national pie. The Arab drive for integration was unequivocal. Strongly motivated by this integrative approach, the Israeli Arabs disregarded the 1981 and 1984 calls of the PLO to boycott the Knesset elections (after 1988 the PLO had changed its policy on this issue). The Islamic Movement, too, abandoned its boycott of the Israeli elections in 1988 when it tacitly called on its supporters to vote for the ADP (and to a lesser extent the PLP). 30 In 1992, it publicly called on its followers to vote for the ‘peace parties’,31 while in 1996 and 1999 the moderate wing of the Islamic Movement (the Southern Wing) participated in the Knesset elections as part of the United Arab List (UAL). In the 1990s the rejectionist Abna alBalad (‘Sons of the Land’), which opposed participation in the Israeli elections, lost the ground they had gained in the 1970s, and by 1999 supported participation in elections within the National Democratic Alliance (NDA). The Arab vote may be subdivided into a nationalist/Communist protest vote, a patronage vote and an ideological-integrative vote (Tables 4.3 and 4.4). 32 The vote for dovish and liberal non-Arab Israeli parties which could not deliver personal and collective patronage benefits was a pure vote for integration. The steady, though moderate, increase in Table 4.3 Arab votes of the Zionist ‘peace camp’ to the left of Labour (‘integrative vote’)33 Year %

1969 2.4

1973 2.7

1977 3.0

1981 7.1

1984 9.9

1988 10.6

1992 10.1

Table 4.4 Arab vote for the Labour Party as governing party (‘patronage vote’) Year %

1973 13.0

1977 11.0

1988 16.2

1996 16.6

1996 10.5

1999 5.0

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Table 4.5 Arab vote for the Labour Party as opposition party (‘semi-integrative vote’) Year %

1981 29.0

1984 25.8

1992 20.3

1999 7.4

Table 4.6 Arab vote for the Likud as governing party34 (‘patronage vote’) Year %

1981 7.0

1984 4.8

1988 6.6

1992 8.3

1999 1.3

the vote for the Zionist peace camp to the left of Labour (Mapam, CRM, Shinui, Meretz) in the years 1977–96 was an indication of growing integration. The same was true with regard to the growth of the Labour vote in 1981, 1984 and 1992 when Labour was in opposition and less able to deliver patronage benefits (Table 4.5). The reversal of this trend in 1999 reflects a trend to regard the Communist and nationalist vote not only as a protest vote, but as an integrative vote as well. The failure of the Likud – albeit the governing party for twenty years – to rise beyond the 10 per cent threshold (of the Arab vote) was also a clear indication that there was a decline in patronage voting and a rise in integrative voting in the Arab sector (Table 4.6). Polls taken in the Arab sector also showed a growing belief in the effectiveness of Israel’s democratic process. In a poll conducted in May 1992 by the Jaffa Institute for Polls in the Arab sector, 60 per cent of the respondents said that the Knesset was the only institution through which they could achieve their rights and 42.3 per cent believed that parliamentary struggle was the best way to achieve this objective (32.8 per cent thought otherwise). 35 In the parliamentary elections of 1981, 1984, 1988, 1992, 1996 and 1999 the Arab vote was of great significance. This was so because in the situation of parity in the Two-Bloc System it went overwhelmingly to the left (Table 4.7). Since the early 1980s, the left has gained between 8.5 to 12 seats in the Knesset because of the Arab vote (Table 4.8). Of these, 4 to 10 seats went to the nationalist/Communist parties and 2.0 to 4.5 to the Zionist parties. Without the support of the Arab vote in 1984 and 1988 no national unity government, but only narrow right-wing/Orthodox coalitions (like the one that was indeed formed in March 1990 after the collapse of

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Table 4.7

The share of the left in the Arab vote (1981–99)36

Year 1981 1984 1988 1992 1996 1999

% Labour Alignment, CRM, Shinui, DFPE Labour Alignment, CRM, Shinui, Yahad, DFPE and PLP Labour, Mapam, CRM, Shinui, DFPE, PLP, ADP Labour, Meretz, DFPE, ADP, PLP Labour, Meretz, DFPE/NDA, UAL Labour, Meretz, UAL, NDA, DFPE

85.1 86.3 86.3 79.9 94.8 95.2

Table 4.8 Parliamentary seats of the left and right gained by the Arab vote (1981–99)

Left Labour Meretz/CRM/Mapam/ Shinui/Yahad DFPE PLP/NDA ADP/UAL Total Right Likud/NRP/Shas

1981

1984

1988

1992

1996

4 0.5

3 0.5

2 1

3 1

2 1

4 – – 8.5

4 2 – 9.5

4 1 1 9

3 0 2 9

4 1 3 11

1.5

1

1

2

1−

1999 1 1− 3 2 5 12 1−

the national unity government), could have been formed. The victory of the dovish camp in 1992 would have been utterly impossible without the Arab votes that went to the left-Zionist parties (Labour and Meretz) and the Arab nationalist/Communist parties (DFPE and ADP). Had only Jews voted in 1992, Shamir’s narrow right-wing coalition would have won the elections handsomely. In 1992, the term ‘protest vote’ lost much of its meaning. A vote for DFPE was no longer a futile act of defiance, as it had been in the 1960s or 1970s. It had become an effective ‘blocking vote’ that denied the right wing the possibility of forming a ruling coalition. The integrative and semi-integrative vote for Labour and Meretz was also very different from the vote for Mapai and its affiliated lists in the past. The Arabs in Labour and Meretz were more self-confident and assertive and made their influence felt. In the 1950s and 1960s, the Arab vote lost its significance after the elections. In the 1980s and 1990s, the Arab vote for the

Benyamin Neuberger Table 4.9

Arab participation in the elections (1965–81)37

Year %

1965 88

1969 82

1973 80

1977 75

63

1981 69

‘Camp of Territorial Compromise’ remained significant, even after election day. Reiter and Aharoni contend that the Arabs did not use their electoral potential to the fullest in the sense that higher rates of electoral participation could have increased Arab political power.38 We see, indeed, that Arab participation in the elections declined dramatically between 1965 and 1981 (Table 4.9). Three major Arab groups did not participate in the elections. One consisted of the more backward, illiterate and apolitical voters, whose participation in any democratic society would be relatively low. A second group abstained from voting because of low efficacy – the belief that their ability to have an impact on Israeli politics was limited. This group regarded the elections as a futile exercise. A third, highly politicised group, composed of extreme nationalists and Islamic fundamentalists boycotted the elections because they were not ready to legitimise the Israeli state and its institutions through their vote.39 The declining electoral participation was due to the growth of the last two groups in the 1970s. On the other hand, the modernisation of Arab society reduced the first category. Reiter and Aharoni are right in saying that higher Arab electoral participation could have meant three more MKs representing the Arab community. Nevertheless, we must emphasise that the downward trend in participation was not maintained in the 1980s (and 1990s). The only explanation for the change in the 1980s is that more Arabs believed in the efficacy of the Arab vote and fewer Arabs saw any sense in a rejectionist ‘protest behaviour’. The gap between the rates of participation in the Jewish and Arab sectors was still there, but the assumption that the gap consistently grew cannot be sustained (Table 4.10). Some observers also contend that the tendency of a good part of the Arabs to vote ideologically for Arab nationalist and communist parties (Table 4.11) reduced their political leverage.40 I would argue that this kind of logic no longer applied in the 1980s and 1990s. The vote for the DFPE, ADP, ADP/UAL, PLP and NDA ceased being a ‘lost vote’ because it became a significant part of a ‘blocking coalition’. There is hardly any truth in the contention that Arab (or Jewish) Labour MKs elected by the Arab vote made the Arab electorate more influential and powerful than

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Case Studies Table 4.10 Arab and Jewish participation in the elections (1981–96)41 Year

Jews

Arabs

Gap

1981 1984 1988 1992 1996

78.5 78.8 79.7 77.5 79.3

69.7 73.7 73.7 69.7 77.0

8.8 5.1 6.0 7.8 2.3

Table 4.11 Arab nationalist and DFPE (largely Communist) vote (1977–99)42 Year

Party

%

1977 1981 1984 1988 1992 1996 1999

DFPE DFPE PLP + DFPE ADP + PLP + DFPE ADP + PLP + DFPE UAL/ADP + DFPE/NDA UAL/ADP + NDA/ ANM + DFPE

51 38 51 60 48 60 70

the Communist/nationalist MKs. The Arab electorate seemed to be more sophisticated than hitherto assumed and they seemed to weigh rationally whether a nationalist/Communist, an integrative or a patronage vote was in their best personal and collective interest. Until the 1980s, the Arab Lists and Rakah/DFPE never had any influence on coalition formation. Things began to change in the 1980s. In July 1984, the Labour Alignment considered the idea of forming a minority government composed of Labour, CRM, Shinui, Yahad, Tami and Ometz. It was assumed that this block was to gain the backing of the DFPE and the PLP. Secret negotiations to that effect were conducted with the Arab parties and the DFPE, but Labour did not yet dare do so openly. The PLP publicly declared its readiness to support a minority government of the ‘progressive Jewish and Arab forces’ which would exclude the ‘racist forces and supporters of conquest and annexation’. 43 The PLP demands at that time were quite moderate: withdrawal from Lebanon, a settlement freeze, and equality in child allowances by the National Insurance and in allocations to the municipalities by the Ministry of the Interior. In the end, Labour backed away from a narrow Arab-backed coalition, preferring the safety of a government of national unity to the uncertainty of a narrow coalition. Labour hesitated whether to form a minority

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government, both because it feared the reaction of Israeli public opinion to a government backed by an Arab/DFPE bloc and because it was doubtful whether a narrow coalition based on a host of tiny parties was practical. Nevertheless, the Arab parties in the Knesset were crucial in foiling all right-wing attempts to establish a narrow coalition based on Likud, Tehiya, Kach, NRP, Morasha, Shas and Agudat Yisrael. The same situation arose in November 1988 when the election again resulted in a draw between the left and the right. This time all three Arab parties (DFPE, PLP and ADP) declared their readiness to enter a coalition with the Labour Party and its allies. The Labour Party again considered the formation of a narrow dovish government supported from the outside by the Arab parties and the DFPE. The latter were more than ready for a deal if only Labour would commit itself to an international peace conference and to a determined policy designed to close the socioeconomic gaps between Jews and Arabs. At the last moment, however, Labour again opted for a national unity government. As in 1984, the Arab/DFPE block indirectly enabled the Labour Party to share power by blocking a narrow right-wing coalition. In March 1990, after the collapse of the national unity government, the Labour Party for the first time openly negotiated with the DFPE, ADP and PLP. Labour leader Shimon Peres was totally dependent on the six DFPE, ADP and PLP MKs. All three parties recommended that President Chaim Herzog nominate Peres to form a government (the DFPE and ADP said so openly, while the PLP did so indirectly by declaring its total opposition to any Likud-led government or any national unity government). 44 The DFPE and PLP did not insist on joining the coalition and were ready to support a Labour coalition from the outside, while the ADP declared its readiness and even eagerness to join the coalition if Labour supported the peace process, the Cairo talks between Israeli and Palestinian delegations and an egalitarian policy with regard to the Israeli Arabs. In April 1990, a written agreement was finally signed by Labour and the three parties – (the DFPE, the ADP and the PLP) committed themselves to supporting a Labour-led coalition from the outside, while Labour committed itself to following a policy of peace and equality. Labour also promised to cancel the law prohibiting Israeli citizens from meeting PLO representatives. Giora Goldberg cites the agreement as an indication that, in a Two-Bloc System, even extremist parties are pulled to the centre without a change towards moderation.45 We think, however, that the very fact that the Arab parties and the DFPE were drawn to the centre shows that the Two-Bloc System strengthened their orientation towards moderation.

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While Labour failed to form a narrow government in the spring of 1990, the plan to establish a Labour-led coalition with the parliamentary support of the Arab parties and the DFPE was finally realised after the June 1992 Knesset elections. The Labour-led coalition was made possible and was supported by the Arab parties and the DFPE. It was based on a written and public agreement. The DFPE joined the ADP in its declared readiness formally to enter the coalition if Labour agreed to elections in the occupied territories, to a settlement freeze and to the establishment of full autonomy for the Palestinians.46 The DFPE demands were moderate and did not deviate from the Labour electoral platform. Labour was not yet ready for a full-fledged coalition although some MKs in Labour, and certainly in Meretz, advocated full participation of the DFPE and the ADP in the Rabin coalition. 47 What was achieved constituted a historic change in the political status of the Israeli Arabs and in their move from marginality to a more influential role. For the first time, the Arabs tipped the balance in favour of the dovish camp and had become part of the government-formation process.48 For the first time, formal and public coalition talks were conducted with the Arab parties, and for the first time an Israeli government rested on written agreements with the Arab parties. 49 Also, for the first time, Labour agreed to establish joint follow-up committees with the Arab parties in order to monitor the execution of the agreements between both sides. Never before had Arab nationalists and Communists voted for a Zionist government in a Knesset vote of confidence. In its agreements with the DFPE and the ADP, the Labour party made numerous promises and commitments (e.g. to consider establishing an Arab university, to grant the Muslims autonomy in the management of their waqf, to expand the slum clearance project to Arab municipalities, to grant municipal recognition to dozens of ‘unrecognised’ Arab settlements, to close the gap in government expenditures for education and health services, to employ larger numbers of Arab academics in government and to abolish discrimination towards Arabs in child allowances).50 For the first time, the Arabs had enough political clout to see to it that most of the promises were kept. Labour’s ability to create a ‘blocking majority’ and, as a result, a Labour-led coalition stemmed not only from the support of the DFPE and the ADP. Its narrow majority was also the direct outcome of the massive Arab vote for Labour and Meretz. Consequently, the Arab members of Labour and Meretz demanded representation in the government. Their insistence led to the appointment of two Arab MKs as deputy ministers of health (Nawaf Masalha/ILP) and agriculture (Walid Sadiq/ Mapam–Meretz).

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The dynamic process of growing Arab political influence became noticeable not only during elections and coalition negotiations, but also in crucial Knesset votes, in the Histadrut, and in the changing status of the Arabs inside the parties of the left. The cumulative importance of the Arab nationalist/Communist camp in the Knesset was lavishly illustrated in 1983 when President Herzog was elected thanks to the support of the DFPE (which voted for Herzog and against the Likud candidate, Supreme Court Justice Menachem Alon). The votes of the DFPE MKs were also crucial in the spring 1984 vote calling for early elections. In the election of the Knesset Speaker after the July 1984 elections, the votes of the DFPE and PLP tipped the balance in favour of Labour’s Shlomo Hillel. In 1993 and again in 1998, Ezer Weizman was elected President with the help of the Arab votes. Even more important is the fact that the historic Oslo Agreements between Israel and the PLO could not have passed Parliament in the years 1993–95 without the Arab MKs. All these votes, narrowly won by Labour and its allies, demonstrated the crucial role of the Arab nationalist/Communist camp in a situation of parity between left and right. During the 1990s – also for the first time – Arab MKs were elected to the important Knesset Committees for State Control, Finance, Foreign Relations and Security. The emerging Arab political power was also discernible within the parties themselves. In the Labour Party, the Arab candidates for the Knesset had in the past always been selected by Jewish ‘Arab experts’. In 1984 and 1988 they were elected by the Arab delegates of the party’s central committee. The ILP established separate organisational communal districts (mahozim) for the Arabs and the Druze, so that in the 1992, 1996 and 1999 party primaries for the Knesset elections Arab and Druze candidates were elected by their own constituencies in their own separate districts. The Arab members of the ILP also had a strong influence on the election of the Jewish MPS through their participation in the primaries for the statewide list. The number of Arabs who participated in the ILP primaries grew from 12,000 in 1992 to 40,000 in 1996.51 The Arabs in the ILP also gained strength when primaries for the election of the party’s candidate for the premiership were introduced. In the February 1992 three-way contest between Yitzhak Rabin, Shimon Peres and Yisrael Keisar, the Arab party members could have swayed the elections in favour of Peres if they had voted for him massively. By splitting the vote between Peres and Keisar, they enabled Rabin to win the elections. In the primaries of September 2001 for the leadership of the Labour Party, former Foreign Minister Shlomo Ben Ami did not run because of his unpopularity among the Arab voters. The Arabs also became stronger in the Meretz alliance, which had one Arab MP elected in 1992, 1996

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and 1999. The MK elected in 1999 was Husseniya Gabara, the first Arab women to serve in parliament. The Communist Party, the major component of the DFPE, had long been operating as a Jewish–Arab organisation. However, in the late 1980s it underwent an intensive process of Arabisation.52 The bulk of the Rakah/DFPE electorate was already Arab in the 1970s, but the leadership positions remained Jewish until the early 1980s. In 1981 the Arabs gained a majority in the party’s central committee for the first time. Later on, in the 1990s, the Arab members of the Israeli Communist Party achieved an overwhelming majority in the Central Committee, the Politburo and the powerful Auditing Committee. In 1991, Tawfic Tubi became the first Arab to become party secretary general and in the 1992 Knesset elections Tawfic Ziyad became the first Arab to head the DFPE list (which still had a Jewish component). Arab electoral power became crucial not only in Knesset elections, Knesset votes and party primaries, but also in the Histadrut elections. The Arab vote assured the Labour Alignment in 1985, and the Labour Party in 1989, an absolute majority in the Histadrut. The increasing importance and legitimisation of the DFPE was also noticeable in the Histadrut, where a growing rapprochement between Labour and the DFPE was becoming more and more salient. This new trend was clearly illustrated in the unprecedented Labour–DFPE coalition, established in 1991, in the Nazareth Labour Council and in the readiness of the ILP to grant DFPE representation in important union committees and institutions. 53 In the 1994 Histadrut elections Labour had a common list with the ADP. In addition to the ADP, the DFPE and the PLP too participated in the governing coalition of the Histadrut after the 1999 elections – again, for the first time. The increasing Arab political influence and involvement in Israeli politics raised the issue of the extent to which the Jewish majority would accept Arab political power as legitimate. As with other issues pertaining to Jewish–Arab relations, the Jewish left and right were deeply divided on this question. The latter refused to accept the legitimacy of Arab political power. This was true not only for parties of the radical right (Moledet, Tsomet, Tehiya) that toyed with the idea of expelling all Arabs or denying them the right to vote, but also for the Likud. In the Central Elections Commission, the Likud attempted to prevent the PLP from running in the 1984 and 1988 elections. It also tried to lift the parliamentary immunity of the Arab MKs who spoke out for the PLO or met with PLO leaders. The Likud also pushed hard for the enforcement of the 1986 amendment of the Basic Law (Knesset) that enables

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the Central Elections Commission and the High Court of Justice to prohibit any party from participating in Knesset elections if it does not accept the state of Israel as ‘the State of the Jewish people’. This highly controversial and disputable amendment could easily be used to eliminate all Arab parties from the Knesset (only the liberal tradition of the High Court prevented such a step with regard to the PLP in 1988; in 1992, 1996 and 1999 electoral calculations of the Likud and its allies led them not to ask the Central Elections Commission to prevent the DFPE, PLP and ADP from taking part in the election). Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir (Likud) said bluntly in 1984 that ‘it is unthinkable that a government will be based on non-Jewish votes’. 54 His party colleague Minister Ariel Sharon denied the legitimacy of the results of the 1984 elections – in which Labour gained more seats than the Likud – by pointing out that Labour’s edge was due to the Arab vote. Known to oppose the concept of a national unity government at that time, Sharon said: ‘In other words, those who determined who will form the government were the Arab population of Israel. This cannot be allowed . . . ’55 In the 1990 governmental crisis, when an Arab-supported Labour-led government became a strong possibility, Ha’aretz reported that ‘some [Likud] ministers said that no government based on Arab MKs will be regarded as legitimate’.56 In the 1992 electoral campaign, the Likud attempted to delegitimise Yitzhak Rabin and the Labour Party by stressing in much of its electoral propaganda that a Labour government would be ‘a government with Darawsha and Mi’ari’.57 The delegitimisation campaign became especially intensive after the 1993 Oslo Agreements. The right said again and again that the Rabin government had no ‘mandate’ because it had no ‘Jewish majority’. When the issue of a plebiscite on a possible peace agreement came up, Sharon said that ‘we should not let the Arabs participate in plebiscites on existential matters because their loyalty is to the Palestinian national interest’. Netanyahu also depicted the ‘Oslo majority’ as illegitimate because it rested on five MKs of Arab parties ‘identified with the PLO’. 58 A serious setback in the integration process occurred during the premiership of Barak (1999–2001). Although Prime Minister Netanyahu (1996–99) showed a discriminatory and hostile attitude towards the Arab minority and halted the process that was gradually closing the gap between Jews and Arabs in public spending,59 the left (in the opposition) continued its co-operation with the Arab Bloc in the Knesset. In the May 1999 elections, Barak stayed away from any contact with the Arab voters in order not to be tainted by the voters at the centre as ‘pro-Arab’. When the Arab MK ‘Azmi Bisharah dropped his candidacy in the direct

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Case Studies

election for the premiership in order to facilitate the election of Barak, Barak did not reciprocate with any agreement with the Arab parties or any concession to the Arab public. 60 Barak was in spite of this elected in 1999 by a huge margin in the Arab electorate (95 per cent to 5 per cent for Netanyahu), as opposed to a very narrow margin in the Jewish population (51 per cent to 49 per cent for Netanyahu). Barak did not say a word of thanks to the Arab electorate and agreed only to have a short meeting (without photographers) with the newly elected MKs from the Arab parties. 61 Instead of forming a coalition with the parties that had supported him in the election (e.g. Shinui and the Arab parties), Barak preferred a mixed coalition of parties that had supported him (Labour and Meretz) and parties whose voters had overwhelmingly (90–100 per cent) voted for Netanyahu (Shas, NRP and Yahadut Hatora). He based his coalition strategy on the need to have a coalition with a ‘Jewish majority’. He also refused to appoint an Arab minister, not even one from his own Labour Party. ‘Nobody tricked us like him’, said Lutfi Mash’ur, Barak’s 1999 campaign manager in the Arab sector.62 The insult and sense of betrayal felt by the Arabs was enormous and the damage done to the relationship between the Zionist left and the Arab population dramatic. Barak’s government in stark contrast to the Labour government of Rabin and Peres (1992–96) did nothing to improve the lot of the Arab population. Only in October 2000, after the shock waves of the ‘internal’ intifada, was a four billion IS rehabilitation plan approved, but that was – if not too little – certainly too late (up to now the plan has not been implemented).63 Arab membership in the ILP went down from 20,000 in 1999 to 5000 in 2000.64 Barak disregarded the Arabs and in return the Arabs – for the first time since 1949 – demonstrated their disgust by voting with the right to bring his downfall and early election, and by boycotting the 2001 elections. The boycott of the elections was a direct result of ‘Black October’, the beginning of the second ‘external’ intifada in the occupied territories and the first ‘internal’ intifada in Israel proper, in which 13 Israeli Arabs were killed by Israeli police. Israel’s Arabs reacted with bitterness because they thought that the police had used disproportionate power to deal with the riots and because all of this had happened under a Labour government. The Arabs were greatly disappointed by the dovish Police Minister Shlomo Ben Ami and by the reluctance of the Zionist left (including Meretz) to demonstrate solidarity with the violent riots. 65 The call for the boycott of the 2001 elections – a straight contest for the premiership between Barak and Sharon – was led by the radical nationalist NDA, and by both wings of the Islamic Movement, the extremist ‘Sons

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of Land’ and the ‘Committee of the families of the dead’ (killed in the October 2000 internal intifada). The more moderate forces, like the DFPE, Tibi’s Arab Movement for Change and the Supreme Follow-Up Committee of the Arab Citizens in Israel, reluctantly joined the call for boycott. 66 They could not resist the mood ‘in the street’, which saw no sense in participating in these ‘Jewish elections’ (according to polls, 95 per cent of the Arabs hated Sharon, 59 per cent hated Barak and 48 per cent saw no difference between them).67 The National Unity government, led by Likud and Labour under the premiership of Ariel Sharon (2001–2002), caused further deterioration in Jewish–Arab relations. The violent Israeli–Palestinian confrontation which brought about murderous suicide attacks by Palestinians, killing hundreds of Israeli civilians, the reconquest of most Palestinian territories and the death of more than a thousand Palestinians also had an impact on Jewish–Arab relations within the Green Line. In addition to this, the Sharon government reintroduced discrimination in child allowances (which had been abolished by the Rabin government in the 1990s), 68 supported a discriminatory legislation proposal in land policy69 (which was later dropped), closed the paper of the Islamic Movement (‘The Voice of Truth and Freedom’), reduced the proportional allocation to the Arab sector in housing, health and industry (but not in education and agriculture).70 The government also included extreme right-wing and racist ministers like Rehavam Zeevi (assassinated by terrorists in 2001), Benny Elon, Avigdor Lieberman and Efi Eitam, who openly talked about a ‘transfer’ (expulsion) of the Arabs and about the Arabs being a ‘cancer’ in Israel. 71 The trend towards extremism was on both sides. The participation of Israeli Arabs in terrorist activities increased dramatically (2 cases in 1999, 25 in 2001). 72 Arab MKs have expressed views never before voiced by MKs. ‘Azmi Bisharah (NDA) expressed support for a pan-Arab state and the struggle of ‘rejectionist’ terror-movements, while Hashim Mehamid of the Progressive Democratic Alliance said that he was against ‘the slogan of two states for two peoples’ and for ‘a state for the Palestinian people and an Israel which will be a state of all its citizens’.73 Identity studies have also shown that the percentage of those identifying themselves as ‘Arabs’, ‘Palestinians’ or ‘Arab Palestinians’ has increased to 26.4 per cent in 2001 from 17.7 per cent in 1995 although the large majority still combines a Palestinian and an Israeli identity. (In 2001 36.2 per cent, compared to 27.4 per cent in 1995, declared themselves ‘PalestinianIsraeli’, ‘Palestinian in Israel’ or ‘Arab Palestinian in Israel’.) The numbers viewing themselves as ‘Arab Israeli’ declined from 38.4 per cent in 1995 to 21.8 per cent in 2001.74

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In the 2003 elections there was an attempt to repeat the 2001 election boycott. The boycott campaign was led by the ultra-nationalist Abna al-Balad (‘Sons of the Land’) which led the ‘Popular Committee for the Election Boycott’ and by a group of intellectuals like the newspaper editor Zuhir Andriyus and the political scientist As’ad Ghanem. Indirectly, the Northern Wing of the Islamic Movement, led by Sheikh Raid Salah, also supported the boycott by stating that the Knesset is ‘the upper establishment of the Zionist project’.75 Observers pointed out that the call for the boycott of the elections has become a quasi-legitimate fifth political current (the other four being the Communist, nationalist, Islamic and the current of those supporting Zionist parties).76 In the elections of 2003, one could see the first systematic attempt by the right to disqualify the Arab parties from participating in the elections. 77 This was done on the basis of the May 2002 amendment to the Basic Law (Knesset), which enables the Central Elections Committee (headed by a judge, but consisting of party representatives of all the parties represented in the Knesset) to disqualify parties from running in the election if they do not recognise Israel as a ‘Jewish and Democratic State’, engage in ‘racial incitement’ or ‘support the violent struggle of an enemy state or a terror organization against the State of Israel’. This amendment replaced the 1986 amendment that allowed for the disqualification of parties that ‘oppose democracy’, engage in ‘racial incitement’ or oppose the existence of Israel as a ‘State of the Jewish People’.78 While the 1986 amendment only enabled the Central Elections Committee to disqualify parties, the 2002 amendment also made it possible to disqualify individual candidates on the party lists. Accordingly, rightist parties asked to disqualify Arab parties (the Communist-led DFPE–AMC alliance, the nationalist NDA, the mainly Islamist UAL) and individuals (the leaders of the NDA ‘Azmi Bisharah and the AMC leader Ahmed Tibi). The Legal Adviser to the Government supported the disqualification of Bisharah and the NDA. The majority of the Central Elections Committee voted to disqualify Bisharah, Tibi and the NDA by a pure political vote. The Likud and all the rightist and religious parties voted for the disqualifications while Labour, Meretz, the centrist Shinui and the Arab parties voted against it. 79 Only the decision of the High Court of Justice overturned the vote of the Central Elections Committee. If the High Court of Justice had upheld the decision of the Central Elections Committee, the NDA would have joined the call to boycott the elections and, as in 2001, it would have been very difficult for the DFPE–AMC Alliance and the UAL to stem the boycott tide. A repeat of the 2001 boycott would have led to an almost total breakdown of Jewish–Arab relations and

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might have established electoral boycott as the norm of Arab political behaviour. A ‘parliamentary transfer’80 of the Arab minority would have established – according to Arab sociologist Nadim Rouhana ‘a parliament of Jews’,81 at least in the 16th Knesset. Participation of the Arab sector in the January 2003 elections reached a low (with the exception of 2001) of 62.3 per cent, the lowest since the first Knesset elections and down from the 75 per cent in 1999 and 77 per cent in 1996. Nevertheless, one has to take into account that there was a similar drop in participation of the Jewish population – 68 per cent in 2003 compared to 78.7 per cent in 1999 and 79.3 per cent in 1996. The low Arab turnout reflects not only a general feeling of disgust of politics and politicians, a reaction to corruption in government and a sense of inefficacy of the individual voter, but also the inroad which the ‘boycott movement’ has made into the Arab population. 82 The 2003 elections reflect the reversal in ‘democratic integration’. The strength of the Arab parties declined from 10 to 8 seats and the number of Arab MKs declined from 13 to 10, reversing the constant upward trend of the 1980s and 1990s. For the first time since the 1980s the badly shattered Labour and Meretz factions do not include any Arab or Druze MKs. Another setback for Jewish–Arab relations may be seen in the fact that, for the first time since 1949, the DFPE (basically the Israeli Communist Party) will not include any Jews in its parliamentary faction (Table 4.12). One could also see in the relative strength of the Arab parties an indication of a disintegrative process that has begun in the late 1990s. The extreme Arab nationalist NDA, which held one out of ten seats of the Arab parties in the 15th Knesset (1999–2003), has now three out of eight seats. The NDA has led the boycott call of 2001 and has, in the last few years, supported partially separatist goals (‘autonomy’, ‘Arab parliament’) and demands unacceptable to the Jewish majority (the ‘dejudaisation’ of Israel, the establishment of a bi-national state, the return of lands expropriated in the 1950s, the right of return to villages destroyed in the 1948 war).83 According to polls, the extreme-nationalist Bisharah has become the most popular political leader with the Arab population.84 In spite of a disintegration process that began in 1999, there are still some indications that the potential for the recovery of ‘democratic integration’ still exists. One indication is the failure of the election boycott movement to repeat its resounding success of 2001 in 2003. This time the Arab MKs dared to openly declare boycott as ‘treason’, ‘self-transfer’, ‘playing into the hands of the right’, ‘surrender to the radical right’ and appealed to the ‘national duty’ of the Arabs to vote.85 Polls taken by the

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Table 4.12

Jews and Arabs in the DFPE (ICP) parliamentary faction

Year

1949

1951

1955

1959

1961

1965

1969

1973

1977

1981

1984

1988

1992

1996

1999

2003

Arabs Jews

2 2

2 3

2 4

1 2

2 3

2 1

2 1

2 2

3 2

2 2

2 2

2 2

2 1

4 1

2 1

3 0

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Israeli sociologist Smooha a few months before the elections revealed that 91.6 per cent supported participation in elections, 85.2 per cent wanted an increased Arab representation in the Knesset and 73.0 per cent even supported the participation of the Arab parties in a coalition government.86 The decision of the High Court of Justice in January 2003 to overrule the decisions of the Central Elections Committee with regard to the participation of Bisharah, Tibi and the NDA in the elections also helped to restore confidence in the judiciary – as a liberal part of the establishment. The consistent voting of the left and centre parties (Labour, Meretz, Shinui) in the Central Elections Committee87 against the disqualification was a first step to restore the alliance between the Jewish–Zionist left and the Arab parties. ‘Mixed’ Jewish–Arab demonstrations against the disqualification, in which members of Labour, Meretz, Peace Now, and the Civil Liberties Association participated, showed a slow recovery from ‘Black October’ (2000), which saw the collapse of the Jewish–Arab co-operation on the left. 88 One could look at the election of Amram Mitzna as Labour leader in the same way. As a Mayor of Haifa (1993–2003) Mitzna has a good record in strengthening Arab–Jewish co-existence in Haifa and is popular with the Arab minority (according to a poll conducted in December 2002, Mitzna is popular with 49 per cent of the Arab population. The most popular Arab leaders are Bisharah with popularity rates of 75 per cent and Tibi with 70 per cent, while Sharon is popular with 7 per cent). 89 Another shimmer of light in the ‘dark years’ of 1999–2003 is the continuing liberal verdicts of the Supreme Court of Justice. The Court decided against discrimination of Arabs in communal settlements, slum-clearing projects and in the management of the Lands of Israel Authority and, as we discussed before, against the disqualification of the Arab parties in the 2003 elections.90 As to the Arab minority, we may follow Peleg’s theoretical essay and conclude that while in the 1950s and 1960s Israel was ‘a low quality procedural democracy’, in the 1980s and 1990s we saw ‘increasing democratisation’ and the ‘dismantling of the most flagrant violations of the democratic credo’ although ‘without erasure of the fundamentally ethnic character of the state’.91 Since 1999 we have witnessed a reversal in democratic integration. It remains to be seen whether that reversal is a disintegrative episode on the way to long-run integration, or the beginning of a breakdown in Jewish–Arab relations in Israel.

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Notes and references 1. S. Smooha, ‘Ethnic Democracy: Characterization, Cases and Comparisons’, paper presented at the Conference in Multiculturalism and Democracy in Divided Societies, Haifa University, March 1999. 2. See Chapter 2. 3. On the ‘politics of control’, see I. Lustick, Arabs in the Jewish State – Israel’s Control of a National Minority, Univerity of Texas Press, Austin 1980. 4. On the military government in the 1950s and 1960s, see B. Neuberger, The Arab Minority: National Alienation and Political Integration, Tel Aviv 1998, pp. 11–18 (Hebrew). 5. I. Lustick, ‘The changing political role of the Israeli Arabs’, in A. Arian and M. Shamir (eds), The Elections in Israel – 1988, Westview Press, Boulder 1990, p. 127. 6. Jerusalem Post, 4 September 1984. 7. On Israel’s Communist Party and its relationship to the Jewish–Arab conflict, see E. Rekhess, Between Communism and Nationalism – RAKAH and the Arab Minority in Israel, PhD thesis, Tel Aviv University 1986 (Hebrew). 8. On the ‘patronage politics’ of the ‘minority lists’, see J. Landau, The Arabs in Israel – A Political Study, Oxford University Press, London 1969. 9. G. Goldberg, Political Parties in Israel – From Mass Parties to Electoral Parties, Tel Aviv 1992, p. 57 (Hebrew). 10. Rekhess, 1986, p. 328. 11. Yediot Ahronot, 26 June 1987. 12. Lustick, Arabs in the Jewish State, p. 78. 13. See Chapter 2. 14. I. Kaufman, ‘The odd groups out: the Arab vote in the 1996 elections’, in A. Arian and M. Shamir (eds), The Elections in Israel – 1996, The Israeli Democracy Institute, Jerusalem 1999, pp. 107–47 (Hebrew). 15. Peres got 94.8 per cent of the valid Arab votes, but if we count all the votes, Peres got only 88 per cent while 7.2 per cent were blank votes (4.8 per cent voted for Netanyahu). The blank votes were an Arab protest (non) vote against Peres’s massive attack (Operation ‘Grapes of Wrath’) in Lebanon but specifically against the Kafr Kanna incident in which an Israeli artillery shell by mistake hit a Lebanese village killing more than a hundred civilians. See H. Frish, ‘The Arab vote: the radicalization of politization’, in D. Elazar and S. Sandler (eds), Israel at the Polls 1996, Frank Cass, London 1998, pp. 102–7. 16. Lustick, ‘The changing role of the Israeli Arabs’, p. 123. 17. Ha’aretz, 5 December 1982. 18. B. Neuberger, The Arab Minority – National Alienation and Political Integration, p. 121. 19. I. Kaufman, pp. 118–19. 20. Y. Reiter and R. Aharoni, The Political Life of Arabs in Israel, Beit Berl 1992, pp. 40–1 (Hebrew). The three Arab parties are the Arab Democratic Party (ADP), the Progressive List for Peace (PLP), and the Democratic Front for Peace and Equality (DFPE) whose major component is the Israeli Communist Party. 21. On the ‘Israelisation’ of the Arabs in Israel, see S. Smooha, Arabs and Jews in Israel: Conflicting and Shared Attitudes in a Divided Society, Westview Press, Boulder 1989.

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22. On the transformation of the Israeli party system, see B. Neuberger, Political Parties in Israel, Tel Aviv 1997, pp. 240–7 (Hebrew). On the enhancement of the importance of the Arab vote in the Two-Bloc System, see Amal Jamal, ‘Abstention as participation: on the whims of Arab politics in Israel’, in A. Arian and M. Shamir (eds), Elections in Israel 2001, The Israeli Democracy Institute, Jerusalem 2002, p. 70 (Hebrew). 23. Lustick, ‘The changing role of the Israeli Arabs’, p. 118. 24. On the structure of Israel’s opposition since 1948, see B. Neuberger, Knesset Supremacy or Government Rule?, Tel Aviv 1998, pp. 54–63 (Hebrew). 25. Al-Hamishmar, 6 January 1988. 26. On the ADP, see Y. Reiter, ‘The Arab Democratic Party and its place in the orientation of Israel’s Arabs’, in J. Landau (ed.), The Arab Vote in Israel’s Parliamentary Elections, 1988, Jerusalem 1989, pp. 63–84 (Hebrew). 27. Ha’olam Haze, 5 December 1984; Ha’aretz, 10 May 1992. 28. Ha’aretz, 15 May 1992. 29. Reiter and Aharoni, p. 27. 30. Davar, 22 January 1989. 31. Ha’aretz, 15 May 1992. 32. For a similar classification, see R. Cohen, Complexity of Loyalties, Tel Aviv 1990, pp. 33–40 (Hebrew). 33. For Tables 4.3, 4.4, 4.5 and 4.6, see B. Neuberger ‘The Knesset elections in the Arab and Druze population’, Information Bulletin No. 3, May 1996 (Dayan Centre/Tel Aviv University) (Hebrew). 34. Even if we add to the Likud, SHAS and the NRP as parties who held ministries (e.g. Interior, Education, Welfare) with great patronage potential, patronage voting was less than 5 per cent, see As’ad Ghanem and Sara Ozacky-Lazar, The Arab Vote to the 15th Knesset, Institute for Peace Research, Givat Haviva, October 1999, p. 191 (Hebrew). 35. Ha’aretz, 15 May 1992. 36. For Tables 4.7 and 4.8, see B. Neuberger, ‘The Arab minority in Israeli politics – from marginality to influence’, Asian and African Studies, Vol. 27, Nos 1–2, July 1993, p. 160. 37. B. Neuberger, The Arab Minority – National Alienation and Political Integration, p. 118. 38. Reiter and Aharoni, p. 30. 39. On electoral participation, apathy and boycott, see also A. Yaniv and M. Al-Haj, ‘Behaviour of the Arab minority in Israel’, in A. Arian (ed.), Elections in Israel, 1981, Tel Aviv 1983, p. 148 (Hebrew). 40. A. Regev in al-Hamishmar, 13 October 1991. 41. B. Neuberger, The Arab Minority – National Alienation and Political Integration, p. 118. 42. B. Neuberger, The Arab Minority – National Alienation and Political Integration, p. 123. 43. Ha’aretz, 24 August 1984. 44. Jerusalem Post, 19 March 1990. 45. G. Goldberg, p. 256. 46. Ha’aretz, 25 June 1992. 47. Ha’aretz, 6 July 1992. 48. Ma’ariv, 7 July 1992.

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49. Ha’aretz, 13 July 1992. 50. For an English translation of the agreements, see Arabs in Israel 2/6 (August 1992), pp. 4–6. 51. I. Kaufman, p. 111. 52. E. Rekhess, ‘Jews and Arabs in the Israeli Communist Party’, in M. Esman and I. Rabinovich (eds), Ethnicity, Pluralism and the State in the Middle East, Cornell University Press, Ithaca 1988, pp. 121–39. 53. Ha’aretz, 1 September 1991. 54. Ha’aretz, 24 August 1984. 55. Hadashot, 7 October 1987. 56. Ha’aretz, 27 July 1990. 57. See, for example, the electoral advertisement in Ma’ariv, 11 May 1992. 58. On delegitimisation of the Arab vote, see B. Neuberger, ‘The Arab Vote between Integration and Delegitimization’, in E. Rekhess (ed.), The Arabs in Israeli Politics: Dilemmas of Identity (Dayan Center/Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv 1998) (Hebrew), and S. Ozacky-Lazar and A. Ghanem, Intifadat Al Aksa: Motives and Results, Institute for Peace Research, Givat Haviva, January 2001. 59. A. Ghanem and S. Ozacky-Lazar, ‘Israel as an ethnic democracy: the test of the Arab vote to the 15th Knesset’, in A. Arian and M. Shamir (eds), Elections in Israel 1999, The Israel Democracy Institute, Jerusalem 2001, pp. 171–202 (Hebrew). 60. Amal Jamal, op. cit., p. 68; Ghanem and Ozacky-Lazar, in Arian and Shamir 2001, p. 192. 61. E. Rekhess, ‘The Arab Vote’, paper presented at the Washington Institute for Near East Policy (Washington, 24 January 2003). 62. Yediot Ahronot, 6 October 2000. 63. A. Ghanem and S. Dikhter, Sikkuy’s Report 2001–2002, Sikkuy – The Association for the Advancement of Civic Equality, Jerusalem 2002 (Hebrew). 64. M. Mualem, ‘Labor leaders on the hunt for the lost electorate’, Ha’aretz, 4 December 2000. 65. S. Ozacky-Lazar and A. Ghanem, Intifadat Al-Aksa among the Palestinian Citizens of Israel. 66. On the pressure of the radicals on the moderates, see Y. Ettinger, ‘Vote for us, stay home’, Ha’aretz, 26 January 2001. 67. Amal Jamal, pp. 83–4. 68. Z. Segal, ‘Crying discrimination’, Ha’aretz, 25 June 2002. 69. Y. Ettinger and others, ‘The Follow up Committee: the government’s decision can lead to an explosion’, Ha’aretz, 9 July 2002. 70. A. Kaidar, ‘Hate, rejection and discrimination towards the Arab citizens by the Israeli establishment’, in A. Ghanem and S. Dikhter (eds), pp. 36–43. 71. Ibid., p. 40. 72. Ma’ariv, 3 January 2002. 73. E. Rekhess, Election 2003 Update, No. III (22 January 2003), p. 17; A. Dayan, ‘Sometimes you hear from the left a twitter’, Ha’aretz, 3 January 2002. 74. A. Ghanem, ‘The Palestinians in Israel: the political orientation of the individual and the group – a comparative analysis of results of the 2001 survey’, in S. Ozacky-Lazar and A. Ghanem, A Year After the October Events: What Was Changed, Institute for Peace Research, Givat Haviva, October 2001, pp. 22–47 (Hebrew).

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75. Rekhess, Elections 2003 Update, No. III, pp. 3–13; Ha’aretz, 18 and 25 November 2002. 76. Y. Ettinger, ‘The link between the Arabs and the Zionist parties was eradicated’, Ha’aretz, 30 January 2003. 77. G. Alon, ‘The goal – a Knesset without Bisharah, Tibi and Dahamsheh’, Ha’aretz, 4 June 2002. 78. Basic Law: The Knesset, Amendments 1986, 2002. 79. G. Samet, ‘The struggle for the State of all its citizens’, Ha’aretz, 8 January 2003; A. Ghanem, ‘Tibi’s disqualification is only an example’, Ha’aretz, 1 January 2003; ‘The General Security Service as Elections Manager’, ad by the Peace Bloc, Ha’aretz, 30 December 2002; Y. Ettinger, ‘Tibi and Dah amsheh will argue – the quests for disqualification are racist’, Ha’aretz, 30 December 2002. 80. O. Nir, ‘The danger of parliamentary transfer’, Ha’aretz, 16 April 2002. 81. N. Rouhana, ‘Parliament of Jews’, Ha’aretz, 7 January 2003. 82. E. Rekhess, ‘On the question of Arab participation in the elections’, in E. Rekhess (ed.), Election 2003 Update, No. I (5 December 2002), p. 2; S. OzackyLazar and A’as Atrash, A Survey of Political and National Attitudes of the Arabs in Israel – October/ November 2002, Institute for Peace Research, Givat Haviva, November 2002. 83. E. Rekhess, ‘The Arabs of Israel after Oslo: the localization of the national struggle’, The New East – Quarterly of the Israel Oriental Society, Vol. XXXXIII (2002), pp. 275–304 (Hebrew). 84. Ma’ariv, 20 December 2002. 85. E. Rekhess (ed.), Elections 2003 Update, No. II ( January 2003), pp. 9–15. 86. S. Smooha, ‘For participation of the Arabs and the Arab parties in the elections to the 16th Knesset’, pp. 2–3. 87. Ha’aretz, 1 January 2003. 88. A. Dayan, ‘The left says that the disqualification of the Arabs is aimed to disqualify us’, Ha’aretz, 8 January 2003. 89. Ma’ariv, 20 December 2002. 90. Ha’aretz, 19 February 2001 and 9 March 2002. 91. See Chapter 2.

5 The Autonomy Puzzle: Territorial Solutions to the Kashmir Conflict Robert G. Wirsing

Introduction Defining suitable ways in which to accommodate the planet’s numerous disaffected ethnic minorities has generated a protracted and global – at times philosophical, at other times policy-focused – debate among scholars that shows no signs of abating. 1 A major focal point in this debate has been ethnic self-determination – an idea or norm that has raised, as Donald Horowitz put it, ‘intertwined questions about patterns of ethno-territorial politics, about the status of ethnic self-determination in philosophy, and about rights to a territorially conceived ethnic self-determination in international law’.2 Disagreement has pitted liberals, committed to individual-centered conceptions of the self, against communitarians and advocates of group rights; modernists against both post-modernists and primordialists; and proponents of integration against stalwarts of secession. 3 To an important extent, disagreement has stemmed from rival latemodern understandings of cultural identity itself – of the depth of its entrenchment in human nature and society; of its compatibility with the secular, rational, and individualist values of the Enlightenment; and of the extent of its susceptibility to social reconstruction and change. In the course of debate, particular cases of ethnic conflict – like that in Kashmir – not infrequently have seemed important less in their own right than as sites for surrogate trials of strength among these competing worldviews. When the debate has turned to consider particular modalities of ethnic conflict reduction and management (whether, for instance, ethnic discontent is best handled by augmenting the discontented group’s 80

Robert G. Wirsing 81

voice within the existing framework of a society’s political institutions or, alternatively, by granting it the right of exit), attention has frequently been drawn to ethnic autonomy – a middling formula for organising multi-ethnic states which, at least in principle, skirts the extremes of secession, on the one hand, or full integration, on the other. 4 There have been experiments with various forms of autonomy in dozens of countries. India has an especially impressive record.5 In India, the oldest and longest-running case of applied autonomy happens to be Kashmir. It is far more than a problem of autonomy, of course, since the international conflict between India and Pakistan centers upon their dispute over ownership of Kashmir. Ranking among the world’s most intractable regional conflicts, the dispute between India and Pakistan over Kashmir has generated a fairly massive corpus of literature recommending one or another approach to its resolution. I confess to having contributed more than once to this literature.6 Without denigrating the value of such endeavours, it is not the aim of this chapter either to conduct a fresh inventory of already proposed remedies or to add a new one to the existing stockpile. Rather I propose to examine in some detail, and as dispassionately as I can, one category of remedy – that of autonomy – whose prospects in regard to Kashmir are generally held to be superior to others and whose design and desirability are currently matters of wide-ranging debate, in India and elsewhere. My objective will not be to advance the cause of this particular remedial model. In truth, I am not convinced that autonomy’s instant realisation in Kashmir would necessarily hasten the onset of subcontinental peace any more than other proposed models (including here, for instance, azadi or complete independence of Kashmir, sought by some Kashmiri militant groups). My objective will be, instead, to undertake a critical assessment of autonomy’s practical suitability in the Kashmir case – providing, on the one hand, as clear an explanation as I can of what the autonomy model, in its various forms, might entail in terms of territorial, cultural, and political compromise, and, on the other, an accounting of its likely limitations. I maintain in this chapter that the autonomy solution, in spite of its seemingly self-evident reasonableness, has thin prospects of near-term adoption in Kashmir in any but an extremely diluted form and that these prospects are not likely to be enhanced through invention of still more creative autonomist models. As far as a ‘solution’ to Kashmir is concerned, I have contended elsewhere that it does not in any event lie in altering Kashmir’s territorial or political circumstances so much as it lies in a fundamentally altered relationship

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between India and Pakistan. That, I believe, means that India and Pakistan must first find a way to establish a reasonably stable and pacific modus vivendi between them without fundamental change to the existing, inherently ambiguous and unresolved political-territorial status of Kashmir. 7

Autonomy’s global appeal Exactly what does ethnic ‘autonomy’ mean? According to Yash Ghai, Public Law Professor at the University of Hong Kong, it ‘is a device to allow ethnic or other groups claiming a distinct identity to exercise direct control over affairs of special concern to them, while allowing the larger entity those powers which cover common interests’. 8 A more methodical attempt at definition is contained in Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflicts, a 1996 publication by Timothy D. Sisk. Sisk identifies ten distinct ‘conflict-regulating practices’ – half of them falling under the heading of a ‘consociational’ approach, the other half under the heading of an ‘integrative’ approach.9 A consociational power-sharing approach, he maintains, freely recognises and represents separate ethnic groups as groups, while an integrative approach adopts practices that downplay separate ethnic group identity in favour of crosscutting individual (usually economic) interests.10 As can be seen in Table 5.1, Sisk places the practice of autonomy on the consociational side of the ledger, and he further classifies it among the ‘territorial divisions of power’. He then comments that agreements to accommodate ethnic minority groups through grants of autonomy are reached between the rump government and the autonomous units over issues such as economic and foreign relations and regional commerce. Decisions on these limited issues are made jointly. Critical variables are the degree of economic interdependence, the structure of fiscal relations, and the balance of dependency. 11 Clear from Sisk’s and other discussions of the concept of autonomy is that it is a very capacious term, used by various commentators to cover a wide range of arrangements. Taking this diversity into account, Ruth Lapidoth in her study of autonomy settles on what she calls an ‘eclectic description’ of it – one that allows for different kinds of autonomy, different degrees of power transfer to the autonomous entity, and greater or lesser inclusiveness in terms of the specific powers transferred. In regard to the latter, she notes that while foreign relations and external security

Robert G. Wirsing 83 Table 5.1

Conflict-regulating practices

Territorial divisions of power

Decision rules

State-ethnic relations

Consociational approach

Integrative approach

Granting autonomy and creating confederal arrangements Creating a polycommunal federation Adopting proportional representation and consensus rules in executive, legislative, and administrative decision making Adopting a highly proportional electoral system

Creating a mixed or noncommunal federal structure Establishing a single inclusive unitary state Adopting majoritarian but integrated executive, legislative, and administrative decision-making

Acknowledging group rights or corporate federalism

Adopting a semimajoritarian or semiproportional electoral system Adopting ethnicity-blind public policies

Source: Timothy D. Sisk, Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflicts (Washington, D.C.: United States Institute of Peace, 1996), p. 70.

are ordinarily reserved for the central government, there have been instances in which the autonomous entity was granted power to enter into international agreements or to join international organisations. 12 Writers generally distinguish between two different kinds of autonomy – territorial and personal (or cultural). The latter (non-territorial) kind clearly has relevance in circumstances where the ethnic group is fairly small, weak, and/or territorially dispersed.13 In our discussion of autonomy for Kashmir, it is territorial autonomy that is more relevant and we will confine our attention to that. As for territorial autonomy, Lapidoth comments that a territorial political autonomy is an arrangement aimed at granting to a group that differs from the majority of the population in the state, but that constitutes the majority in a specific region, a means by which it can express its distinct identity. Observe here once again use of the words ‘distinct identity’, for it is political control over precisely this – the capacity, in other words, to

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define, protect, and promote a group’s separate identity – which is commonly understood to be implied by autonomy.14 There are, of course, other ‘arrangements’ in addition to territorial autonomy to secure the diffusion of power. Lapidoth identifies five of them: federal systems, decentralisation, self-government, associate statehood, and self-administration. 15 She concedes that territorial autonomy has much in common with at least some of them; and, indeed, it is sometimes spoken of interchangeably with them. She notes, for instance, that the ‘Framework for Peace in the Middle East’ (the 1978 Camp David accords between Egypt and Israel) referred to ‘full autonomy’ for the Palestinian Arabs, whereas in subsequent negotiations the preferred term has been ‘self-rule’ or ‘self-government’.16 The differences among these terms are not in all cases trivial, however, for they do not all attach the same importance to the maintenance and promotion of a distinct identity. While autonomy seems to imply less self-rule than does the term confederalism, for instance, it is generally understood to imply greater self-rule than federalism, which, as in the American case, need not cater to ethnic group identities at all. In the face of the common Indian assertion that Kashmir’s separatist inclinations can be adequately satisfied within the context of a reinvigorated Indian federalism, this caveat needs to be kept in mind. By the year 2000, the idea of ethnic autonomy had clearly gained considerable ground internationally, especially but not only in the West, as a legitimate device for conflict resolution. One leading analyst of ethnic conflict, Ted Robert Gurr, offered the rather startling observation, in fact, that a global consensus in regard to the handling of intergroup relations in ethnically mixed societies already existed by then, and that this consensus was paying off with a measurable diminution in ethnic warfare. 17 A major strategic shift from confrontation to accommodation, he claimed, was under way. Government repertoires of ethnic conflict management, hitherto heavily emphasising repression, had consciously been expanded to include minority group rights and various forms of autonomy. Contrary to the conventional wisdom that represented ethnic warfare as getting worse, it was, he said, decidedly on the wane. It had peaked, according to him, in the early 1990s. ‘Between 1993 and the beginning of 2000,’ he pointed out, ‘the number of wars of self-determination has been halved.’ Most important, he suggested, was that the trend in resorting to violent tactics was overwhelmingly positive. In 1999, he noted, there were 59 armed conflicts under way. Of these, ‘23 were de-escalating, 29 had no shortterm trend, and only 7 were escalating – including Kosovo. By the late


1990s, the most common strategy among ethnic groups was not armed conflict but prosaic politics’.18 Intellectuals, including increasing numbers of liberals, had helped pave the way to ethnic autonomy’s acceptability by identifying ways to reconcile insistent demands for recognition of collective or group rights with the prevailing post-Second World War emphasis on individual or human rights.19 Lending additional weight to autonomy’s acceptability were a number of concrete examples of its apparently successful incorporation into state practice, as in the 1979 Home Rule Act of the Danish parliament granting substantial self-rule to Greenland or, as recently as 1999, the concession by the United Kingdom of a separate Scottish parliament. 20 Nothing has given autonomist principles a firmer global boost in recent years, however, than the emphatic endorsement of minority group rights by the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), in 1995 renamed the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE). In this respect, the CSCE/OSCE has achieved an undeniably remarkable record. According to Tim Sisk, it ‘has been the most proactive international organisation in recognizing collective rights as an element of international law and developing compliance mechanisms’. It has also, he comments, ‘been the most innovative international organisation in seeking to promote ethnic conflict management through preventive diplomacy’.21 In the Document of the CSCE’s Conference on the Human Dimension, adopted in Copenhagen in June 1990, a number of path-breaking provisions were adopted. Among them were the provisions: • that questions relating to national minorities ‘can only be satisfactorily resolved in a democratic political framework based on the rule of law’ (Article 30); that ‘[t]o belong to a national minority is a matter of a person’s individual choice and no disadvantage may arise from the exercise of such choice’ (Article 32); • that members of a minority have the right to establish their own institutions and maintain contacts among themselves within their country, as well as with members of the same group abroad (Article 32); and • that members of a minority must be allowed to participate effectively in the public affairs of the state (Article 35). 22 The Copenhagen document identified territorial autonomy as one mechanism for ensuring protection of these rights, but it did not give it any particular precedence. The Concluding Document of the CSCE’s

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1991 Conference on National Minorities went a step further, committing the signatories to: • establishing advisory and decision-making bodies in which minorities are represented, particularly on education, cultural, and religious issues; • establishing local autonomous administrative structures in territories where minorities reside; • embracing corporate [minority group] federalism when minorities are not territorially concentrated; and • establishing permanent ethnically mixed interstate commissions when ethnic groups reside on different sides of an international frontier.23 At a meeting of the Experts on National Minorities convened by the CSCE in Geneva in July 1991, the judgment was reached that ‘[i]ssues concerning national minorities . . . are matters of legitimate international concern and consequently do not constitute exclusively an internal affair of the respective State’. 24 A judgment of this kind grants a strong warrant to a category of international action commonly spoken of nowadays as ‘humanitarian intervention’. It is potentially far-reaching, indeed radical, in its implications for traditional treatment of ethnic minorities under the umbrella of state sovereignty. One need hardly mention that it is in harmony neither with the more robust notions of state sovereignty that still circulate nor with the long-standing declared position of the Indian government denying any international responsibility at all in the resolution of Kashmir. The frailties of autonomist solutions currently on display in the Balkans, in the Middle East, in India’s Northeast, and in Northern Ireland suggest that Gurr’s assertion of a fundamental global shift in respect to ethnic minorities from confrontation to accommodation, if not wholly misplaced, was at least premature. Judging from their recent record, autonomist models appear, in fact, to have provided little insulation against the violence-prone forces found in the world’s most acute cases of ethno-nationalist struggle. 25 Gurr’s thesis needs to be questioned not only at the empirical level of conflict frequency, however, but also at the level of overall conceptual validity. Having directed for many years the Minorities At Risk project at the University of Maryland, Gurr has carried the methodical enumeration of ethnic minority groups to greater lengths than almost any other scholar. His doing so has unquestionably given comfort to countless students of ethnic conflict baffled by the subject’s extraordinary engulfment in baffling terminological ambiguity and dogged resistance to quantitative rigour.


At the same time, however, it must be conceded that his approach approximates what the Dutch anthropologist Martijn van Beek has colourfully labelled ‘identity fetishism’ – a conception of diversity ‘which relies on the relative stability and irreducibility of minority groups’ and ‘in which the identification of the “right” social group/ culture/community and its empowerment supposedly offers the greatest guarantees of peace and prosperity for all’. 26 It is precisely Gurr’s fierce commitment to methodically rigorous accounting of ethnic identity, from van Beek’s point of view, that compels his reductionist overstatement of the ‘group-ness’ of groups. Van Beek’s own examination of Buddhist–Muslim conflict in the Ladakh region of Kashmir, where he found that political fault-lines only infrequently respected formal religious community divisions, testifies to a social life in that remote part of India of far greater complexity and fluidity than Gurr’s approach appears to presume. At a minimum, van Beek’s study suggests the need for open-minded examination of ethnic and religious community divisions in the rest of Kashmir.

Religion and ethnicity in Kashmiri identity Raju Thomas reminds us in a recent book that Kashmir has a ‘threein-one’ identity problem: Are Kashmiris, he asks, to be understood as Indians, Muslims, or simply Kashmiris? ‘The answer’, he says, is they are all three depending on which characteristic is being attributed to Kashmiris at any given time, and this would determine whether they are part of India, Pakistan or a separate nation. In Kashmir, we may identify its basic secular ‘Indian’ character because its peoples are mainly Hindu descendants and have been influenced by the more secular Hindu tradition over the centuries; or we may identify Kashmir’s basic ‘Islamic’ character since the majority of its population is Muslim and therefore may perceive closer religious and emotional links with Pakistan; or its essential ‘Kashmiri’ character that draws together Valley Muslims, Dogra Hindus, Kashmiri Hindu Pandits and Ladakhi Buddhists in a self-perception of an independent nation that is often referred to as the ‘Kashmiriyat’.27 Thomas’s perceptive comment points at two basic truths about Kashmir. The most obvious is that it has a highly fragmented cultural fabric: its inhabitants mirror in their microcosmic setting the extraordinary cultural pluralism that characterises the South Asian region as a whole.

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The second is that the fragments, unlike the pre-cut pieces in a twodimensional jigsaw puzzle, can be abstractly assembled in more than one way: Kashmir’s cultural pluralism lends itself, in other words, to any of several rival interpretations – or, as Thomas implies, to all of them simultaneously. These rival interpretations or representations of Kashmir’s cultural pluralism embody deeply conflictive assumptions both about the nature of Kashmiri cultural identity, considered as a whole, as well as about the relationship to this identity of religion, in particular. We are thus drawn to consider the specific ethnographic configuration – the spatial and numerical distribution of distinct ethnolinguistic and religious identities – that prevails in Kashmir.

Kashmir’s ethno-religious composition When at the end of the Anglo–Sikh War (1845–46) the British colonial authorities rewarded Gulab Singh, their Jammu-based Dogra Rajput ally against the Sikhs, with the cession of all the territory between the Beas and Indus rivers, they did not pause to worry about the potential consequences of the arbitrary grouping and political transfer of the territory’s ethnically polyglot population. Their decision, which produced the core of the Dogra Hindu principality that was to endure until 1947, had, in fact, momentous consequences: it joined under one political roof peoples with widely differing religious, religious-sectarian, ethno-linguistic, caste, and historical backgrounds, but in relatively segregated socio-geographic circumstances that left their separate identities still largely intact a century later. No systematic census enumeration of Jammu and Kashmir – of either its Indian or Pakistan-controlled portions28 – has been conducted since 1981. Accurate ethnographic breakdowns of its present population are further handicapped by the intrusion upon earlier census operations of a certain amount of subjective (partisan) reckoning of group sizes, by inconsistencies over time in the ethnic designations of the peoples being counted, as well as by the occurrence of in- and out-migrations, including – as in the case of the Kashmiri Pandits (Hindu Brahmins) in the early years of the 1990s – those induced to some extent by deliberate campaigns of ‘ethnic cleansing’. But while the arbitrary inflation and deflation of relative group proportions of the population remains, on both sides of the LOC, a favourite political pastime, the fact persists that Kashmir ‘presents a classic case of linguistic and ethno-religious diversity’.29 A glance at the distribution in Kashmir of languages and religions reveals not only the polylinguistic and polyreligious character of Kashmir’s


population but also the highly asymmetrical distribution, region-wise, of both language and religion. As for the linguistic dimension, the strong dominance in the Valley of Kashmir of Kashmiri, the most widely spoken language of the Dardic branch of the Indo-European language family, 30 is matched by its light representation or near absence in Azad Kashmir, the Northern Areas, Ladakh, and Jammu. In those areas, it contends for cultural space with Dogri (a dialect of Punjabi), Gujri, Balti, Pahari, Tibetan, Potohari, Burushaski, and other languages and dialects. Thus, while Kashmiri-speakers commanded a bit over 52 per cent of the Indian-controlled sector’s population in the 1981 census, they would inevitably plummet to a distinctly minority status were the overwhelmingly non-Kashmiri-speaking Azad Kashmir population added to the equation. 31 Much the same picture presents itself when the area’s religious diversity is examined. The Pakistan-controlled sectors of Kashmir are inhabited almost exclusively by Muslims (nearly 100 per cent); and Muslim demographic dominance of the Indian-controlled Valley of Kashmir is nearly as complete (since the exodus from the Valley of between 100,000 and 150,000 Hindu Pandits following the outbreak of separatist violence in the early part of the 1990s, even more so today than at the time of the 1981 census). But when one’s gaze is widened beyond the Valley in the Indian-held portion of the state, a very different picture comes into view. The total population of this portion in 2000 has been estimated at around 9.45 million.32 Of this figure, judging from the 1981 census (Table 5.2), Muslims constitute roughly 64 per cent, Hindus 32 per cent, with Buddhists and Sikhs making up most of the remainder. Once again, the regional disproportions magnify the diversity: in primarily Hindu Jammu, non-Muslims represent

Table 5.2

Population and religion, Jammu and Kashmir State (1981)

Region Kashmir Valley Jammu Ladakh Total

Population (%)

Muslim (%)

Hindu (%)

Others (%)

3,134,904 (52.36) 2,718,113 (45.39) 134,372 (02.24)

94.96

04.59

00.05

29.60

66.25

04.15

46.04

02.66

51.30

64.19

32.24

03.57

5,987,389

Source: Census of India, 1981.

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70.4 per cent of the population, and in primarily Buddhist Ladakh, non-Muslims represent 53.96 per cent of the total. 33 When one takes into account sectarian, caste or other subgroup identities, even these figures further dissolve. For instance, between the Dogra Hindus of Jammu and the Hindu Pandits now dwelling as refugees among them, there are profound cultural (and political) differences; and some of the animosity that marks Sunni–Shia sectarian relations elsewhere in the Islamic world is also detectable in Kashmir. Schwartzberg estimates that Sunnis are solidly entrenched (over 90 per cent) among the Muslims of the Valley, Jammu, and Azad Kashmir. 34 But there are important Shia-majorities in Baltistan – in both its Pakistan-held (Baltistan Agency of the Northern Areas) and Indian-held (Kargil district of Ladakh) portions – as well as a large (and politically troublesome) Shia representation in the Gilgit Agency of Pakistan’s Northern Areas. Kashmir’s ethno-religious diversity lends itself, as was suggested earlier, to a considerable variety of inventive (and, not infrequently, mutually exclusive) interpretations. Hindu spokesmen for the persistent autonomy movement in Kashmir state’s Jammu division, for instance, are apt to emphasise the cultural differences and yawning political divide between Jammu and the Valley. Stalwarts of Kashmiri Muslim separatism, on the other hand, determined to curb any territorial haemorrhaging from the Greater Kashmir of their political imagination, are just as likely to underscore the state’s fundamental cultural unity.35

Autonomy for Kashmir? Notwithstanding the Indian government’s understandable anxiety when it comes to the contemporary international push for ethnic minority rights, the application to Kashmir of the idea of ethnic autonomy inevitably arouses interest in some quarters of India as a potentially viable alternative to continued separatist violence. This should not surprise us. After all, the state of Jammu and Kashmir – or, to be precise, that part of it remaining in Indian hands when a ceasefire between Indian and Pakistani forces was declared in January 1949 – is no stranger to formal autonomy. It began its life under Indian rule, in fact, with substantial, even radical, autonomy. The foundation for its autonomous status was readily apparent in the Indian government’s explicit and repeated acknowledgement in the early days of its dispute with Pakistan over Kashmir of the conditional nature of the state’s accession to India 36 as well as in the unique status granted to the state


in Article 370 of the 1950 Indian Constitution. Those initial Indian concessions to autonomy were curbed somewhat by the terms of the so-called Delhi Agreement reached in July 1952 between Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and the charismatic Kashmiri nationalist leader, Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah. In that agreement, residual powers, in contrast with all other states of the Indian Union, were said to vest in the state of Jammu and Kashmir. The state’s autonomy suffered on other counts, however, as in the extension of the jurisdiction of the Indian Supreme Court to the state. The Delhi Agreement was rendered moot, in any event, in August 1953, when New Delhi ordered Abdullah’s arrest and incarceration. That event set the stage for the massive reversal of the earlier concessions. A succession of acts of the Indian parliament had largely nullified them within just a few years, in fact, by fostering Kashmir’s nearly complete functional (fiscal, economic, and juridical) integration into the Indian Union. By the middle of the 1950s, any substantive autonomy Kashmir had managed to carry over from its earlier princely statehood had largely vanished – a victim of New Delhi’s insistence that Kashmir’s accession to India was final and irrevocable, not subject to negotiation with Pakistan or, by implication, with the Kashmiris. But no matter how far Kashmir’s integration into India may have progressed, memory remains strong, especially among Kashmiris themselves, of the state’s initial flirtation with a conspicuously strong species of autonomy. The issue of autonomy’s contemporary relevance to Kashmir has, in fact, recently achieved a fairly noisy re-emergence in India. The immediate stimulus of its re-emergence was the electoral victory in legislative elections in the state of Jammu and Kashmir in September 1996 of the National Conference (NC) party. The vehicle of Sheikh Abdullah’s rise to power in the 1940s, this was the party that had ruled the state in the early – and still relatively autonomous – days immediately after independence. It is the party that has been led in recent years by Sheikh Abdullah’s son (and, until October 2002, the state’s Chief Minister), Farooq Abdullah. Farooq had made restoration of the state’s autonomy the centrepiece of his party’s 1996 campaign for office. One of his first acts upon taking over as the state’s Chief Minister was to appoint two state-level committees to examine the issue of Kashmir’s autonomy – one, the State Autonomy Committee (SAC), entrusted with the issue’s interstate or ‘external’ aspect (the relationship between the central government and the state of Jammu and Kashmir), the other, the Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC), responsible for its intrastate or ‘internal’ aspect

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(the relationships among the state’s three ethno-religiously polyglot regions – Jammu, Ladakh, and Kashmir Valley). Little was heard from either of these committees until mid-April 1999, over two years later, when their reports – the Report of the Regional Autonomy Committee and the Report of the State Autonomy Committee – were finally submitted to the Jammu and Kashmir assembly. Following their submission, nearly another year passed, however, before they gained much public notice. Two events drew attention to them. One was the state cabinet’s sudden decision on 19 January 2000 – over three years after the two committees were appointed and prior to any formal action by the assembly itself – to endorse flatly the SAC report’s recommendations and to forward them to the central government for consideration. The exclusively NC-composed cabinet’s peremptory action caused an immediate uproar in the national media and drew bitter condemnation from the Jammu and Kashmir state unit of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), the NC’s partner in the National Democratic Alliance (NDA) coalition government at the Centre.37 The second and more explosive event was the state assembly’s passage on 26 June 2000 of a resolution recording its approval of the SAC report’s recommendations and demanding positive and effective steps for their implementation. A closer examination of these two reports, in particular the recommendations of the Report of the State Autonomy Committee focusing on extremely sensitive areas of centre–state relationships, will make clear the reasons for the uproar. The Autonomy Committee reports We shall begin our examination of these two reports with the Report of the Regional Autonomy Committee, which, since it was focused fairly narrowly on group autonomy within Kashmir, initially attracted less attention (and drew less criticism) elsewhere in India. Like the SAC report, however, the RAC report’s central proposals, spelled out in a fairly brief document of about thirty pages, were highly controversial. That they were likely sooner or later to meet stiff resistance, at least from some segments of the state’s population, became apparent, in fact, in January 1999 with the sacking of the committee’s Jammu-based Hindu chairman, Balraj Puri, and his replacement by Mohammad Shafi, the Finance Minister and one of Farooq’s most trusted advisors. Puri, a well-known and outspokenly liberal figure in India’s civil rights movement (and the only member of the RAC not also a member of Farooq’s NC), had long since made known his opposition to any autonomy scheme that sought to redraw the map of the state along


more sharply communal (meaning religious) lines and, thus, to deepen communal identities. His own draft of the committee report, rejection of which by Farooq Abdullah had precipitated his removal as chairman only months before its scheduled submission, was privately published in book form soon after his departure. In this book, he called for the state’s administrative and political devolution in a manner that would preserve the state’s unity and leave the present three (communally more-or-less heterogeneous) regions of Jammu, Kashmir Valley, and Ladakh essentially intact. Local autonomy was to be achieved by bolstering local (village and sub-district) self-government along the lines of India’s wellestablished panchayati raj system. The object was to achieve decentralisation of state power and enhanced institutional representation of ethnolinguistic minorities (the state’s Gujjars, Dogras, Paharis, Ladakhis, and Kashmiri-speakers, for instance) without at the same time further entrenching the communal (again, meaning religious) identities of the three regions.38 In sharp contrast with Puri’s patently secular and religion-averse plan, the RAC report calls for a major reorganisation of the state’s internal boundaries, with religious identity as the obvious, albeit strictly implicit, criterion for the exercise. It affirms the virtues of ethnic accommodation and ‘people’s sovereignty over their own affairs’; and it candidly proclaims in prefatory remarks that ‘the homogeneity of an identity in a geographical location should remain the basic criterion of the formation of the regions classified as autonomous’. 39 It dismisses panchayati raj as an insufficiently effective device for ensuring inter-group equity in Jammu and Kashmir, asserting, instead, that greater equity will flow from the increased convergence of the state’s internal boundaries with cultural group identities. The RAC report is painstakingly (and, in its critics’ eyes, disingenuously) drafted to define the project of redrawing internal boundaries entirely in terms of ‘ethnic diversity’ and what it calls ‘ethno-culturallinguistic groups’. While it acknowledges that Jammu and Kashmir ‘is a pluri-culture, pluri-lingual and pluri-religious state of India’, 40 it denies that religious identity either motivates the demand for restructuring the state’s boundaries or seriously figures in the restructuring plan. The report manages somehow to discuss Kashmir’s ethnography for thirty-odd pages, in fact, while only once employing the word Muslim and not even once the words Hindu and Buddhist. Nevertheless, these words could not have been far from the authors’ minds as they prepared the report.

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When it comes to the specifics of boundary revision, the report urges that the existing three divisions of the state be broken into eight new regions or provinces, and that these new entities be endowed with elected and suitably empowered councils. The jurisdictional end product of the report’s recommendations clearly favours the state’s Muslims, especially its Sunni Muslims: whereas under the current jurisdictional dispensation each of the state’s three main religious communities (Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist) enjoys at least nominal inter-group equity by virtue of possessing majority standing in one of the state’s three divisions, the proposed revision of boundaries would allot Sunni Muslims (without naming them, of course) five of the new regions or provinces, with the remaining three going one each to Shia Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus. Since the state’s sole Shia-majority district of Kargil would be awarded full regional or provincial status, wholly separated from the Buddhist-majority district of Leh, the Shia community, or at least parts of it, would likely be among those supportive of the plan. The Buddhist community likely would not be. Neither would the state’s Hindus. The Pandits, practically all of whom fled the Valley in the course of the uprising, are not mentioned in the report. The demand of some of them for their own territorial homeland (named Panun Kashmir) carved from the Valley is conspicuous by its absence. As for predominantly Hindu Jammu division, more than three of its present six districts (those predominantly Muslim, in other words) would be shaved off to form two new regions in the reconfiguring exercise in order to secure the RAC report’s putative ‘ethnic’ homogeneity. Since the RAC report is careful to emphasise that the new regions or provinces are intended as a supplement to the existing central institutions of state government, not as its replacement, it is clear that the report’s version of autonomy, if implemented in accord with the report’s design, would not represent a significant departure from the centralised manner in which power has been structured and wielded in the state during the past half century. In the event the RAC report’s main proposal is deemed unacceptable by the state government, its authors offer a second model for contemplation – one that would create elected councils at the level of the already existing fourteen districts. The numerical rankings of the state’s religious communities in these districts today would ensure roughly the same political outcome as that of the first model – in other words, one favouring the state’s Muslims, in particular its Sunni Muslims. In a state where, whether fairly or unfairly, Muslim, especially Sunni Muslim, domination has been routinely targeted for criticism by the


non-Muslim minorities, neither of the RAC report’s recommended models would appear likely to find much favour outside the Muslim community. Both models, from the standpoint of the state’s religious minorities, would result not in their enhanced group autonomy but in the further entrenchment of the state’s prevailing Sunni Muslim domination. 41 While in principle the notion of breaking the state down into smaller units is unobjectionable, one is forced to agree with Navnita Chadha Behera that the RAC report ‘presented a distorted picture of this principle, designed to serve the narrow political ends of the ruling elite and the larger interests of the majority community’. 42 The Report of the State Autonomy Committee is both much lengthier (184 pages) than the RAC report and more explicitly at odds with New Delhi in its recommendations. In great detail, it narrates the history of the Centre’s relationship with Kashmir from Partition in 1947 onwards. This history, it asserts in unusually blunt language, was one of nearly unremitting and remorseless assault by the Centre on the genuinely autonomous status with which the state of Jammu and Kashmir began its career within the Indian Union. In an early chapter addressing the SAC’s terms of reference, it commits itself unambiguously to ‘full enforcement of the historic Delhi Agreement concluded [24 July 1952] between the Prime Minister of India, Pt. Jawaharlal Nehru, and the Prime Minister (as he was then called) of the State, Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah, the two foremost architects of the State’s accession to the Union of India’. 43 This objective – the state’s return to the substantial autonomy (the ‘special status’) promised in that agreement and already largely embodied in Article 370 of the Constitution – pervades and guides the arguments made throughout the report. When it comes to highlighting the Centre’s allegedly underhanded, undemocratic, and unconstitutional methods for subverting what it claims was the original intent of Article 370, the report pulls no punches. ‘It is abundantly clear,’ its authors observe at one point, that from 1953 onwards, especially in sixties, the process of erosion of the state autonomy was so rapid and on such a massive scale that entire Article 370 of the Constitution of India which was supposed to guarantee and preserve the special status of the State in the Indian Union was emptied of its substantive content with the result that the State’s jurisdiction over the matters as envisaged by the Instrument of Accession of Oct. 1947 and the Delhi Agreement of 1952 was gradually diminished and systematically transferred to the Union.

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Far from enjoying a special status, as Article 370 envisaged, the State was put in a status inferior to that of other States.44 The SAC report’s recommendations are numerous, highly specific, and broad in coverage. In distilled form, they urge maximum autonomy – that the Centre’s writ in the state be confined to the three subjects of defence, foreign affairs, and communications, in other words, to what prevailed, according to the report’s authors, in the period prior to 1953. ‘The best course,’ it concludes, ‘is for the President [of India] to repeal all Orders which are not in conformity with Constitution (Application to Jammu and Kashmir) Order, 1950 and the terms of the Delhi agreement of 1952.’45 It identifies 42 Constitution Orders needing review in these terms. The SAC report founds its arguments on premises fundamentally at odds with those underlying the RAC report. While the RAC report, as we saw, hails the centrality of cultural identity and urges reorganisation of Kashmir (implicitly, I have said) along ethno-religious or communal lines, the SAC report plants its arguments firmly in the secular grounds of law and constitutionality – in the undoing, in other words, of the state’s integration in its entirety into the Indian Union. Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah, as Aijaz Ahmad commented in Frontline, in forming the two committees seems to have armed himself with two reports [catering] to two different constituencies. There is the State Autonomy Committee (SAC) report which offers the maximalist version of the secular demand for autonomy for Jammu and Kashmir as a whole, . . . and then there is the Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC) report advocating the reorganisation of the State into eight new ‘provinces’ whose boundaries are defined on ethno-religious lines. In an effort to safeguard his eroding political position, Ahmad suggests, Farooq had sought ‘to play the secular card (maximum autonomy of the State as a unit) as well as the communal card (division of the State into diverse religiously defined units) all at once’. This corresponded, Ahmad explains, ‘to the new political face of the National Conference which acts as a guardian of the secular legacy in its operations in the Valley but as a party of Muslims in Jammu and Ladakh, having developed far too limited ties of representation with non-Muslims there’.46 Dr Karan Singh, the son of the erstwhile Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir and the first chairman of the SAC, had resigned his position on


31 July 1997, signalling that in regard to this committee’s report, too, there was likely going to be dissent. And, indeed, the state assembly’s emphatic endorsement of the report in June 2000 generated a minor political firestorm. Spokespersons of the state’s Hindu and Buddhist minorities, judging that the status of Jammu and Ladakh would likely be placed in jeopardy in the new order, naturally pressed for the report’s rejection. Heated debate went on in the nation’s press. Resistance to the state assembly’s action came not only from the ruling BJP and its Hindu nationalist allies but also from the Congress party and leftist elements of the political opposition. Amidst wild accusations against Farooq Abdullah’s NC government of betrayal and acting on behalf of foreign interests, the BJP-led Union Cabinet on 4 July branded the state assembly’s so-called autonomy resolution ‘unacceptable’. The Cabinet’s public response, while reaffirming the government’s commitment to ‘federal harmony’ and the devolution of powers to the states, asserted ‘that the acceptance of this resolution would set the clock back and reverse the natural process of harmonising the aspirations of the people of Jammu and Kashmir with the integrity of the nation’.47 The stunning announcement on 24 July by the Kashmiri militant organisation Hizbul Mujahideen of a three-month unilateral ceasefire swept the autonomy debate abruptly off the front pages, replacing it (only briefly, as it turned out) with the exciting prospect of a negotiated end to the violence. Autonomy’s perennial appeal remained intact, however, and the question of its suitability for Jammu and Kashmir was bound to persist. Its return to the agenda of public discussion seemed inescapable, in fact, with the installation in autumn 2002 of a new state government committed to bringing a ‘healing touch’ to the violence-plagued state. Still at issue, in the most fundamental sense, was whether autonomy could be defined and implemented in such a way as to survive the powerful crosscurrents that multiplied and thrived in Kashmir’s extraordinarily complicated and treacherous circumstances.

Conclusion In the foregoing discussion, I have not intended to dismiss territorial autonomy peremptorily as a potential element in a final settlement of the Kashmir dispute. I think the odds are fairly good, in fact, that autonomy, in one form or another, will eventually figure in Kashmir’s political future. I think autonomy itself cannot be relied upon, however, as the principal catalyst to usher in a new future for Kashmir. As we

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have seen, autonomist models rest upon assumptions about the uniformity and solidarity of groups and group behaviour that are readily contestable; if these models work at all to secure the peace, it may have less to do with the model than with the presence of congenial political circumstances to which the model is applied. Such circumstances do not appear to be present in Kashmir. If there is to be a new and peaceful future for Kashmir, it will come, I believe, as a result of measures taken in the region having very little to do with ethnic autonomy. I believe, in fact, that to insist on Kashmir’s umbilical linkage to positive change in India–Pakistan relations is to put the proverbial cart before the horse, that substantial progress towards a more positive relationship can be made without there first having been agreement upon terms for a final settlement of Kashmir and, indeed, that India and Pakistan must abjure a final settlement of Kashmir and agree to its indefinite shelving as a first principle in any agreement directed towards an improvement in their relationship. In isolation, autonomy – no matter how attractively drawn – is not a panacea. For it to have a future in Kashmir, there first has to be movement away from the zero-sum calculus that each country applies in its dealings with the other. The question of how to bring about such a fundamental change in the way India and Pakistan perceive their security environment and Kashmir’s position within it is sobering in its complexity. It falls well outside the range of the present discussion.

Notes and references 1. The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author and do not represent the point of view of the Asia-Pacific Center for Security Studies, the Department of Defense, or the United States Government. 2. Donald L. Horowitz, ‘Self-determination: politics, philosophy, and law’, in Ian Shapiro and Will Kymlicka (eds), Ethnicity and Group Rights, New York University Press, New York 1997, p. 422. Among other useful discussions of self-determination, see Hurst Hannum, Autonomy, Sovereignty, and SelfDetermination, revised edition. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia 1990; Dov Ronen, The Quest for Self-Determination, Yale University Press, New Haven 1979; Morton H. Halperin and David J. Scheffer, Self-Determination in the New World Order, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, Washington, D.C. 1992; and Margaret Moore (ed.), National Self-Determination and Secession, Oxford University Press, Oxford 1998. For a classic study of national selfdetermination, see Alfred Cobban, The Nation State and National Self-Determination, revised edition, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York 1969. 3. The pros and cons of secession are discussed in: Gnanapala Welhengama, Minorities’ Claims: From Autonomy to Secession: International Law and State Practice, Ashgate, Aldershot 2000; Allen Buchanan, Secession: The Morality of


4.

5. 6.

7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

15.

Political Divorce from Fort Sumter to Lithuania and Quebec, Westview, Boulder 1991; Lee C. Buchheit, Secession: The Legitimacy of Self-Determination, Yale University Press, New Haven 1978; and several essays in Moore (ed.), National Self-Determination and Secession. For a recent survey of autonomy’s application in countries around the world, see Yash Ghai (ed.), Autonomy and Ethnicity: Negotiating Competing Claims in Multiethnic States, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2000. See also Vernon Bogdanor, ‘Forms of autonomy and the protection of minorities’, Daedalus, Vol. 126, No. 2, Spring 1997, pp. 65–87; and John Coakley, ‘Approaches to the resolution of ethnic conflict: the strategy of nonterritorial autonomy’, International Political Science Review, Vol. 15, No. 3, 1994, pp. 297–314. For legal documentation on many of them, see P. S. Datta, Ethnic Peace Accords in India, Vikas Publishers, New Delhi 1995. See Robert G. Wirsing, India, Pakistan, and the Kashmir Dispute: On Regional Conflict and Its Resolution, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1998; and Robert G. Wirsing (ed.), Kashmir: Resolving Regional Conflict, Kartikeya Publications, Meerut 1996. I was also a co-author of the privately published study team report, 1947–1997. The Kashmir Dispute at Fifty: Charting Paths to Peace, Kashmir Study Group, New York 1997. The final version of this chapter is being written shortly following the autumn 2002 state assembly elections in the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir that resulted in the surprising upset of the NC government and its replacement by a Congress Party–Peoples Democratic Party coalition arrangement. Those elections are bound to have important consequences for the India–Pakistan dispute over Kashmir. It is highly unlikely, however, that they will result in an immediate change in the constitutional circumstances of Kashmir. Yash Ghai, ‘Ethnicity and autonomy: a framework for analysis’, in Autonomy and Ethnicity, Ghai (ed.), p. 8. Accommodationist models corresponding to Sisk’s ‘integrative’ and ‘consociational’ approaches are dealt with by Peleg under the heading ‘Hegemonic Ethnic Order’ in Chapter 2 of this book. Timothy D. Sisk, Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflicts, United States Institute of Peace, Washington, D.C. 1996, p. 5. Ibid., p. 71. Ruth Lapidoth, Autonomy: Flexible Solutions to Ethnic Conflicts, United States Institute of Peace, Washington D.C. 1996, p. 33. For a sophisticated effort to classify the cultural rights of ethnic groups, see Jacob T. Levy, ‘Classifying cultural rights’, in Shapiro and Kymlicka (eds), Ethnicity and Group Rights, pp. 22–66. See also John Coakley, ‘Approaches to the resolution of ethnic conflict: the strategy of non-territorial autonomy’, International Political Science Review, Vol. 15, No. 3, 1994, pp. 297–314. There is the additional matter, taken note of below, whether the use of such terms as ‘distinct’ in connection with ethnic identity is conceptually misleading, that is, that it ‘essentialises’ identity (meaning that it falsely assumes greater group cultural homogeneity than most ethnic entities can, in fact, rightfully lay claim to). Lapidoth, Autonomy, pp. 49–58.

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16. Lapidoth, Autonomy, p. 53. 17. Ted Robert Gurr, ‘Ethnic warfare on the wane’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 79, No. 3, May/June 2000, pp. 52–64. 18. Gurr, ‘Ethnic warfare on the wane’, pp. 53–4. Gurr’s argument is more fully developed in his latest book, Peoples Versus States: Minorities at Risk in the New Century, United States Institute of Peace, Washington D.C. 2000. See also his earlier book, Minorities At Risk: A Global View of Ethnopolitical Conflicts, United States Institute of Peace, Washington D.C. 1993. 19. A particularly good example of the trend is Will Kymlicka, Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights, Clarendon Press, Oxford 1995. See also Judith Baker (ed.), Group Rights, University of Toronto Press, Toronto 1994; Donna Gomien (ed.), Broadening the Frontiers of Human Rights: Essays in Honor of Asbjorn Eide, Scandinavian University Press, Oslo 1993; and Hurst Hannum, ‘The limits of sovereignty and majority rule: minorities, indigenous peoples, and the right to autonomy’, in Ellen L. Lutz, Hurst Hannum, and Kathryn J. Burke (eds), New Directions in Human Rights, University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia 1989, pp. 3–24. 20. For a lucid discussion of the Greenland and other post-Second World War autonomy cases, see Lapidoth, Autonomy, pp. 99–167. 21. Sisk, Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflicts, p. 106. 22. Lapidoth, Autonomy, p. 12. 23. Sisk, Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflicts, p. 106. 24. Lapidoth, Autonomy, p. 13. 25. Autonomist models do, of course, continue to supply strategies of practical use in the less volatile circumstances that characterise many of the world’s ethno-nationalist conflicts. On this, see Ted Robert Gurr, ‘Nonviolence in ethnopolitics: strategies for the attainment of group rights and autonomy’, PS, Political Science & Politics, Vol. 33, No. 2, June 2000, pp. 155–60. 26. Martijn van Beek, ‘Beyond identity fetishism: “communal” conflict in Ladakh and the limits of autonomy’, Cultural Anthropology, Vol. 15, No. 4, November 2000, p. 526. Van Beek’s observation echoes innumerable similar expressions of scholarly doubt about the authenticity of basic group identity. For one example, see Ronen, The Quest for Self-Determination, pp. 53–70. 27. Raju G. C. Thomas, ‘Reflections on the Kashmir problem’, in Raju G. C. Thomas (ed.), Perspectives on Kashmir: The Roots of Conflict in South Asia, Westview, Boulder 1992, p. 8. 28. Indian-controlled Kashmir (formally, Jammu and Kashmir State) today consists of three main divisions: The Kashmir Valley, Jammu, and Ladakh. The Pakistan-controlled sector is divided into two parts, Azad (Free) Jammu and Kashmir, customarily called Azad Kashmir, and the far larger but lightly populated Northern Areas. The Chinese control the largely uninhabited Aksai Chin region in northeastern Ladakh. 29. K. Warikoo, ‘Language and politics in Jammu and Kashmir’, in P. N. Pushp and K. Warikoo (eds), Jammu, Kashmir & Ladakh: Linguistic Predicament, Har-Anand Publications, New Delhi 1996, p. 194. 30. The exact position of the Dardic group of languages in relation to the IndoEuropean language family remains a subject of debate among linguists. 31. Taking the position that the non-Kashmiri-speaking component of Jammu and Kashmir state’s population has been paid insufficient attention by

Robert G. Wirsing 101 observers and that it, in fact, constitutes the majority of the state’s population, Balraj Puri maintains that when such borderline ethno-linguistic groups as the Gujjars and Paharis are subtracted from the putative Kashmiri-speaking population, the remaining ‘true’ Kashmiri-speakers comprise no more than 42 per cent of the state’s population. ‘The mosaic of Jammu and Kashmir’, Frontline web-service, Vol. 18, No. 9, 28 April–11 May 2001. 32. Kashmir Study Group, Kashmir: A Way Forward (Larchmont, New York: Kashmir Study Group, February 2000), p. 8. This Group’s rough estimates for both Pakistani- and Indian-held areas are as follows: Indian-held areas: Kashmir 4.70 m., Jammu 4.55 m., Ladakh 0.20 m. Total: 9.45 m. Pakistan-held areas: Azad Kashmir 3.10 m., Northern Areas 1.10 m. Total: 4.20 m. Grand Total: 13.65 m. 33. Still, three of Jammu’s six districts (Doda, Poonch, Rajouri) remain today Muslim-majority areas. 34. Joseph E. Schwartzberg, ‘Who are the Kashmiri people? Self-identification as a vehicle for self-determination’, Environment and Planning, Vol. 29, Summer 1997, p. 2246. 35. For an example of the former, see a pair of articles by Hari Om, ‘Jammu region-I: the story of neglect’, and ‘Jammu region-II: not too late for action’, The Statesman, 23 and 24 September 1996. Om has argued for many years that the Indian-controlled portion of Kashmir is a divided house, with no logic remaining to maintain it as a single political unit. He has urged its trifurcation into three autonomous regions of Kashmir, Jammu, and Ladakh. A similar argument is made by Reeta Chowdhari Tremblay, ‘Jammu: Autonomy within an autonomous Kashmir?’, in Perspectives on Kashmir, Thomas, pp. 153–67. For a critical look at what he considers the BJP’s cynical exploitation of the idea of trifurcation, see A. G. Noorani, ‘In pursuit of trifurcation’, Frontline web-service, Vol. 18, No. 8, 14–27 April 2001. 36. In the Government of India’s 1948 White Paper on Jammu and Kashmir, for instance, New Delhi maintained (p. 45) that [i]n Kashmir, as in other similar cases, the view of the Government of India has been that in the matter of disputed accession the will of the people must prevail. It was for this reason that they accepted only on a provisional basis the offer of the Ruler to accede to India, backed though it was by the most important political organization in the State [Sheikh Abdullah’s National Conference] . . . . The question of accession is to be decided finally in a free plebiscite; on this point there is no dispute . . . . The only purpose for which Indian troops are operating in Kashmir is to ensure that the vote of the people will not be subject to coercion by tribesmen and others from across the border who have no right to be in Kashmir . . . . 37. Law Kumar Mishra, ‘BJP seeks Farooq’s ouster on autonomy report issue’, The Times of India web-service, 22 January 2000.

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38. Balraj Puri, J & K: Regional Autonomy ( Jammu: Jay Kay Book House, 1999). See also his essay ‘The autonomy debate’, Frontline, Vol. 17, No. 6, 18–31 March 2000. 39. Regional Autonomy Committee Report (Jammu: Ranbir Government Press, 13 April 1999), p. iv. 40. Regional Autonomy Committee Report, p. 5. 41. For a fairly characteristic Jammu Hindu perspective on the issue, see Hari Om, ‘The plight of Jammu’, The Hindustan Times web-service, 12 March 1999. 42. Navnita Chadha Behera, State, Identity and Violence: Jammu, Kashmir & Ladakh, Manohar, New Delhi 2000, p. 265. Behera’s enormously thoughtful and resourcefully researched book gives a detailed and revealing analysis of both the RAC and SAC reports. 43. Report of the State Autonomy Committee (Jammu, April 1999), p. 8. 44. Ibid., p. 77. 45. Ibid., p. 111. 46. Aijaz Ahmad, ‘Kashmir conundrum: India, Pakistan, the United States, and the question of “autonomy” ’, Frontline web-service, Vol. 17, No. 15, 22 July–4 August 2000. 47. See ‘Text of cabinet decision on J & K autonomy resolution’, The Hindu web-service, 5 July 2000.

6 The ‘Velvet Divorce’ of Czechoslovakia as a Solution to a Conflict of Nationalisms Radka Havlová

Introduction: the formation of the state Czechoslovakia was formed in 1918 as a state of two distinct nations – Czechs and Slovaks – which differed substantially due to their different historical development. Fundamental differences between the Czechs and the Slovaks were reflected in the different political, economic and socio-cultural situation of the two nations even before the establishment of an independent Czechoslovakia. Understanding of these different starting conditions is crucial for understanding the Czech–Slovak coexistence in a common state, and the reasons and outcomes of the Czechoslovak ‘velvet divorce’ in January 1993. For understanding of this ‘velvet divorce’ it is essential to understand the inter-ethnic relations between the Czechs and Slovaks during the seventy years’ coexistence in a common state and the position of the two nations in the common Czechoslovak state, as well as the differences between the two nations which subsequently resulted in the split after the fall of communism in Czechoslovakia.

Development of Czech–Slovak relations in the 20th century To appreciate the development of Czech–Slovak relations during seventy years’ coexistence in a common state, it is of crucial importance to understand the different historical experiences and mentalities of both nations. They had a serious impact on the position of Czechs and Slovaks in Czechoslovakia. The Czech lands had a very long history of independence, with a strong state that dated back to the 10th century. In the Middle Ages the Czech lands belonged to one of the strongest states in the region and under the reign of Charles IV, Prague became 103

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a political, economic and cultural centre of Central Europe. The Czech lands were part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire since the 16th century, but maintained a wide degree of autonomy in local administration and in culture. However, this was seriously limited in the 17th century with forced Catholicisation and Germanisation of the Czech lands. In the national revival of the 19th century, Czechs started using the Czech language again in their cultural and political life and Czech politicians supporting Czech interests were elected to the parliament in Vienna. The Slovaks, on the other hand, never experienced a long period of independence, and there was literally no period in history to which they could point to prove the prior existence of an independent Slovak state. Slovakia had been part of Hungary, and later the Austrian monarchy, since the 11th century and during the entire period of Hungarian domination there was violent oppression of Slovak nationalism in culture and in political life. The Czech lands and Slovakia also had a different position within the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. The Czech lands belonged to one of the most industrial parts of the monarchy. There was a high level of education and literacy. Czech representatives were politically involved in state institutions. There were numerous Czech associations and political parties and Czech culture developed autonomously within the monarchy. Slovakia, on the other hand, was much more backward and agrarian. There was no Slovak intelligentsia as a result of forced Hungarisation, which included forced Hungarisation of names, family names, names of municipalities and forced use of the Hungarian language in schools. The level of illiteracy was about seven to eight times higher in Slovakia than in the Czech lands, and there was virtually no independent Slovak political representation. Slovaks were also much more religious and spiritual than Czechs and there was much higher influence of Catholicism in Slovakia than in the Czech lands. In 1918, Czechoslovakia – a common state of these two different nations – was formed as an outcome of the First World War, which had resulted in among other things, the defeat and disintegration of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Before the First World War there were only a few voices which argued for a full independence for Czechoslovakia, and the majority of politicians supported federalisation of the AustroHungarian monarchy which would assure a more independent development of the Czech lands (and Slovakia) within the monarchy, upon granting of a wide cultural and political autonomy to the individual nations of the monarchy. This tendency was still predominant in the year 1917, as illustrated for example in the ‘Manifesto of Czech Writers’

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published on 17 May 1917, which requested federalisation of the monarchy with autonomy for the Czech lands, as well as for Slovakia, within the monarchy. Towards the end of the war the emphasis gradually shifted in favour of full Czech(oslovak) independence both among domestic Czech political representatives and among the Czechs and Slovaks in exile. However, the Austro-Hungarian government strongly suppressed these tendencies, and Czech representatives of the so-called ‘Maffie’ – an association supporting full Czech independence – Kramár and Rašín were sentenced to death for supporting separation of the Czech lands, including integration with Hungarian Slovakia. The shift from federalisation to full independence was also clearly demonstrated in the so-called ‘Three-King Declaration’ of 6 January 1918 supported by major Czech artists and politicians. The declaration stressed the right of self-determination (referring to Wilson’s Fourteen Points), rejected federalisation of the monarchy, and expressed its support for the efforts of Czechs and Slovaks in exile to form an independent state. In Slovakia – as indicated above – there was almost no intelligentsia, and therefore there were no significant efforts to support Slovak independence. What efforts were made were carried out by Slovaks in exile, such as M. R. Štefánik. Czechs and Slovaks in exile played a key role in the formation of Czechoslovakia. Their actions directed at the establishment of an independent state included diplomatic and propaganda activities and the establishment of a Czech (later Czechoslovak) National Council in Paris which was later acknowledged as a government and representative of the future Czechoslovak state. Czechoslovakia was subsequently recognised by the Great Powers as a state fighting against the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, especially as a result of the successful participation of the Czechoslovak legion in the war (e.g. the battle of Zborov in Russia). 1 Czechoslovak compatriots also played an important role by supporting the activities of the Czechoslovak National Council and the legion politically and financially. The key document expressing the will of the Czech and the Slovak exile community to establish an independent common state was adopted in Pittsburgh on 30 July 1918. The so-called ‘Pittsburgh Declaration’ of Czech and Slovak compatriots had its origin in previously concluded agreements and declarations (in Slovakia in Liptovský Mikuláš and in Cleveland, USA) that supported the creation of a common state of Czechs and Slovaks, with a large measure of Slovak autonomy within it. 2 The Pittsburgh Declaration called for a common state of Czechs and Slovaks with self-administration in Slovakia to enable representatives

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of the Slovak nation to decide about the details of Slovak political life. However, this vague formulation proved very contentious during the 1920s and 1930s, and many Slovak autonomists used it to claim full Slovak independence (such as nationalist leader Andrej Hlinka). As a result of domestic and exile activities, Czechoslovakia was declared a common state of the Czechs and Slovaks on 28 October 1918. Its legal status was confirmed by the post-war peace agreements that clearly stated that Slovakia was a part of the independent Czechoslovak state. However, for many Slovaks and Hungarians it was very hard to acknowledge this new arrangement in Central Europe. Despite the fact that Slovak political representatives confirmed their willingness to be part of Czechoslovakia by the so-called ‘Declaration of the Slovak Nation’ adopted in Turcianský Sv. Martin on 30 October 1918, the territory of Slovakia was in reality occupied by the Hungarian army which refused to recognise Slovak integration into Czechoslovakia, and in November 1918 actually tried to integrate Slovakia into Hungary. 3 The position of Slovakia was finally resolved by the peace agreement at Trianon in 1921 under which Hungary renounced its claims on Slovakia. However, in practice, there continued to be support among Hungarian politicians for the integration of Slovakia or the modification of the Slovak–Hungarian border in favour of Hungary.

The First and Second Republics Czech–Slovak relations during the so-called ‘First Republic’ (1918–38) were strongly influenced by the situation of the Czech lands and Slovakia before the formation of Czechoslovakia. As a result of the lack of Slovak political representation and low Slovak cultural awareness, most positions in the new state were entrusted to the hands of Czechs. This led to a feeling among many Slovaks that Czechs occupied a superior position in the new state despite the efforts of Czech representatives to stress President Masaryk’s idea of ‘Czechoslovakism’ 4 in many fundamental documents of the new state, such as the Constitution of 1920 or the Language Act.5 Despite the theory of Czechoslovakism that stated that ‘there is no superior or inferior nation’ Slovaks unambiguously felt politically, socially, culturally and economically inferior in comparison with Czechs. Efforts were made to overcome Slovak handicaps, such as a high level of illiteracy and the lack of Slovak schools as a result of forced Hungarisation, which had been a barrier to the growth of a Slovak intelligentsia and Slovak political representation. During the 1920s and 1930s the state invested

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large sums in the Slovak economy, school system and cultural life with the aim of creating an independent Slovak intelligentsia and overcoming the disadvantageous position of Slovakia in the common state. The situation of unequal distribution of political power between the Czechs and the Slovaks was, however, frequently misinterpreted as preference for Czechs and as a sign of Czech assumptions of superiority. It is necessary to state that many Czechs who came to work in Slovakia did adopt a superior attitude towards Slovaks. This contributed to deterioration in relations between the two nationalities and increased Slovak efforts to achieve autonomy and separation. The separatist tendencies in Slovakia first surfaced in 1928 at the time of the celebration of the tenth anniversary of establishment of Czechoslovakia. Vojtech Tuka, the Slovak autonomist leader, claimed that there was a secret provision of the Pittsburgh Declaration that Slovakia should be granted full autonomy at that time. Tuka was sent to prison for seditious conspiracy. However, autonomous tendencies grew further in Slovakia during the economic crisis in the early 1930s, which had a stronger impact on the less developed Slovakia. Tuka’s position was later adopted by the Slovak People’s Party of Andrej Hlinka, which had been against integration of Slovakia into Czechoslovakia since the establishment of the new state. Hlinka stressed the necessity of having Slovaks in leading political and economic positions in Slovakia. However, he was against full Slovak independence as he was aware of Slovakia’s weaknesses and its inability to survive without heavy Czech subsidies. 6 The outlook of the Slovak political establishment changed dramatically after the Munich agreement of September 1938. During the so-called Second Republic (October 1938–March 1939) there were clear tendencies of Slovakia to exploit the changed position of Czechoslovakia, which in reality had lost its political independence, with its development closely controlled by the Germans. The Slovak establishment, however, was also under the strong influence of Germany, and many of its decisions were made under pressure from Germany, which constantly threatened to give Slovakia to the Hungarians.7 In the light of internal developments in Slovakia it was evident shortly after the Munich agreement that keeping Czechoslovakia united was not sustainable from a long-term perspective. From the autumn of 1938 there were purges in Slovak political, cultural and economic life. They resulted in a declaration of Slovak autonomy ‘based on the Pittsburgh Declaration’ on 7 October 1938 (enacted on 22 November 1938), which was recognised by Czech political representatives.

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In the period from October 1938 till March 1939, dualism prevailed in a so-called Czecho-Slovak Republic. Slovakia had its own parliament and government headed by Tiso. The parliament adopted its own laws, many of which clearly conflicted with the Czechoslovak constitution of 1920. Slovakian was declared the only official language and Slovaks put forward a claim for compensation from the Czechs for ‘the amount which was stolen from Slovakia during the joint economy under the First Republic’. 8 The autonomous Slovak state maintained close relations with Hitler’s Germany both politically and economically.9 However, despite German pressure to declare a fully independent Slovak state, Slovak political leaders hesitated as they were aware of the enormous problems associated with independence and knew Slovakia would not have been able to survive on its own. Slovaks chose a so-called ‘waiting strategy’, and in the meantime tried to ‘get rid of unwanted elements’ including Czechs and Jews, and to build a functional Slovak state administration and army, while consolidating power in the hands of the pro-independence Slovak People’s Party. As a result of direct pressure from Hitler who threatened to grant Slovakia to the Hungarians if Slovaks did not declare independence, an independent Slovak State was proclaimed on 14 March 1939. It became a satellite of Nazi Germany. 10 On 15 March 1939 German troops occupied the Czech lands, and an independent Czechoslovakia ceased to exist. From the point of view of Czech–Slovak relations after the Second World War, it was crucial to solve the problem of Slovak development after 1938. Already at the end of the war, Slovak leaders in exile expressed a willingness to join Czechoslovakia, and to return to pre-war coexistence in one state. It had already been determined during the war that the laws adopted after the Munich agreement of 1938 were null and void, as they had not been mandated by Czechoslovakia’s democratic legal order. Slovak independence was thus not rooted in international law and was formally not recognised by the Allies.

The coming of Communism The Czechoslovak post-war government formed in Košice in April 1945 was composed of both Czech and Slovak representatives. 11 One of the first questions the government had to solve was the renewal of an independent Czechoslovakia and the restoration of Czechoslovak law and government in Slovakia by the so-called ‘Prague agreements’ adopted in 1945–46. Among other things they stipulated that all competencies of Slovak authorities were to be performed by Czechoslovak bodies until

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elections. However, disputes over competencies continued during the post-war years and were further reinforced by the so-called ‘retribution processes’ directed at the punishment of collaborators and traitors, including Slovak political leaders such as the President of Slovak State, Jozef Tiso. Many Slovaks regarded what happened as facilitating the re-establishment of Czech domination of Czechoslovakia. 12 Communists were aware of the strong feeling of inferiority of Slovaks and during the forty years of their government (1948–89) tried to suppress nationalism on both sides. Therefore positions in state administration, including the highest ones, were always staffed with regard to the person’s nationality. What that meant in practice was that when the President was Czech, the Secretary-General of the Communist Party (second highest position in the state) would be a Slovak, and vice versa. 13 In 1968 in response to liberalisation in Czechoslovakia the Slovak Communist Party demanded the federalisation of Czechoslovakia. This demand reawakened Slovak nationalism, which had been dormant since the beginning of the Communist regime in 1948. Federalisation was formally declared on 28 August 1968, and was legally established on 27 October 1968 by adoption of a constitutional law on Czechoslovak federalisation (Act No. 143/1968 Coll.) by which Czechoslovakia became a ‘socialist federation of two national states – the Czech Socialist Republic and the Slovak Socialist Republic’. 14 The two states had their independent bodies – the Czech National Council and the Slovak National Council, as well as a Czech, a Slovak and a federal government. The position of Slovakia in the federation, at least in theory, improved due to the so-called ‘minority veto’ which made it impossible for the majority of Czech deputies to override the votes of Slovak deputies. 15 Nevertheless, in reality the position of Czechs and Slovaks in the federation remained almost unchanged, and the federation thus did not fulfill the hopes of either Czechs or Slovaks. In theory Slovaks were granted sufficient guarantee for their further national development, an arrangement that the Czechs perceived as a necessary concession to the Slovaks. However, in practical political and economic life, the situation in the federation remained mostly unchanged, and due to ‘normalisation’ after the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia, the federal framework had minimal significance. National parliaments were not allowed to pass important legislation and decisions continued to be made in the centre. This existence of a non-functioning federation had a rather negative impact on the development of Czech–Slovak relations. For most Czechs, federalisation was seen as providing for the preferential treatment of Slovak officials and the continuous transfer of resources from the

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federal budget to Slovakia, leading to a situation in which the Czechs heavily subsidised development in Slovakia. For their part, Slovaks were dissatisfied with the federation because their expectations of federation were not fulfilled. In particular, Slovaks hoped that due to federation more policies would be decided in Slovakia and that Slovakia would be more visible on the international stage. However, issues affecting Slovakia continued to be decided in Prague and not in Bratislava, and Czechoslovakia tended to be understood as synonymous for the Czech state. Slovaks thus frequently felt politically subordinated to the Czechs, as well as economically exploited by them. Despite this negative perception of federalisation, Slovaks benefited from federalisation. It created a strong Slovak managerial class, as well as a Slovak government and parliament. For the first time in modern history, Slovaks had sufficiently qualified political representatives who were able to work independently and from whom future Slovak leaders could be selected.

After the fall of Communism The nationalist problem in Czechoslovakia endured despite formal federalisation of the state in 1968. The Communist system did not solve the question of unequal Slovak position in the federation; it only postponed the problem to the future. Up to 1989, the media were censored, and Czech–Slovak relations did not belong to the topics that could be discussed. Mutual relations of the two nations were idealised and presented as mostly unproblematic. It is therefore understandable that with the fall of Communism, Slovak (and Czech) nationalism was no longer suppressed and the question of mutual relations between Czechs and Slovaks, including their future coexistence in a common state, was opened with the significant assistance of the media. Soon it was clear that no political party could afford to ignore the question of Czech–Slovak relations.16 The first indicators of growing Slovak nationalism appeared shortly after the velvet revolution of 1989 and they were connected with discussions about the new name of the republic. In January 1990 President Havel made a proposal to the parliament to change the name of the state by leaving out the ‘socialist’ in its name so as to reflect the political changes that had taken place. However, his proposal prompted a more far-reaching discussion about the name of the state and in the process revealed many hidden tensions between Czechs and Slovaks. The Slovaks argued that the proposed name of ‘Czechoslovak Republic’ did not reflect the equal position of the Slovaks within the state. They

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therefore criticised the name change as insufficient and unacceptable because in their opinion it maintained ‘the paternalistic relation of the Czechs towards the Slovaks’. 17 Slovak politicians therefore proposed to change the name of the state to ‘Czecho-Slovak Republic’ with a hyphen indicating the equal position of the two nations. However, for Czechs, this name was unacceptable because they understood the hyphen as a sign of division of the two nations, and they referred to the fact that Czechoslovakia already once had such a name shortly before the Second World War, a period that no one wished to evoke. After numerous discussions during the ‘hyphen war’ the new state’s name was adopted in two forms, which itself was rather a rarity in international relations – in Czech the name was ‘Czechoslovak Federal Republic’ and in Slovak ‘Czecho-Slovak Federal Republic’. However, the new name(s) of the state were not perceived positively either by the Slovaks or by the Czechs. Many nationalist demonstrations were organised, especially in Slovakia, many articles were written about the significance of the hyphen in the state name, and many politicians used the adopted name as pretexts to point out the unequal position of the two nations in the federation. An early indication of the possibility of Slovak independence appeared in August 1990 during the Hlinka jubilee in Slovakia, which was accompanied by an upsurge in nationalist rhetoric. However, at this stage, independence was supported only by a very small minority of Slovak politicians and citizens. Growing Slovak nationalism was demonstrated repeatedly in the parliament during the adoption of various laws which were closely connected with position of the Czechs and Slovaks in the federation, such as the Language Act or discussions about division of competencies between the federal and the national governments, or about the new constitution. The media, which tended to describe the Slovaks as ‘problemmakers’ and the Czechs as ‘oppressors’, also significantly contributed to the increase of these nationalist tensions. However, most of the political parties and representatives in both republics supported preservation of a common state until the 1992 elections, despite continuous fruitless negotiations between Czech and Slovak representatives on a new division of competencies and on the future of a common state. The results of the 1992 parliamentary elections can be considered the real beginning of the end of Czechoslovakia as a common state of the Czechs and the Slovaks. In Slovakia, the elections were won by the Movement for Democratic Slovakia (HZDS) headed by Vladimí r Meciar which supported Slovak independence. The nationalist Slovak National Party was also among the strongest Slovak political parties after the

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elections. These two parties adopted an obstructive stance towards the Czechs and blocked most of the proposals submitted in the parliament on the basis of their unacceptability to Slovakia. Even though Meciar never really openly expressed his position during the negotiations with his Czech counterparts, he had always demagogically claimed that Slovakia needed to be recognised internationally and all competencies needed to be transferred to Slovak organs, however, without the formal dissolution of the common state of Czechs and Slovaks.18 Such a position was not only illogical and contrary to both Czechoslovak and international law, but it also repeatedly blocked efforts to solve the disputes over competencies, thereby preventing any basis from being established for Czech–Slovak relations in a common state. By the middle of the year, Czech politicians headed by Civic Democratic Party (ODS) leader, Václav Klaus, were ‘tired’ of continuous negotiations without results, due to Slovak unwillingness to adopt a clear position on the future of a common state. Fruitless negotiations also continued to impede reform and to create uncertainty about the future of Czechoslovakia.19 The last straw that speeded up the split was the adoption of the Slovak Declaration of Independence by the Slovak National Council in June 1992. For the Czechs, growing Slovak nationalism was mostly very hard to understand because especially from an economic point of view Czechs perceived Slovaks as the beneficiaries of the federation. Economic transformation, its shape and speed, turned out to be one of the most important divisive factors between the Czech leader Klaus, who perceived the Slovaks as a brake on a faster pace of reform, and the Slovak leader Meciar, whose political ambitions, opposition to federation and attacks on the Hungarian population in Slovakia without doubt increased Slovak nationalism. The majority of ordinary people did not, however, support the split and favoured the future coexistence of the two nations in a common state. Public opinion surveys undertaken in 1989 to 1992 repeatedly confirmed that the majority of both Czechs and Slovaks wished to preserve either the existing or a modified version of Czechoslovak federation mostly for historic, economic, cultural and geopolitical reasons.20 A clear indicator of this tendency was the so-called ‘light bulb referendum’ in which more than 80 per cent of Czechs and 37 per cent of Slovaks supported the preservation of the federation.21 Despite the general mood among Czechs and Slovaks, the political leadership decided on the split of the state as from 1 January 1993. The peaceful split of Czechoslovakia was indeed something quite extraordinary

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for the world powers, which feared Czechoslovakia could become a second Yugoslavia. As pointed out by Otto Ulc: ‘Without a single nose bloodied, the two former spouses divided common property, hoisted flags, sent ambassadors to each other and took separate seats in the United Nations.’22

Current Czech–Slovak relations The Czechoslovak ‘velvet divorce’ was undoubtedly rather unusual in the period of early 1990s when we witnessed the bloody war in Yugoslavia and numerous other ethnic disputes in post-communist countries. Among the factors that contributed to the peaceful character of the split was the pragmatic outlook of both nations towards the split. Both the Czechs and the Slovaks were able to perceive the split positively, and to stress the benefits their nation secured. For the Czechs one of the main benefits was ‘moving towards the West’ and becoming closer to the European Union and NATO and consequently farther from the unstable region of Eastern Europe. The benefits also included ‘getting rid’ of a poorer part of the state that had had to be subsidised heavily from Czech taxes. Many Czechs also favoured faster, deeper, and thus more drastic, economic reforms. For Slovaks, and especially for Slovak nationalists, the split meant there was an independent internationally recognised Slovak state with its own nation, symbols and political representation. The reason why there was no war between the nations during the division of the state was due to the absence of fundamental cleavages over religion or ethnicity such as existed in the former Yugoslavia and played an important role in the conflicts in the Balkans. There were, naturally, differences in Czech and Slovak national characters, culture and people’s mentalities – Czechs were often perceived as more secular and modern, whereas Slovaks were understood as more traditional and religious. However, these differences stemming from the two nations’ different histories had been reduced during the forty years of the communist regime. During the split their significance was overshadowed by political and economic arguments in favour of the peaceful division of the state. However, at first glance one could argue that the Slovaks actually lost by establishing an independent state because their economic position worsened, and the economic problems connected with transformation and reforms – such as unemployment, closing of uncompetitive factories and business – hit Slovakia much harder than the more developed Czech Republic. From an economic and a political perspective the

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Czech Republic was unambiguously better off at the beginning of its independence. Politically the state did ‘move to the West’ and economically it was able to continue the pace of reform faster, as Klaus had envisaged. It also had many competitive industries and companies, and culturally it had a long tradition and history to refer to. The ethnic composition of the new state was quite homogeneous and Czech foreign relations were rather unproblematic, with the exception of the rather troublesome heritage of Czech–German relations. The Czech Republic was perceived as an island of political and economic stability in Central Europe and as a reliable partner. Due to rapid economic reform the economy was in a healthy state. The Czech Republic became an early candidate to be in the next wave of the enlargement of the European Union, while it was accepted into full membership of NATO in 1999. For Slovaks the main achievement was the establishment of an independent, internationally recognised state. However, the new state had to face many problems, both at a political and an economic level. One of the most important political problems of Slovakia was the relative ethnic heterogeneity of the population in Slovakia, in particular, the high percentage of Hungarians living in southern Slovakia. Many Slovak nationalists perceived the Hungarian minority as a threat to the Slovak state, and have supported many nationality-based laws which discriminate against the Hungarian population – the best known example is the prevention of the use of Hungarian as an official language in areas where Hungarians constitute a majority of the population – and which have led to Slovakia’s being described as an ethnic constitutional order. Hungarians frequently served as a negative instrument to define Slovak identity because of the absence of a historical period that Slovaks could identify with positively in cultural terms. Czech–Slovak relations after 1993 can be designated as ordinary relations between two neighbouring states with some, above-standard aspects. After 1993, two new independent states were established with all the consequences according to international law. The territory was divided between the two states without larger problems because the historical border between the Czech Republic and Slovakia was relatively easy to determine. Property was divided based on the territorial principle, while movables were divided according to the number of inhabitants (the key 2:1 in favour of the Czech Republic was used). The Czech Republic and the Slovak Republic became new members of international organisations, exchanged ambassadors and developed mutual relations.23

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For ordinary people the political, economic and cultural situation changed overnight. However, as a practical matter it was almost standard that no passports were required when crossing the border between the two states and cultural and regional co-operation between the two peoples also continued after the split. Relations between the Czechs and Slovaks on a personal level remain very good as the two peoples understand each other’s language and share a common history. On the state level there is co-operation between the two states both bilaterally and within various international or regional organisations such as the Visegrad group or CEFTA. Relations changed slightly after the Czech Republic joined NATO and before Slovakia was accepted into NATO. However, political, economic and cultural co-operation has continued and relations can still be described as ‘above standard’. Both states have common goals in foreign policy that among other things have included joining the European Union, and they have co-operated intensively in achieving this goal. Indeed, it seems likely that co-operation between the two states will rise to a new level when they both become members of the European Union in May 2004.

Notes and references 1. Legions were joint Czechoslovak units composed of compatriots, deserters, captives and volunteers that were part of allied armies (altogether approximately 200,000 people). They called themselves ‘Czechoslovaks’. 2. For Slovaks, there were the following possibilities of future development after the First World War: (1) independence (negligible support, Utopia, Slovakia unknown in international community); (2) autonomy within the AustroHungarian monarchy; (3) integration into Hungary (strongly supported by Hungarians as a result of the common history of Slovakia and Hungary); (4) common state with Russia (unrealistic) or (5) common state with the Czechs. 3. The problem arose from the unclear determination of Slovakia’s southern border because it was extremely difficult to determine historical borders as Slovakia had been part of Hungary for many centuries. 4. The theory of Czechoslovakism stated that Czechs and Slovaks form one nation and Czechs and Slovaks are only two different branches of this nation. This theory – supported by the nation’s political representatives (Masaryk, Beneš, Štefánik) – was posited on the basis of the existence of common spiritual principles uniting the Czech and Slovak nations. It represents the two nations as two branches of one nation that was violently torn asunder and held apart for many centuries. However, the theory states that the two nations are very close to each other by reason of their culture, language and mentality. Therefore, it was to be welcomed that history gave the Czechs and Slovaks a chance to form again a common Czechoslovak nation and to live in unity. This theory was in many aspects artificial, especially with regard to the common culture and mentality of the Czechs and Slovaks, as demonstrated elsewhere

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5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11.

12.

13.

Case Studies in this text. However, it served as a useful tool for justifying Czechoslovak unity while simultaneously supporting the individual cultural and political development of the two nations within Czechoslovakia. In practical life, however, there had never been any Czechoslovak nation and further historical development only confirmed this fact. Masaryk’s theory was also supported by the Allies as it gave them a clear foundation for the integration of Slovakia into a future Czechoslovakia. Many Slovaks, however, opposed the theory partially also as a result of their former resistance towards forced Hungarisation. The introductory provisions of the Czechoslovak Constitution of 1920 started with the wording ‘We, the Czechoslovak Nation’ which was a clear confirmation of the theory of Czechoslovakism. Similarly, the Language Act of 1920 stated that the official language was the uniform Czechoslovak language of which Czech and Slovak were only two different dialects. However, the Czechoslovak language never existed in practical life and people used Czech and Slovak languages with a clear predominance of the Czech language (‘Czechoslovak’ was almost synonymous with ‘Czech’). For more details about development of Czech–Slovak relations see Miloslav John, Czechoslovakism and Czechoslovakia: 1914–1938, Baroko & Fox, Beroun 1994 (Czech). Slovakia lost the region of Spiš and Orava in favour of Poland as a result of the Munich agreement in September 1938 and in November 1938 it lost the controversial Southern Slovakia in favour of Hungary by the so-called Vienna Arbitration. Its territory thus diminished significantly and its strategic position was weakened considerably by these territorial losses. This requirement was especially ridiculous with regard to the fact that more than CZK 30 billion was invested in Slovakia and Sub-Carpathian Ukraine during the twenty years of existence as a joint state. See, History of the Czech Lands II (Dejiny zemí koruny c eské II), published by Paseka, Praha 1993. Close political ties of Slovakia to Nazi Germany were illustrated, for example, by the telegram of the Slovak leader Tuka to Hitler on 30 January 1939 in which Tuka ‘lays the destiny of his nation in the hands of the Leader Hitler from whom he expects a full liberation’. Germany also promised economic assistance to Slovakia. However, this was on the condition of Slovak separation from the Czech lands. For more information about the development in Slovakia during the Second World War, see Ivan Kamenec, Slovak State (1939–1945), Anomal 1992 (Czech). The government was formed after weeks of disputes especially about the national composition of the government and about the number of Slovak representatives in the government. The solution adopted by the so-called ‘Six’ composed of four Czechs and two Slovaks agreed that out of 16 department ministers, four should be Slovaks and out of 25 government members, nine were to be Slovaks. For detailed analysis of the post-war development of Czech–Slovak relations, see K. Kaplan, Truth about Czechoslovakia (1945–1948), 2nd edn, Panorama, Prague 1990 (Czech). The rule of different nationality of the foremost representative of the state, namely the president and the prime minister and/or head of the Federal Assembly, was practised until the elections of 1992 (the President from 1989

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was a Czech, Václav Havel; while the Prime Minister was Slovak, Marian

Calfa; and the Head of the Federal Assembly was another Slovak, Alexandr Dubc ek). This unwritten practice was first broken after the elections of 1992

14. 15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23.

when Havel appointed Klaus, the head of the winning ODS party, and a Czech politician, to be the Prime Minister. The situation of ‘two Czechs’ in the foremost positions led to a further eruption of nationalism in Slovakia as it was perceived as discrimination against Slovaks. See Oldrich Dedek, The break-up of Czechoslovakia: an in-depth analysis, Fortuna, Prague 1997 (Czech). J. Rychlík, The Split of Czechoslovakia. Czecho–Slovak Relations 1989–1992, Academic Electronic Press, Bratislava 2002, p. 343. For more information about the legal consequences of federalisation of Czechoslovakia, see the analysis of Rychlík, 2002 (English summary). In theory, federalisation arose from ‘establishment of two completely sovereign states who voluntarily delegated part of their sovereignty to federal organs’. Rychlík, p. 343. Detailed information about the position of major Czech and Slovak political parties to the future of Czech–Slovak relations and common state can be found in Rychlík, 2002 (English summary), pp. 345–56. Fedor Gál, Contemporary Crisis of Czecho–Slovak Relations, Sociologické nakladatelství, Prague 1992. Rychlík, 2002, p. 349. For an in-depth analysis of Czech–Slovak negotiations on the future of a common state, see for example, Rychlík, 2002 (English summary); Jirí Musil (ed.), The End of Czechoslovakia, Central European University Press, Budapest 1995; Oldrich Dedek, 1997 or Rostislav Hovorka, History of Split: Czechoslovakia 1990–1992, Pedagogické stredisko, Hodonín 1995 (Czech). See Rüdiger Kipke and Karel Vodic ka (eds), Abschied von der Tschechoslowakei, Köln 1993, pp. 51–2. Martin Daneš, ‘Dissolution of the State against People’s Will’, January 3, 2003, published at http://www.virtually.cz/clanky2/0514.html. Otto Ulc, ‘Czechoslovakia’s velvet divorce’, East European Quarterly, Vol. XXX, No. 3, September 1996, p. 331. For detailed analysis of the legal and political aspects of the split of Czechoslovakia, see Rychlík, 2002.

7 Leadership and Developing Democracy Where There is None Hugh O’Doherty

Introduction In this chapter, I attempt to provide some prescriptive detail to implement Peleg’s proposal for moving from a hegemonic to a consociational model of government. In contrast to the hegemonic system designed to ‘maintain, enhance and perpetuate the dominance of one ethnic group’, a consociational system is designed to offer full participation for minorities through what Peleg refers to as a power-sharing ‘deal’.1 To an outside observer, the solution may appear to be simple. The group with power must agree to give up some of its power. And the violent factions must agree to accept the compromises of the political process. A third-party mediator may assist in managing a container and process within which the necessary compromises become possible. Hence in this chapter, I shall use the notion of a ‘third-party mediator’ as a metaphor for anyone who would like to exert leadership to end ethnic conflict and advance democracy. Throughout the following, I shall adopt the Diamond–Linz–Lipset definition that Peleg applies to determine whether a government meets the standards of democracy. Briefly, the Diamond–Linz–Lipset definition for democracy requires three features which I shall summarise as follows: (1) the factions can compete fairly for all elected positions of authority; (2) the factions can compete fairly to initiate, shape, and influence the official policy of the government; and (3) there are sufficient civil liberties to protect the effectiveness of the factions as they compete for authority positions and policy. 2 Traditionally, third-party mediators tend to view the complex process of achieving peace as a mere technical task of getting a few representatives from the warring parties to sign a peace agreement. However, I argue 118

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that the complex process of achieving peace is an adaptive leadership challenge. By an adaptive challenge, I mean a challenge that requires someone to instigate a process for shifting the values in the cultures so that peace has a higher value than what it is that the parties protect with their enmity. A major barrier to peace, I would argue, is the very identity of the warring parties. The power of identity to make a young man give up a life of beauty and pick an ugly death is illustrated in the Yeats play, Kathleen ni Houlihan. In this play, a young Irishman is celebrating his future marriage to a beautiful woman. It is the eve of the wedding and the community is gathered in celebration. Kathleen appears, the symbol of Ireland, seducing him to sacrifice his future, his bride, and his fortune to Her. This sacrifice means death, but it is a noble death, death to liberate Ireland from English oppression. And that is the power of identity. To uncouple the people from their identity is a painful process. The uncoupling requires that people give up their dependence on having an enemy to define their sense of purpose, honour, and glory – the group’s sense of self. Accordingly, in this chapter, I propose three elements that should be of concern for anyone hoping to assist the transition from hegemony to consociational democracy.

Element 1: Achieving peace requires more than just a peace agreement Once the Good Friday Agreement was signed, George Mitchell left Ireland, believing his work was accomplished. Indeed, some matters, such as the release of prisoners and the beginning of demilitarisation by the British Army, were accomplished with little difficulty. Detailed negotiations within the political parties about the structures of government also evolved successfully. Progress on confidence-building measures such as the establishment of the commissions for human rights and equality was fairly rapid. Some progress was even made on what the Agreement refers to as the ‘normalization of security arrangements and practices’, that is a scaling down of army patrols and the removal of military installations.3 However, without continued third-party mediation, the parties were unable to reach compromise agreements. Left to their own devices, they insisted on their fixed positions. As a result, the democratic process stalled. Indeed, contention within the new democratic institutions reached such a high level that Britain, in an extreme expression of hegemony, intervened to suspend the institutions. The institutions that Britain suspended were the Northern Ireland Executive and the

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Assembly that were supposed to resolve the intractable issues that the peace agreement did not address, including – (a) decommissioning weapons; (b) police reform; and (c) loyalist parades. Decommissioning The process of decommissioning weapons touches on deep issues of identity and is therefore profoundly symbolic. Symbolically, the handing over of weapons implies for paramilitary organisations on both sides that they have been defeated and have surrendered. The opposite position, held by many, but most strongly by the Ulster Unionists, is that the retention of weapons is meant as a threat in the event of negotiations breaking down. In a democratic jurisdiction with elected representatives, a party should not reserve the right to use violence in the event that the democratic vote may go against the party’s wishes. The Ulster Unionist Party (UUP) has been adamant that Sinn Féin’s participation in government be predicated on the so-called decommissioning of weapons, since it is widely assumed that the IRA has more extensive and complex arsenals than any other paramilitary organisation. Soon after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, the UUP leader, David Trimble, likened Sinn Féin to Josef Goebbels, accusing them of spinning the lie that there is nothing in the Good Friday Agreement that required the IRA to decommission before Sinn Féin could take up ministerial positions in the Northern Ireland government. In response, Martin McGuinness, Sinn Féin’s chief negotiator, said David Trimble had ‘lost the argument on decommissioning’ and accused him of attempting to renegotiate the agreement. McGuinness urged the British and Irish governments to inject a new momentum and a new dynamic into the peace process. The position of the IRA is that the guns and the plastic explosive Semtex have already – in a sense – been decommissioned: they are not in use, the group argues, and will not be used. Therefore the question of handing them over is an academic one. This view is expressed also by the loyalist paramilitary organisations, such as the Ulster Volunteer Force and the Ulster Defence Association. In February 2000, General de Chastelain, chairman of the decommissioning body, published a longawaited report. It followed a review of the operation of the Agreement under George Mitchell in 1999 that had persuaded the UUP to agree to the establishment of the Executive ahead of actual decommissioning. There was expectation of a major move by the Provisional IRA. The report brought bad news. Despite emergency talks and dramatic late-night efforts, including talks between the IRA and General de

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Chastelain, to try and solve the arms crisis, no agreement could be reached. Although the report found it ‘particularly significant’ that the IRA would consider how to put arms and explosives beyond use in the context of the implementation of the Good Friday Agreement, their position was unclear and they had failed to decommission any arms. So the Northern Ireland Assembly was suspended and a dark shadow fell over the future of the peace process. Efforts continued throughout the month of March to try to find a solution to the decommissioning deadlock and to restore the Northern Ireland Assembly. Negotiations moved to Washington, where Irish Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, Social Democratic and Labour Party (SDLP) leader John Hume, Sinn Féin leader Gerry Adams, and UUP leader David Trimble met with US President Bill Clinton at the St Patrick’s Day celebrations. David Trimble came under increasing pressure from antiAgreement members from within his Ulster Unionist Party, narrowly winning a leadership battle from the Rev. Martin Smyth in March 2001. David Trimble had little room to manoeuvre. He was attacked from without and also from within his own party. This continued even after an initial breakthrough on confidence-building measures in May 2000. Thus, in September 2000 his candidate in the South Antrim by-election was defeated by the Democratic Unionist Party’s William McCrea. This was a major upset and gave the anti-Good Friday Agreement faction in Unionism a major boost. In October 2000 a ‘head to head’ leadership battle took place between Trimble and anti-Agreement Unionist Jeffrey Donaldson at their party’s council meeting. Donaldson and the ‘no’ camp wanted the UUP to set a deadline of 30 November 2000 for the IRA to start decommissioning. For their part, Trimble and the ‘yes’ camp put forward an amendment offering no deadline for decommissioning but signalling a lack of cooperation with the North/South Ministerial Council if progress on arms was not quicker. Prime Minister Tony Blair also found himself ensnared in the issue after the initial deadlock on the formation of the Executive. On 14 May 1999, at a meeting in Downing Street, Blair told Trimble he was going for broke. He was going to set another deadline, an absolute one of 30 June – the date on which power would be devolved formally to the Scottish Parliament and Welsh Assembly. Blair told Trimble he would ask General John de Chastelain, chairman of the international body on decommissioning, to compile a report before 30 June on whether the paramilitaries were serious about the issue. If he believed they were, Sinn Féin could have its seats. Downing Street thought it had the support of Trimble for this, but Trimble found his party executive

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fiercely opposed to it. The formula was rejected. To the Unionists, it implied Sinn Féin could take seats without decommissioning. They felt betrayed. To justify their feelings of betrayal, Unionists pointed to two ‘comfort notes’ Blair had previously written. In the Belfast Telegraph he had written ‘Representatives of the parties intimately linked to paramilitary groups can only be in a future Northern Ireland government if it is clear the threat of violence has gone.’ Also, in a private letter to Trimble during the Good Friday negotiations, Blair said the deal meant that ‘the process of decommissioning should begin right away’. These assurances had kept most Ulster Unionists on board for the Agreement. Now that he seemed prepared to allow Sinn Féin cabinet positions without prior decommissioning, Unionists felt tricked. Trimble accused Blair of driving the peace process ‘into the wall’ by ‘always pushing for things to be done immediately and not allowing people to think things through’. ‘The problem is,’ Trimble said, ‘that when you reach the target date and you haven’t got the matter solved, what should you do? Do you drive into the wall or do you put the brakes on?’ As a result of a series of negotiations to rescue the situation, a breakthrough occurred in May 2000 when Tony Blair and Bertie Ahern announced a formula to put the Assembly and the Executive back in operation on condition that the paramilitaries state clearly they would put their arms beyond use. The negotiations focused on confidencebuilding inspections of arms dumps, the IRA resuming contact with the de Chastelain commission, demilitarisation (or normalisation), and implementing the Patten report on policing. Sinn Féin and the SDLP welcomed the proposal, but David Trimble had a very difficult time selling the formula to his circumspect Ulster Unionist colleagues who voted by the slim margin of 53 per cent in favour of re-entry to the devolved government. The absence of major progress on decommissioning by either Republican or Loyalist paramilitaries, until the acts of decommissioning of unknown scale by the Provisional IRA in October 2001 and April 2002, raises the question as to what the Good Friday Agreement intended should happen. Was it intended, as Sinn Féin and the SDLP implied, to be a desirable, but not essential outcome? Or were all parties committed to ensure that complete decommissioning of paramilitary weapons would actually be achieved within the timescale of two years set down in the Agreement? The peace process would have been greatly helped in its implementation phase if this issue had not been left so ambiguous.

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Police reform The issue of policing is deeply contentious in Northern Ireland and was not dealt with directly during the negotiations that resulted in the Good Friday Agreement. Instead, an independent commission on policing was established, chaired by former British Governor of Hong Kong Chris Patten. Essentially, the issue of policing was put on hold in order to move ahead on other issues. The publication of the commission report in 1999 provoked further acrimony. Sinn Féin argued at one extreme that the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), the Northern Ireland police force, is irreformable and must be disbanded, and, at the other extreme, various Loyalist groups maintained that nothing, including the name, uniform, and training of the RUC ought to be changed. In a bid to win nationalist support for a reformed police service, Peter Mandelson, British Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, announced plans to implement the Patten proposals without major changes. The RUC would undergo a name-change, emblems and flags would be altered, and recruiting Catholics would receive priority. Sinn Féin and the SDLP gave a guarded welcome to the proposals, but the Tories and Unionists raced to criticise the Secretary of State. Shadow Secretary of State Andrew Mackay said the Conservative Party could not support proposals to change the name of the RUC or drop the cap-badge insignia. He argued that it would be dangerous for the government to implement any of the security sensitive proposals before there was a lasting peace and substantial decommissioning had taken place. The DUP’s deputy leader Peter Robinson said that Patten’s report was the ‘death warrant of the RUC’ and blamed Ulster Unionists for signing the Good Friday Agreement. David Trimble came under intense pressure from within his own party to resign if the Patten recommendations were adopted. However, when the time came for Mandelson to submit a Police Bill to the House of Commons he met with fierce criticism from both Sinn Féin and the SDLP which felt that the British government had arbitrarily abandoned key Patten proposals in order to satisfy recurrent Unionist pleadings for political and policing concessions. The SDLP argued that the failure of the RUC to account properly for their actions and abuses had been central to policing failure. They believed that the Patten proposals would correct this through a Policing Board that could require reports from and conduct inquiries into the police. However, they believed that the Police Bill submitted to the House of Commons severely curtailed these possibilities and gave the British Secretary of

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State blocking powers to frustrate the calling of reports and conducting of inquiries. They were also upset that the Police Bill did not require police officers to take a human rights oath, but gave the police, not the Policing Board, power to draw up human rights codes. Moreover, they argued, the Bill was silent on police compliance with human rights standards relevant to the use of firearms, law enforcement officials, the role of lawyers, and the conduct of detention. All in all, they were deeply suspicious that the security division of the Northern Ireland Office were remaking Patten’s proposals in the image of the old RUC. Leaders within the Catholic Church also withheld support for the Police Bill saying that calls for nationalists to join the police were premature because there was no evidence that such calls would work. They believed that such calls ran the risk of undermining the critical importance of matters that had still to be resolved. Catholic Church leaders also cautioned against a police force that was overtly Unionist in its symbolism and ethos and called for further consultation as important elements of the Patten report had not yet been put in place. Other organisations were also concerned about the Police Bill. The Human Rights Commission raised issues; the Police Authority expressed ‘deep concern’, and the Committee on the Administration of Justice said they were ‘dismayed’. Speculation that the policing issue might be put on the back burner or delayed for several months met with fierce criticism from the SDLP. They saw any suggestion of a moratorium on the policing issue, or a parking of this issue, as simply not an option for them. They believed that such a strategy would seriously damage the political progress that had been made. The result of all the criticism was backtracking by the government. However, the issue of the full implementation of Patten’s proposals still had not been resolved by April 2003. Parades Along with decommissioning weapons and policing, the issue of parades remains a difficult obstacle to peace in Northern Ireland. There remains a fundamental disagreement between the nationalist and Unionist communities at the grass-roots level about the right to parade through an area where the majority population is opposed to the parade. Indeed, even before it got underway, the new Assembly was placed under threat because of a serious threat of violence over the re-routing of the controversial Drumcree Orange Parade in the town of Portadown. Drumcree is the best known and most intractable example of disagreement about parading.

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In June 1998, the Secretary of State ‘Mo’ Mowlam appealed for calm in the run-up to a number of contentious parades in Portadown and felt obliged to draft more British troops into Northern Ireland to boost security levels ahead of daily marches by Orangemen in the town. In July, when the Parades Commission banned Orangemen from marching down the nationalist Garvaghy Road in Portadown, the streets of Northern Ireland were once again plunged into mayhem, as protests were staged in support of Orangemen. Portadown District Master Harold Gracey urged hundreds of thousands of Loyalists across Northern Ireland to come out on the streets to show their support for the Orange standoff at Drumcree. Loyalist protests spread chaos across Northern Ireland, with areas brought to a standstill by dozens of roadblocks and businesses forced to close. Security forces used water cannon to fight back hundreds of protestors at Drumcree Hill as they came under attack for five nights running. There was further trouble of this kind in subsequent years. It was inevitable that without third-party assistance during the implementation phase of the peace process the Good Friday Agreement would be in danger. In Mitchell’s absence, there was no one to help mediate these very contentious issues and help the parties come up with creative options that took into account everyone’s needs, fears, and concerns. At the time of writing, the Assembly is in suspension for a fourth time and the issues of decommissioning, police reform, loyalist parades, and demilitarisation still dominate the political agenda.

Element 2: Uncoupling people from their identity The Good Friday Agreement established new institutions in three ‘strands’: (1) Democratic institutions in Northern Ireland, including an Executive and an Assembly; (2) North–South Ministerial Council to deal with issues between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland; and (3) institutions to deal with issues between Ireland and Britain, including a Council and Intergovernmental Conference. However, creating these democratic institutions is only part of a solution, because the people must learn to use the institutions. And learning to use the institutions is an adaptive process, a process that requires honouring the procedures of democracy even more than the substantive outcome. To get to the place of honouring democracy, both the oppressor and the oppressed must give up the part of their identity that is attached to the substantive outcome. However, as Whyte4 suggests in his review of the research literature on the conflict in Northern Ireland, ‘allegiances

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seem to be governed by deep-seated needs to protect an identity, rather than by considerations of material advantage’. Fisher argues that applied social psychology assumes that individuals and social groups have undeniable needs and rights for dignity, respect, security, adequate control over their own destiny, and a ‘place in the sun’ in both physical and psychological terms. Therefore, he claims that the most useful unit of analysis in protracted conflict is that of the identity group, whether based on racial, religious, ethnic, cultural, or other grounds. ‘It is through the identity group that the expression of compelling human needs is brought forward.’5 However, a problem with a needs-theory approach to conflict resolution is the assumption that once something is accepted as a need then it is inherently positive. For example, Burton 6 even argues that the important characteristic of security, recognition, and identity ‘needs’ is that they are ‘non-negotiable’. But it is possible that some basic human needs, which are initially seen as positive, may in fact fuel conflict. For example, Fisher points out that the need for identity often gains expression through the social identity of the ethnic group, which at the same time may fuel ethnocentrism. Thus, ‘group identity is combined with a sense of in-group solidarity, the dark side of which is derogation and hostility toward out-groups’.7 The major proponents of the needs approach (Burton, Kelman, and Fisher), come to terms with the dilemma of non-negotiability by arguing that if each group in conflict is reassured in its identity, then they will give up in-group loyalty to develop one joint perspective. For example, Kelman 8 hopes that interactive problem-solving workshops, rather than breaking down norms of in-group loyalty, will promote the development of in-group norms that incorporate the perspectives and needs of all parties. With this hope in mind, interactive problem-solving workshops are designed to enable and encourage workshop participants to engage in a type of communication which ‘helps the parties penetrate each other’s perspective and understand each other’s concerns, needs, fears, priorities, and constraints’. The assumption is that once both sets of needs are on the table and have been understood and acknowledged, the parties will be able to engage in a process of developing new ideas for resolving the conflict in ways that would ‘satisfy the fundamental needs and allay the existential fears of both parties’. According to Kelman 9 these workshops offer ‘an emotionally corrective’ experience which contributes to ‘a transformation of the relationship between the parties’. The notion of ‘transformation’ that Kelman holds out is very attractive. He implies that understanding the other’s ‘concerns, needs, fears, priorities,

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and constraints’ will in and of itself be enough to bring about transformation. However, it is an illusion. Inherent in the very concept of transformation is the notion of marked change in nature, function, or condition. Relationships cannot be ‘transformed’ without the parties involved letting go of their attachment to their particular framing of identity. The paradox is that the ‘self’, which each party claims they must be free to determine as a basic human right, is changed as a result of true dialogue. Or, more accurately, the attachment to ‘self’ is released. However, this involves confronting the fear of ‘disorganization and death’, which Nudler10 postulates as the alternative to ‘the most fundamental need of the person’ for identity. If identity is non-negotiable, then intractability is inevitable. For how can there be resolution since no party engaged in the conflict can be expected to compromise on what is accepted as a fundamental human need? Each side fears that concessions will be interpreted as ‘surrender’ and they will feel humiliated. Each fears that the others will take advantage because they perceive them as weak or too easily yielding. So each community is trapped in the following paradox: to guarantee survival, each believes it must maintain and protect its identity, yet each must sacrifice attachment to identity for resolution to be possible. The end result is a social system frozen in fear. The uncoupling generates fear It is profoundly threatening to both the oppressor and the oppressed to drop the conflict. They are addicted to the conflict because the conflict gives them meaning. If they drop the conflict they will have to betray the memory of their heroes who gave everything they had for the cause. To shift their identity would entail taking the ‘other’ into account. This is a form of intimacy that must be avoided at all costs since it is threatening, in the sense that raw emotions such as humiliation, shame, and rage would surface. Wieland-Burston describes how people, when their view of themselves is threatened, may need to become hostile in order to avert chaos. ‘We avoid entering into the chaotic communication for fear of change: we hold fast to the old order and do our outmost to avoid being forced to reappraise our situation.’11 So, communities in conflict may avoid dialogue in order to remain immune from accepting responsibility for the violence and death that their actions have created. Making the transition from hegemony to consociation means that both communities accept that they are equally responsible for reality.

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Peleg hints at this dilemma. He writes that hegemonic societies cannot change their ‘nature’. Once the very essence of the polity is defined by its ethnicity, to change its ethnic definition would be a form of ‘collective suicide’. In its ‘blindness, sense of powerfulness, and insensitivity’, the majority is unable to adapt. The signing of the Good Friday Agreement stimulated (perhaps forced is a more appropriate word) a profound identity crisis in the Unionist community. Ironically, the UUP’s efforts to find a new ground for itself as a pro-Agreement party left the way open for other groups to move in and declare themselves Ulster’s True Defenders. So the very concept of Loyalism, for so long based on implacable support for the status quo and opposition to everything nationalist or Republican, is now at stake, with Loyalist parties competing over the right to be the ‘true’ Loyalists, the true representatives of ‘the people’. Democratic Unionists have traditionally portrayed themselves as the only true defenders of Ulster. From their point of view, all other organisations claiming to be Loyalist are, at best, corruptions of the truth or, at worst, in league with the devil. Therefore, the DUP’s mission is to expose their falsehood. In the world of DUP rhetoric there is deceit everywhere and Ulster’s purity is always under threat. The DUP’s campaign against the Good Friday Agreement consisted primarily of portraying it as nothing other than an arrangement to free prisoners and put Sinn Féin into government. As such it represented betrayal again and destruction for the Ulster people. A major problem with the DUP’s definition of Loyalism is that the party’s very sense of self can only thrive on opposition, on the construction of crises that open the political space which it can claim as its own. So the party is trapped – threatened if they engage with the politics of the Good Friday Agreement, excluded from decision-making if they don’t. Alternatively, the Progressive Unionist Party (PUP) has been able to reframe Loyalism and what it means to be a defender of the people in such a way that the identity of Loyalism itself becomes a source of legitimacy for the peace process. The Party has demonstrated an openness to question Loyalist identity. Their journal Progressive View acknowledges the ‘insurmountable difficulty’ in actually defining what specifically constitutes the PUP’s particular cultural identity. Finlayson describes an increasingly bitter rivalry between the Ulster Democratic Party and the PUP that centres on a mutual sense of betrayal: ‘working class Protestants bitter that they have had to bear the brunt of the violence whilst the Democratic Unionist Party have egged them on from the sidelines; the Democratic Unionist Party bitter at the new

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found flexibility of those same working-class Protestants whose strength they had depended on hitherto to block any constitutional change’.12 Fearing fragmentation, some groups seek to re-establish the unity and purity of their tradition. Others seek to exploit this fragmentation to extend and develop their constituencies. The result has been internal feuding among the paramilitary groups in both communities, with significant breaches by both Republicans and Loyalists of the paramilitary ceasefires. In 2003, people are still losing their lives as a result of paramilitary violence. Most of the violence has been perpetrated by Loyalists, especially during a sudden eruption of bitter feuding in the Shankill Road area of Belfast that resulted in murders, shootings, house burnings, and the displacement of large numbers of people. This feuding is symptomatic of the wider battle taking place for the hearts and minds of the Unionist community. Where the British state once provided easy answers for Unionists to the question of loyalty and identity these no longer function. Criticism of the state inevitably led to questions about the very basis of identity. The oppressed group contributes to its own oppression The nationalist/Catholic community faces similar internal tensions. Ending support for IRA violence would mean facing the possibility that past generations of nationalists may have been misguided. It would mean having to face up to the terrible suffering their actions have caused. It would mean abandoning their core goal of ridding Ireland of the British presence and for some this would feel like suicide. Attached to their identity of martyrdom and sacrifice for the cause of freedom, it is not possible for the nationalist/Catholic community to bear the sorrow inherent in confronting such a possibility. Similarly, for Protestants/Unionists to admit any mistakes in their dealings with Catholics/nationalists is psychologically and ethically costly. Their image of themselves as upright and honest would start to crack. We see data to support this view in Todd’s study, which recognises that Loyalists see dominance as the only means of preserving their identity. She argues that, because Loyalists perceive practices embodying domination as the only alternative to humiliation, they are fought for to the end. They view compromise as defeat and defeat means destruction of the identity of the group and individual. 13 Accepting responsibility for one’s role in the conflict means making the transition from object to subject. Where before one had a defined role as ‘victim’ in a social structure that operated largely mechanically, one now begins to find oneself in a fluid, evolving world full of untagged,

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unarticulated meaning – a world in which certainty about identity has been disturbed. If I begin to question my definition of myself as an ‘oppressed’ Catholic who blames the British for all that seems wrong in society, and instead begin to acknowledge that I also have a role in perpetuating oppression, then who am I? Likewise, if I no longer define myself as a Protestant, permanently under siege, then who am I? What are the consequences of acknowledging that the ‘other’ has changed? These are frightening questions, threatening each group’s core role structure. In the face of this threat to identity, it is not surprising that groups in conflict tend to retreat from dialogue in order to emphasise order. Unfortunately, this withdrawal ‘goes hand in hand with adherence to a rigid order and a narrow self-image’. 14

Element 3: You cannot abandon people If a child is afraid of spiders, one therapy might be to put a spider in the child’s hand and let the child go through the fear. With the right support, this might be effective. However, to put the spider in the child’s hand and then take a taxi for the airport would likely to be ineffective because the child could just fling the spider away in disgust and maybe even register the experience as yet another moment of trauma. Similarly, it is not only ineffective but irresponsible to get Protestants and Catholics of Northern Ireland to sign a peace agreement and expect them to ignore the ‘spider’, their revulsion and hate for each other. Yet, this is what George Mitchell did. Within a week of getting the parties to sign the agreement, he left on a plane for the US believing that his work was done. But he left the people in fear, with the spider in their hand. Implementation usually requires further mediation One point of view is that the third party ought to leave immediately after an agreement has been achieved. This breaks the participants’ dependence on the third party, obliging them to grow into leadership, to learn to manage authority effectively, and be responsible for the work of implementing the agreement. All of these are important steps in growing democracy. They can no longer use the third party as scapegoat for failure. On the other hand, leaving immediately after an agreement may have unintended negative consequences. Pushing the parties out of the third-party nest may be premature. They may not be ready yet for complete independence and responsibility. They may not yet have grown

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their own democratic wings. In any case, even though the political leaders who participated in the negotiation process may have changed some of their attitudes, this is not true of their constituents. The painful work of transitioning from hegemony to consociation must now begin. However, the negotiation process has not prepared the warring parties for this. Political leaders and their communities now find themselves in a vacuum, facing a profoundly fearful challenge that they cannot possibly accomplish on their own. Yet at the very moment when they need outside partners to help them begin moving towards an unknown, frightening future, they are abandoned by the third party to their own efforts to make the agreement a living reality, as if that was a simple after-the-fact matter. Of course, the third-party brokers of an agreement may leave behind technical assistance such as economic support or peacekeeping troops. They may leave in place formulas, ‘technical’ solutions for governing structures. But the work facing communities at the implementation stage is no longer technical. Identities are now at stake. Old worldviews are threatened. In order to fly, birds do not have to reconfigure their identity. The capacity for flight is programmed into their genes. Unfortunately, humans are not programmed for peace. Values and norms that polarised communities have clung to for centuries are at stake. Each has colluded in creating a system to perpetuate a social system based on demonising. Therefore, engaging with the enemy demands a change in consciousness, a new way of being with each other, and a willingness to risk loosening the hold of old concepts and embracing new possibilities. This calls for a re-programming of sorts – work that is ‘adaptive’, not simply ‘technical’. Traditionally, however, third-party intervention efforts tend to view the achievement of a peace agreement as a ‘technical’ matter, with the signing of the agreement as the measure of success. An agreement is viewed, in its own right, as cause for congratulations and celebration. Often Nobel Peace Prizes are distributed in recognition of this achievement as if the mission is accomplished. For example, Yasser Arafat, Shimon Peres, and Yitzhak Rabin in the Middle East, and David Trimble and John Hume in Northern Ireland, all received the Nobel Peace Prize for their efforts in negotiating respectively the Oslo Accords and the Good Friday Agreement. Having reached agreement, the third-party mediation team quits the process. I think this is a strategic mistake and morally questionable. A peace process is not complete until communities who have been former enemies have adapted to a new way of living together. The pressures on political and

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community leaders, in the wake of a peace treaty, as they attempt to get their constituents on board are enormous. The changes that are required in the social system to permit this change are also daunting. The leadership challenges are daunting. Abandoning the parties at this stage represents a leadership failure. Without third-party support, we witness many treaties fall apart. We saw this happen in Northern Ireland. As soon as the Good Friday Agreement was achieved, Senator George Mitchell and his third-party team left the country and the process unravelled for almost two years. The British and Irish governments had to ask Mitchell to return to re-engage the process. He returned to Northern Ireland for a second time and managed once more to get the parties to the negotiating table. However, once again, when this technical mission was accomplished, Mitchell left, even though the participants had not learned how to manage their own process. Without continued third-party support, the Northern Ireland Assembly has been suspended four times. It is in suspension at the time of writing. We saw the same dynamics also after the peace agreement negotiated at Oslo between Palestinian and Israeli leaders. In the absence of thirdparty leadership and support the process unravelled. Also, in Bosnia, two years after the Dayton peace process, Richard Holbrooke admitted that much of what had been announced in the agreement to make the Federation viable had still not been implemented.15 Deadlines may have unintended consequences Peace negotiations are frustrating for everyone involved, not least the third party. The warring parties in intractable situations have created a self-sealing social and political system that entraps them. They have locked themselves into an endless dramatisation of frozen behaviour patterns that inevitably play themselves out during the negotiation phase of a peace process. Left to their own devices, they cannot break out of the trap. So a case can be made for pressure tactics and ultimatums. Setting a deadline for final agreement may be the only strategy that can break the impasse. Establishing a deadline shocks the parties out of dependency and forces them to accept responsibility for bringing the process to a conclusion. However, applying pressure and ultimatums also raises a moral dilemma for third-party intervention. Establishing deadlines may also result in unintended consequences. They may increase fear and anxiety in the system to an intolerable level. Fearful of disappointing their constituents’ expectations, the parties may reach an agreement based on

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panic. They may be afraid that their communities will punish them on the one hand for failing to reach agreement, or, on the other hand, for reaching an agreement that does not meet all their concerns. Richard Holbrooke and his mediation team quit the Dayton peace process once agreement had been reached even though, by his own admission, critical issues were left unresolved. Holbrooke acknowledged that after the behaviour he had seen from some of the participants at Dayton, he was ‘more worried than ever about implementing the agreement’. In particular, he believed that arresting Karadzic and Mladic was a critical issue that had not been resolved, and that they had in fact created a structure for implementing Dayton in which responsibility and authority would rest with no single individual or institution, a recipe for disaster.16 Under the pressure of a deadline, parties may agree on issues without working out details and without thinking through the full implications of a decision. They may even fudge difficult issues that require in-depth work. Inevitably, these issues will come back to haunt them in the implementation stage of the peace process. This happened in Northern Ireland.

Conclusion I have argued in this chapter that a limitation of traditional third-party peacemaking intervention efforts is that they tend to view peacemaking as a ‘technical’ matter, with reaching agreement viewed as success and the end of the third-party’s role. I maintain that abandoning the parties at this stage is irresponsible and leaves them in a vacuum, facing a challenge that they cannot accomplish on their own. The work facing groups at the implementation stage is not technical but rather calls for what Heifetz17 refers to as ‘adaptive’ work – the process of mobilising people to address problems that are not clearly defined and for which there are no clear solutions. To approach implementation as adaptive work, not simply technical problem-solving, the third-party mediation team might address the disputants’ identity fears with a deep compassion for the losses that communities have to endure as they free themselves from addictions to old definitions of ‘self’ that require an enemy. The parties are locked in a centuries-old maelstrom of suspicion, fear, and hatred. And when the third party tries to help, the mediation process likely will evoke frustration and despair within the mediation team. The most challenging adaptive work facing the Unionist and nationalist communities is that, from a context of centuries of hatred, they must

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now engage with each other in building a new relationship for which they have no experience, no understanding, and no vision. Imagine, for example, the adaptation Northern Ireland Protestants must make to accept that the Minister of Education would be Martin McGuinness, a man whom they believe to be a former head of the IRA, therefore a ‘murderer’. Somehow they have to accept this man as the person responsible for their children’s education even though in their eyes he should be shot or locked up forever. However, the peace process did not equip participants at the peace negotiation stage with the leadership capacities required to mobilise their communities to do this work of forging this new relationship. Political and community leaders were not yet able to withstand the enormous pressures on them to revert to the status quo of polarisation and enmity. Leadership at this stage requires getting people in both communities to question their certainties – a profound challenge when both communities have done everything to avoid this. Being open to the ‘other’ means accepting a lot of responsibility for the conflict. And accepting responsibility involves feelings of humiliation, guilt, and loss – humiliation because the victims must accept that they are not just innocent martyrs; guilt because violent acts though righteous have caused death and suffering; and loss because the victims feel their world is crumbling when they give up the identity that requires an enemy. These feelings are difficult to endure. Understood as adaptive work, the challenge of third-party mediation is not simply to arrive at a peace agreement, but to help the parties develop the leadership that can get them to deal with the real problems in a democratic process. Accordingly, in this chapter I have proposed three elements that should be of concern for anyone hoping to assist the transition from hegemony to consociational democracy: (1) Stopping the conflict requires more than a peace agreement; (2) Achieving peace requires uncoupling people from identities that require an enemy; and (3) The third-party mediator should not abandon the people right at the time when the work of shifting identity must begin.

Notes and references 1. See Chapter 2. 2. Larry Diamond, J. Linz and S. M. Lipset, Democracy in Developing Countries: Latin America, Lynne Rienner, Boulder 1999. 3. George Mitchell, Making Peace, Alfred A. Knopf, New York 1999. 4. John Whyte, Interpreting Northern Ireland, Clarendon Press, Oxford 1990.

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5. R. Fisher, The Social Psychology of Intergroup and International Conflict Resolution, Springer-Verlag, New York 1990, p. 148. 6. John Burton and F. Dukes, Conflict: Practices in Management, Settlement & Resolution, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1990, p. 143. 7. Fisher, p. 149. 8. H. Kelman, ‘The interdependence of Israeli and Palestinian national identities: the role of the Other in existential conflicts’, Journal of Social Issues, Vol. 55, No. 3, Fall 1999. 9. H. Kelman, ‘Informal mediation by the Scholar/Practitioner’, in J. Bercovitch and J. Rubin (eds), Mediation in International Relations: Multiple Approaches to Conflict Management, St. Martin’s Press, London 1992. 10. O. Nudler, ‘In search of a theory for conflict resolution: taking a new look at world views analysis’, Institute for Conflict Analysis and Resolution Newsletter, Vol. 5, No. 5, 1992 (George Mason University, Fairfax, Virginia). 11. J. Wieland-Burston, Chaos and Order in the World of the Psyche, Routledge, London and New York 1992, p. 87. 12. Alan Finlayson, ‘Loyalist political identity after the peace’, Capital & Class, No. 69, Autumn 1999. 13. Jennifer Todd, ‘Two traditions in Unionist political culture’, Irish Political Studies, Vol. 2, 1987. 14. Wieland-Burston, p. 100. 15. Richard Holbrooke, To End A War, Modern Library, New York 1999, p. 264. 16. Holbrooke, pp. 312–19. 17. R. Heifetz, Leadership Without Easy Answers, Belknap Press, Cambridge 1994, pp. 23–4.


Part III Comparative Perspectives


8 Using Public Opinion Polls to Support Peace Processes: Practical Lessons from Northern Ireland, Macedonia, Cyprus, Israel and Palestine1 Colin Irwin 2

Introduction Nine surveys of public opinion were conducted in support of the Northern Ireland peace process between April 1996 and February 2003. Critically the questions for eight of these polls were drafted and agreed with the cooperation of party negotiators to enhance the peace process by increasing party inclusiveness, developing issues and language, testing party policies, helping to set deadlines and increase the overall transparency of negotiations through the publication of technical analysis and media reports. This chapter briefly reviews the main findings of these polls and their role in the political development and implementation of the Belfast Agreement; some practical observations from the Northern Ireland experience; the qualitative and quantitative methods used and how the lessons from this work might now be applied to the resolution of conflicts elsewhere. To this end a poll was completed in Macedonia and feasibility studies undertaken in Cyprus, Israel and Palestine in 2002. Finally conclusions are drawn about the value of public opinion polls and the importance of consensus building for peace processes in general. But first, it would be as well, to briefly place the work on the Northern Ireland public opinion polls in the broader context of the conflict there. 139

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Northern Ireland is a deeply divided society in which the major political cleavage falls along sectarian lines. Catholics, for the most part, identify themselves with the Republic of Ireland and would wish to see Northern Ireland united with the Republic to the South while most Protestants consider themselves to be British and wish to maintain the Union with Great Britain. Discrimination and the conflicting political aspirations of the two communities precipitated periods of violence in the North that culminated in the recent ‘Troubles’.3 After nearly thirty years of terrorist actions, the transfer of regional power to Direct Rule from London and numerous failed political initiatives to find a solution to the ‘Irish question’ the Forum for Peace and Reconciliation in Northern Ireland was established in 1996. Critically a system of proportional representation was used to elect representatives to the Forum that ensured participation from all sections of the Northern Ireland community. Ten parties thus gained the right to nominate representatives to the ‘Stormont Talks’, the negotiations on the future of Northern Ireland, along with the British and Irish Governments all under the Chairmanship of Senator George Mitchell of the USA. 4 The ten parties, who also appointed negotiators to work on these public opinion polls, were as follows: Five mainly Protestant and Unionist parties, two with Loyalist paramilitary connections 1. The Ulster Unionist Party (UUP), with 30 seats in the Forum was the largest Unionist party and was led by David Trimble. 2. The Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), with 24 seats in the Forum, was led by the Reverend Ian Paisley. 3. The United Kingdom Unionist Party (UKUP), with 3 seats in the Forum, was led by Robert McCartney. 4. The Progressive Unionist Party (PUP), led by David Ervine, had 2 seats in the Forum and were the political representatives of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and Red Hand Commando (RHC). 5. The Ulster Democratic Party (UDP), led by Gary McMichael, also had 2 seats in the Forum and were the political representatives of the Ulster Defence Association (UDA) and Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF). Two mainly Catholic and Nationalist parties, one with Republican paramilitary connections 1. The Social Democratic and Labour Party (SDLP), with 21 seats in the Forum, was the largest Nationalist party and was led by John Hume.

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2. Sinn Féin (SF), led by Gerry Adams, had 17 seats in the Forum and was the political wing of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA). Three cross community centre parties 1. The Alliance Party of Northern Ireland, with 7 seats in the Forum, was the largest centre party and was led by John, later Lord Alderdice. 2. The Northern Ireland Women’s Coalition had 2 seats in the Forum and was led by Monica MacWilliams. 3. The Labour Party of Northern Ireland also had 2 seats in the Forum and was led by Malachi Curran.

The Northern Ireland peace polls 5 Poll 1 – Peace building and public policy 6 The first poll was conducted in 1996 as a piece of pure research that explored various policy options for improving relations between the two communities in Northern Ireland. Topics covered included housing, education, parades, Irish language, policing and political development. As far as the peace process was concerned the poll demonstrated the validity of the methods, the independence of the research and the value of publication in the popular press. Subsequently the political parties elected to take part in the Stormont Talks all agreed to participate in a similar programme of research to address the problems they had to resolve. Poll 2 – After the elections7 The second poll was conducted in March and published in April 1997 to help set a context for an invigorated Talks process after the May elections. Some general problems were dealt with as well as procedural questions about decommissioning and the participation of parties with paramilitary associations. In general the electorate wanted ‘all party talks’ subject to a minimum of preconditions that had to include paramilitary ceasefires. Labour was elected to government in May and subsequently allowed Sinn Féin into the Talks after they called a ceasefire in July. Poll 3 – The Stormont Talks 8 The DUP and UKUP said they would not stay in the Talks with Sinn Féin present and the UUP said they would consult with the ‘grass roots’ of their party before deciding if they would stay in or not. If the UUP walked away from the Talks the negotiations would have collapsed. The

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third poll, conducted in September 1997, demonstrated public support for the peace process and for continued Unionist participation. The Ulster Unionists subsequently decided to stay in the Talks but refused to engage in ‘face to face’ negotiations with Sinn Féin. Poll 4 – In search of a settlement9 While all these political negotiations were going on and the official Talks were stuck on procedural issues all the parties continued to negotiate substantive issues through the public opinion poll process. Thus, in December 1997, a fourth poll was conducted on all the substantive issues and was published in January 1998 in an effort to move the Talks process forward. After increased violence over the Christmas period this effort proved to be successful and most of the parties started to negotiate in earnest with the exception of Sinn Féin which held firm to a ‘nonpartitionist’ settlement that excluded the possibility of a regional assembly for Northern Ireland. Poll 5 – A comprehensive settlement10 With the DUP and UKUP outside the Talks and Sinn Féin not willing to actively negotiate, a test ‘package’ was agreed by the remaining seven parties and a survey conducted in March 1998. The poll also included alternatives put forward by the DUP, UKUP and Sinn Féin. This survey of public opinion proved to be critical as it demonstrated the lack of cross-party support for the extreme Unionist and Republican proposals while the centre ground settlement agreed to by the seven remaining parties could win support if put to the people of Northern Ireland in a referendum. Subsequently, on 22 May 1998, 71 per cent of the population voted in favour of the Belfast Agreement. Poll 6 – Implementation of the Belfast Agreement 11 The details of the new institutions of government were agreed in a vote of the New Northern Ireland Assembly on 16 February 1999 but the Unionists refused to sit in an Executive with Sinn Féin prior to decommissioning. In an effort to overcome these difficulties a poll was conducted in collaboration with the Assembly parties representing the principal paramilitary groups – Sinn Féin and the PUP. The results were published on 3 and 4 March. Over 90 per cent of the people of Northern Ireland wanted the peace process to succeed and were willing to have their political representatives reach an accommodation to achieve this outcome.

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Poll 7 – The Mitchell review12 Unfortunately the negotiations of that summer failed with the Unionists refusing to take up their ministerial posts in the absence of a handover of weapons. Faced with a political ‘stand-off’ Senator George Mitchell was persuaded to undertake a review and another poll was conducted in support of these negotiations. It did not produce any remarkably new results but on this occasion all the pro-Agreement parties were involved. Critically the Ulster Unionists now took the results of the poll seriously and a ‘step by step’ programme for implementation was agreed. Poll 8 – The future of the peace process13 Although the Mitchell Review moved the Northern Ireland peace process forward by creating conditions in which the Executive could be established the hardening of both Ulster Unionist and IRA attitudes towards the question of decommissioning forced a suspension of the Executive in February 2000. In addition to repeating all the contextual peace process questions asked in the Mitchell Review poll this poll also tested the two governments’ new proposals for decommissioning that entailed ‘placing arms beyond use’. The poll demonstrated grass roots Ulster Unionist support for these new proposals and the Ulster Unionist Council subsequently voted to take the party back into government with Sinn Féin. Poll 9 – Devolution and the state of the peace process14 The next two years saw periods of relative stability interspersed with moments of crisis, suspension, elections, public opinion polls run by third parties and new deals done. But progress was made, particularly in the area of policing, with the SDLP joining the new Policing Board in September 2001. However, in late 2002 continued IRA activity lead to a crisis of confidence in the Belfast Agreement itself forcing yet another suspension. So a new peace poll was commissioned to explore all the issues that still had to be dealt with or what were then being called ‘acts of completion’. The poll demonstrated the frustration of the general public with the failures of their political representatives, their desire for genuine political stability and for the two governments and pro-Agreement parties ‘to do what had to be done’ to achieve that end. The public opinion polls, although the most visible aspect of this approach to conflict resolution, were not ends in themselves, the process of poll-making was equally important. As a programme of independent research the parties were encouraged to take the drafting of the questions, the timing of the polls and the publication of the results in any

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direction that they believed would be helpful to the advancement of the peace process. It was a collective enterprise that they could use as they saw fit until the new institutions of government created under the terms of the Belfast Agreement would render such work superfluous to political requirements.

Polling as peace building Effective peace building requires the re-establishment of all those elements of a society that make it a functioning success. In the first instance an absence of dialogue between the conflicting parties must be replaced with reliable channels of communication that can facilitate an honest discourse on all the issues that lie at the heart of the conflict. Secondly, once the talking has begun in earnest, discussion must lead to real negotiations and decision-making on each element of an agreement that provides remedies for every failed social practice and inoperative political institution. Finally, once the agreement is reached it must be implemented in full, with as much rigour, care and attention to success as the negotiations themselves. Peace building requires both vigilance and patience and in this the support of all of the elements of the society and the international community must be encouraged to play a constructive role if a return to violence and war is to be avoided. The Northern Ireland peace polls were used to enhance all of these essential processes by helping to establish real dialogue and effective communications; explore problems and their solutions; define the critical issues and associated questions and last, but by no means least, help to keep the peace process on track by facilitating a discourse in which the society as a whole could play a part in the decision-making process. But the emphasis here is on ‘enhance’ and ‘help’. Public opinion polls alone cannot bring about change. They can only assist and facilitate in a process that must, in the end, be done by the people and their elected representatives. Here is a list of some practical suggestions that come from observations on the Northern Ireland experience: • As politicians may be sceptical about the benefits of public opinion polls, first undertake a programme of pure research to demonstrate the independence and validity of the work. • Because the work requires many different kinds of expertise, put together an interdisciplinary research team as required. • Cover all major aspects of social and political life effected by public institutions and government departments as ‘the people’ and their

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•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

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•

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‘political representatives’ often have very different views (and interests) about the nature of the conflict and its resolution. Encourage key decision-makers to become involved in drafting the pure research questions and designing the methodology so that they will take the results more seriously. If politicians disagree with the results of the pure research poll – this is welcome – invite them to help design the next survey to their satisfaction. Do not exclude any serious parties from the applied research – it is most helpful to test support for mainstream opinion, centre party compromises and radical reforms together. If the large established parties do not show willingness try the small centre parties first after which the larger parties may decide they do not wish to be left out. Secure independent funding remembering that those who control the ‘purse strings’ could have a veto over the continuation of the research. Start with some simple confidence-building questions about the peace process in general and other measures (CBMs) that could easily be implemented. Deal with all the principal procedural or ‘shape of the table’ issues before getting into too much detail over substantive or ‘negotiated settlement’ issues. In public opinion polls the elimination of extreme positions, with little cross community support, is as important and just as easy as finding compromises and common ground. It is worth noting that several questions that had been drafted and agreed in Northern Ireland could not be run in some polls for lack of space. This was not entirely a bad thing as it provided a working foundation for later polls. Systematically deal with all preconditions and objections to a peace process – people generally want ‘jaw jaw’ in preference to ‘war war’. Do not avoid sensitive issues because others might take on those same questions in a less helpful way that is potentially more damaging to the peace process. Give ‘the people’ every opportunity to answer questions about the exercise of their democratic franchise – they like it – and the results should send a message to their elected politicians. Devise questions that can produce a ranking of the major problems in a conflict and their potential solutions.

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• Develop questions that include all of the potential elements of a final agreement by way of informing both the negotiators and the general public. • Do not be put off by complexity. The people living with a conflict often have a very sophisticated understanding of that conflict. • Use a method of analysis that reflects the voting procedures used in the negotiations proper in terms of both constituencies and levels of support required. • Test comprehensive agreements as a ‘package’ as many of its problematic elements will be acceptable as part of a balanced settlement. • ‘Underline’ the politically unacceptable alternatives to a comprehensive settlement when it is opportune to do so. For example when radical elements are actively opposing a ‘deal’. • Timing is of the essence. For example the ‘Comprehensive Settlement’ poll would have been almost useless if run months before the parties were ready to ‘cut a deal’ or the day after the talks collapsed! • Try to retain control over funding so that the parties involved with the polls will not be able to exercise a veto if they think the work is not going to go their way. • Do not use public opinion polls to re-negotiate agreements. Regrettably, much of the partisan media will do this anyway. • Do not assume the work is over once the deal is signed particularly if many of the issues raised in the research are not dealt with in the agreement! • Even when a very difficult decision has to be made, try to include all the critical parties to that decision – however difficult that makes the work. • When key players refuse to negotiate, use neutral parties to feed in constructive suggestions. • When key players introduce questions designed to produce an unhelpful result, get neutral parties to critique the value of such questions. • Design and run ‘cold shower’ questions when the point of ‘do it or lose it’ is reached. Public opinion polls are an excellent medium for dealing with ‘contextual’ issues. • When support for running a public opinion poll is ‘mixed’, consult widely and do not be afraid to temporarily poll against the wishes of some parties. • Have an experienced board or advisory group at hand to back up difficult polling/ethical decisions. • As an independent facilitator or mediator it is generally inappropriate to express personal opinions but reviewing the work done and progress made can sometimes be very helpful.

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• Try not to end the research arbitrarily. Let the parties have a say in when to run the last poll as they are ultimately responsible for the success of the peace process.

The drafting of consensus Perhaps the single most important feature of the Northern Ireland peace polls was the participation of the parties in the Stormont Talks in their design and, in particular, their collective agreement to the questions being asked. But this consensus was not arrived at easily. It required the development of both new styles of questions and methods of working with party negotiators through successive drafts that facilitated the anonymous exploration of all possible solutions to problems. The success of the polls was totally dependent on the success of this qualitative dimension of the research. The computer operator’s dictum ‘garbage in – garbage out’ applies equally to the work undertaken here and its corollary carefully phrased and thoughtful question in – relevant and useful solution to problem out was the objective that had to be achieved. The value of the public opinion surveys was a direct function of the care and attention given to asking the right questions and it was to this end that the greatest resources were applied. Running a poll would normally take several weeks while the design of the questionnaire would often take as many months. In practice the work undertaken to produce an acceptable draft questionnaire went through the following stages: 1. A letter was sent out to all the parties inviting them to participate in the design and running of a public opinion poll in support of the peace process. 2. At an initial meeting with party officers a party negotiator was assigned to the task and issues relating to methods, topics, timing and publication were discussed. 3. An outline or ‘first draft’ questionnaire was sent out to the party contacts for discussion purposes with a covering letter that summarised the views of parties with regards to methods, topics, timing and publication. This letter also contained a list of the party contacts so that they would be free to discuss any matters arising with each other. 4. The second and subsequent meetings with party representatives reviewed the draft questionnaire to register party requests for changes and additions.

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5. The third and subsequent letter and draft questionnaire noted all requests for changes and additions. For the sake of clarity footnotes relating to previous drafts were removed so that all notes referred only to current alterations. 6. When the questionnaire started to ‘stabilise’ it was sent out for pre-testing to identify fieldwork difficulties relating to problems of comprehension and length. The parties were notified that this stage in the work had been reached and that they should identify any final changes they might like, as well as indicating which questions could possibly be left out to be dealt with in a later poll if so required. 7. Final changes were made by those running the poll on the evidence of objective fieldwork tests. These changes were noted in the final draft that was sent to all the parties with a covering letter detailing the survey research schedule and publication date. 8. From this point onwards parties were not permitted to interfere in any way with the programme of research, analysis of data and publication. However, they did receive full statistical reports and were free to make criticisms of the findings if they so wished. Frequently the work of drafting questions went down ‘blind alleys’, became pedantic or even party personal, occasionally leading to frustrations and recriminations. At such times the drafting became more than just an intellectual exercise designed to find solutions to social and political problems. It was also a medium through which all manner of concerns could be raised and commented on and if the matter could not be resolved privately then the issue could still be tested before the arbiter of public opinion. But when it was done and everyone had had their say the results were taken seriously and did affect the decisionmaking process because the questions asked were the ones the parties wanted answers to.

The calculus of agreement The Northern Ireland peace polls were undertaken with the expressed intention of mapping out the details of a settlement or implementation arrangements that the politicians and their supporters could accept. Different types of questions can be drafted to achieve different positive outcomes. They can be used to build confidence in the peace process, prioritise problems and solutions, eliminate extreme positions, map out common ground and areas of compromise, and test comprehensive agreements as packages. Some of these questions were quite complex

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because they contained many parts or began with an extensive preamble that was provided to allow the person being interviewed an opportunity to give an informed response. In consultation with the parties a fivepoint scale was devised in which the person being interviewed would be asked if a certain option was ‘Essential’, ‘Desirable’, ‘Acceptable’, ‘Tolerable’ or ‘Unacceptable’. Working definitions for these terms were agreed by all the parties and were presented to the interviewee, in the ‘Search for a Settlement’ poll, as follows: Most of the remainder of this questionnaire will present you with various options on what could be the different parts of a settlement. For each option you will be asked to indicate which ones you consider to be ‘Essential’, ‘Desirable’, ‘Acceptable’, ‘Tolerable’ or ‘Unacceptable’. For the purposes of this poll ‘Essential’, ‘Desirable’, ‘Acceptable’, ‘Tolerable’ and ‘Unacceptable’ mean: Essential – You believe this option is a necessary part of a lasting settlement and should be implemented under any circumstances. Desirable – This option is not what you would consider to be ‘Essential’, but you think this option, or something very similar to it, is a good idea and should be put into practice. Acceptable – This option is not what you would consider to be ‘Desirable’, if you were given a choice, but you could certainly ‘live with it’. Tolerable – This option is not what you want. But, as part of a lasting settlement for Northern Ireland, you would be willing to put up with it. Unacceptable – This option is completely unacceptable under any circumstances. You would not accept it, even as part of a lasting settlement. You may use each of the terms ‘Essential’, ‘Desirable’, ‘Acceptable’, ‘Tolerable’ and ‘Unacceptable’ as many times as you wish in each question. For example the first question in one of the polls that included a section on human rights was written as follows: Protecting the Rights of the People of Northern Ireland: The European Convention on Human Rights The European Convention on Human Rights protects individuals by guaranteeing each person: The right . . . To life. Not to be tortured or subjected to inhuman or degrading treatment. To protection from slavery or forced work.

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Not to be unlawfully arrested or detained. To a fair trial. To freedom of belief and expression. To free association. To privacy and family life. Not to be discriminated against. To a remedy for breaches of human rights. The new Labour government plans to introduce this Convention into the domestic law of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. This will allow any complaints regarding failures to meet these minimum standards to be heard by courts in the UK and Northern Ireland. Do you think this is ‘Essential’, ‘Desirable’, ‘Acceptable’, ‘Tolerable’ or ‘Unacceptable’?

Essential Desirable Acceptable Tolerable Unacceptable The European Convention on Human Rights should be part of the domestic law of Northern Ireland

The analysis of these questions was undertaken using a variant of the voting system used in the talks themselves. ‘Sufficient Consensus’ requires that a majority from each community agree to the final settlement (50 per cent + one of nationalists and 50 per cent + one of Unionists). In the poll if more than 50 per cent from each community considered an option ‘Essential’, ‘Desirable’, ‘Acceptable’, or ‘Tolerable’ then it was a potential ‘winner’ but if more than 50 per cent considered an option ‘Unacceptable’ then that option was considered problematic. It might have to be discarded or ‘horse traded’ for another ‘Unacceptable’ option. Thus the results for the above question on human rights can be presented as illustrated in Figure 8.1. Clearly a majority of both Catholics and Protestants find this option ‘Essential’ or ‘Desirable’. However, in Figure 8.2, a range of options for the various powers that North/South bodies could be given produced a far more mixed result. A majority of Protestants would not accept option 4, ‘powers to develop and execute forward planning for the island

Colin Irwin

Essential

Protestant

32

Catholic

76

Desirable

31

Acceptable

Tolerable

151

Unacceptable

24

10 12

8

3 4

Figure 8.1 Protestant and Catholic support for the option ‘The European Convention on Human Rights should be a part of the domestic law of Northern Ireland’.

of Ireland as a whole’, while a majority of Catholics would not accept option 6 – ‘there should not be any North/South bodies with any powers or functions’ at all. Option 3, ‘Have powers to administer laws made by the separate governments in the North and the South of Ireland’, was about as far as the Protestant community was willing to go on this issue and this option was the one that became part of the Belfast Agreement. In addition to hundreds of questions and options drafted in this way some very simple ‘Yes/No’ questions were also used with the express intention of producing a headline in the local press. For example, ‘Do you want the Belfast Agreement to work?’ – 93 per cent said ‘Yes’. This question was asked in the last four polls and got a headline and frontpage story in the Belfast Telegraph on 3 March 1999. However, this simple question was preceded by a more complex one that asked the person being interviewed which elements of the Belfast Agreement they considered to be ‘Very Important’, ‘Important’, ‘Of Some Importance’, ‘Of Little Importance’ or ‘Of No Importance’ at all. In previous polls people had similarly been asked how ‘Significant’ they considered various causes of ‘The Troubles’ to be and how ‘Important’ they thought various steps were for resolving these problems. Then, by simply taking the percentage response to the first option ‘Very Significant’ and ranking the results in order of the perceived causes of ‘The Troubles’, for Protestants and Catholics respectively, Table 8.1 was produced. This methodology objectively presented the major concerns of the two communities that needed to be dealt with if the Belfast Agreement was to translate into a successful peace process. There can be no doubt that a very great deal had been accomplished but, clearly, the Northern Ireland peace process still had quite a long way to go when this question was asked.15

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Essential

Desirable

Acceptable

Tolerable

Unacceptable

Option 1 – Be required to consult Protestant

16

Catholic

56

17

25

13

29

24

15

32

14

3

Option 2 – Be required to cooperate Protestant

16

Catholic

57

19

19

14

32 25

Option 3 – Have powers to administer laws made by the separate governments in the North and the South of Ireland

Protestant

3 14

Catholic

36

16

18

49

31

21

5 7

Option 4 – Have powers to develop and execute forward planning for the island of Ireland as a whole

Protestant

39

Catholic

46

13

12

63 30

16

4 4

Option 5 – Have powers to make laws which would apply to the island of Ireland as a whole Protestant

3 5 12

Catholic

44

10

70 24

20

7

5

Option 6 – Or there should not be any North / South bodies with any powers or functions 29 13 13 18 Protestant 27 Catholic

4 3 8

16

69

Figure 8.2 Protestant and Catholic support for the six options ‘On matters of mutual interest between North and South bodies’.

153 Table 8.1 Protestant and Catholic perceptions of the causes of ‘The Troubles’ Issue

Protestant (%)

1st

The Irish Republican Army and their use of violence All paramilitary groups and their use of violence The failure of government and the security forces to deal with terrorism The Republic’s territorial claim on Northern Ireland The Loyalist paramilitaries and their use of violence The Republic of Ireland’s involvement in Northern Ireland The failures of Northern Ireland politicians Unaccountable and secretive government A lack of respect for the people of the ‘other’ tradition The sectarian division of Northern Ireland politics The prominent role of the Roman Catholic Church Segregated education

2nd

3rd

4th

5th

6th

7th

8th

9th

10th

11th

12th

Very significant

Catholic (%)

Very significant

87

The lack of equality and continued discrimination

71

67

The sectarian division of Northern Ireland politics The failure to provide a police service acceptable to all

66

56

53

53

The failures of Northern Ireland politicians A lack of respect for the people of the ‘other’ tradition

62

59

57

42

The Loyalist paramilitaries and their use of violence

57

31

All paramilitary groups and their use of violence Unaccountable and secretive government

56

31

30

30

29

25

The continued British presence on the island of Ireland The British Army and their use of violence

The Irish Republican Army and their use of violence The failure of government and the security forces to deal with terrorism

52

51

48

45

34

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Table 8.1

(Continued)

Issue

Protestant (%)

13th

Segregated public housing The lack of equality and continued discrimination The British Government’s pursuit of a political settlement The continued British presence on the island of Ireland The ‘Established Church’ in Britain and the Orange Order The failure to provide a police service acceptable to all The British Army and their use of violence

14th

15th

16th

17th

18th

19th

Very significant 22 21

20

17

Catholic (%)

Segregated public housing Segregated education

The British Government’s pursuit of a political settlement The Republic’s territorial claim on Northern Ireland

Very significant 33 31

23

21

14

The ‘Established Church’ in Britain and the Orange Order

21

9

The Republic of Ireland’s involvement in Northern Ireland

16

6

The prominent role of the Roman Catholic Church

10

Peace polls check list In principle it is to be hoped that the methods reviewed here can be applied to assist any society that has fallen victim to a breakdown of constructive democratic dialogue and effective decision-making processes. In practice these methods would be difficult to use where basic rights to freedom of speech and association are not available. But then again there are perhaps tens or even hundreds of situations around the world where the methods used here could be applied with the intention and hope of saving lives16 and perhaps hundreds or even thousands of situations around the world where less extreme situations could benefit from similar efforts with a view to preventing social harm.17 Wherever conflicts of interest between groups, communities, peoples and states are not being resolved for a lack of effective dialogue, decision-making, and social and political action perhaps the methods described here

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should at least be tried. With this point in mind a ‘peace polls check list’, derived from the Northern Ireland experience, is given below. It is intended to be a practical place from which to make a start. Hopefully, in time, others will refine and add to it. With the collaboration of willing students to undertake the interviews, a personal computer to process the results and access to the internet for publication almost any social scientist could replicate the methods used in Northern Ireland in an effort to sow the seeds of their own peace process. With greater resources and appropriate political support it must be hoped that peace itself could be an achievable goal. General research background • Which Universities in the region have strong social science departments? • Which academics have experience with surveys of public opinion in the region and have an interest in a peace process? • Which academics could give additional support from departments of politics, law, social geography, languages, media studies and so on? • Which NGOs and IGOs have an interest in the region and could give financial and research policy support? • Which market research companies operate in the region and have undertaken polls amongst the relevant communities? • What polling has been done on a peace process? • What is the demographic profile of the groups relevant to the conflict in terms of total population, social geography, language, education, age and so on? • Which newspapers are pro-peace process? • Which newspapers have a cross community readership and/or will sometimes publish reports in cooperation with newspapers from other communities? General research action • Design, run and publish a public opinion poll on confidence-building measures, the desire of the people for a negotiated settlement and some initial suggestions for an agreement from as wide a range of political perspectives as is possible. Applied research background • Which political parties have a democratic mandate? • Which political parties represent radical, moderate and centre policies? • Which political parties represent groups in conflict?

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• Which political parties are essential to a successful peace process? • Contact the parties that must make the peace and the parties who are willing to do most to achieve peace and invite them all to participate in a programme of polling research in support of a peace process. Applied research action • Agree on a programme of polling research with these parties including: topics to be dealt with, methods (sample structure, size, distribution, languages to be used and so on), research ethics, timing and publication. • In cooperation with the parties test all options for confidence building measures, problems and solutions, procedural and substantive matters, and contextual concerns of the public in relation to the conflict – all as may be required. • Publish results in the popular press, on the internet and in detailed reports to the parties and relevant IGOs, NGOs and governments who can, and hopefully will, give political and economic support to a peace process. • Continue to give support to the parties until the implementation of an agreement is well advanced, the reformed institutions are functioning as planned and most of the more difficult problems identified in the research have been dealt with.

Macedonia18 Following the success of the Northern Ireland programme of research, grants were made available to develop the techniques further so that they could be applied elsewhere. To this end a poll was completed in Macedonia in early 2002 to analyse the state of the country’s peace process, to evaluate the progress made with the implementation of the Ohrid Framework Agreement, and to recommend measures that needed to be taken to ensure fair and free elections in September of that year. Critically the questions for this poll were written by a group of Albanian and Macedonian academics and politicians and no leading questions, or ones that invited value judgements about the ‘other’ community, were asked. Such questions, called ‘beauty contests’ in Northern Ireland, were carefully avoided and everyone interviewed at this stage of the research had to be satisfied that all topics were fairly dealt with to their satisfaction. Inevitably this technique exposed some stark realities in the first ‘causes of the conflict’ question (Table 8.2).

157 Table 8.2

Macedonian and Albanian causes of conflict in order of significance

Issue Macedonian (%)

Very Albanian (%) significant

1st

Activities of Albanian paramilitary groups (ANA) still operating in Macedonia

85

2nd

Incomplete disarmament of NLA by NATO

78

3rd

Many illegally held weapons in the region

74

4th

Serious organised crime including businessmen, paramilitaries and politicians Bribery and party political corruption that undermine the democratic foundations of the state Amnesty that includes all serious crimes against humanity The failure of the Macedonian economy

70

Poor economic opportunities for all sections of the society Bad interethnic relations between the people of Macedonia

52

5th

6th

7th

8th

9th

Discrimination against minority ethnic groups in employment, education and language rights Activities of Macedonian party police and paramilitary groups operating in Macedonia (Lions, Poskoks) Bribery and party political corruption that undermine the democratic foundations of the state Poor economic opportunities for all sections of the society

Very significant 80

67

66

61

65

The failure of the Macedonian economy

58

62

Serious organised crime including businessmen, paramilitaries and politicians Biased media and abuse of information due to gross political interference Bad interethnic relations between the people of Macedonia

56

Lack of understanding of democracy by the people’s elected politicians

46

53

48

55

53

158 Table 8.2

(Continued)

Issue Macedonian (%)

10th

11th

12th 13th

14th

15th

16th

17th

18th

19th

20th

Lack of action by the international community to create peace and stability in Macedonia The FA goes too far regarding the requests for reforms Displaced people within Macedonia The dispute about the border with Kosovo Lack of transparency in government at all levels Bad interethnic relations between the politicians of Macedonia Lack of understanding of democracy by the people’s elected politicians Unequal treatment of different ethnic groups by international institutions and NGOs The FA does not adequately deal with the requests for reforms Macedonia has not resolved its name dispute Biased media and abuse of information due to gross political interference

Very Albanian (%) significant

Very significant

46

Bad interethnic relations between the politicians of Macedonia

40

43

Lack of transparency in government at all levels Many illegally held weapons in the region The dispute about the border with Kosovo

36

Interference of the religious communities in politics The FA does not adequately deal with the requests for reforms Unequal treatment of different ethnic groups by international institutions and NGOs

25

42 42

38

36

35

27 27

25

23

32

Displaced people within Macedonia

19

32

Lack of understanding of democracy by the people of Macedonia

17

30

Amnesty that includes all serious crimes against humanity Macedonia has not resolved its name dispute

15

26

15

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21st

Interference of the religious communities in politics

22nd Lack of understanding of democracy by the people of Macedonia 23rd Discrimination against minority ethnic groups in employment, education and language rights 24th Activities of Macedonian party police and paramilitary groups operating in Macedonia (Lions, Poskoks)

22

16

13

13

159

12 Lack of action by the international community to create peace and stability in Macedonia 10 Activities of Albanian paramilitary groups (ANA) still operating in Macedonia Incomplete 9 disarmament of NLA by NATO

The FA goes too far regarding the requests for reforms

6

Problems of security feature at the top of the Macedonian list with ‘Activities of Albanian paramilitary groups’ as their number one concern (85 per cent ‘very significant’) followed by ‘Incomplete disarmament of NLA by NATO’ at number two (78 per cent) and ‘Many illegally held weapons in the region’ at number three (74 per cent). This is followed by problems of serious organised crime and corruption at fourth and fifth respectively. Similarly Albanians too place corruption and organised crime high on their list of causes, at third and sixth respectively (67 per cent and 56 per cent ‘very significant’). The problem of security comes in at number two on their list but for them it is the ‘Activities of the Macedonian party police and paramilitary groups’ that continue to worry them (67 per cent). However, for Albanians their number one problem is not security it is ‘Discrimination against minority ethnic groups in employment, education and language rights’ (80 per cent ‘very significant’). It is very interesting to note that similar results were achieved in Northern Ireland with demilitarisation and security issues at the top of the Protestant list and equality issues and policing at the top of the

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Catholic list (see Table 8.1). Perhaps a similar pattern will be found in other ethnic conflicts suggesting that the effective application of international human rights standards would go a very long way to preventing such hostilities. But the Macedonian poll was not undertaken as just a piece of pure comparative research, it had a clear applied intent, and that was to address the immediate problem of improper interference in the September elections and perversion of the democratic process. Outline solutions to all the problems raised in Table 8.2 were dealt with but only the pressing issue of free and fair elections was elaborated in some detail in later questions. The results, published widely in the local newspapers in April of that year, in press conferences, seminars, television interviews and in detailed reports to all the political parties elected to the Parliament of Macedonia, relevant interested governments, NGOs and IGOs had the desired effect. With the demonstration of wide popular support for all that needed to be done to ensure free and fair elections, all those in a position to take action did:

1. Many politicians thought the questions asked were the right questions, from the Office of the First President on down, and consequently the results of the poll were taken seriously leading to the reform and strengthening of domestic electoral law with the passage of the Law on Election of Members of Parliament in June of that year. 2. The Greek Minister for the Province of Macedonia and Thrace, who financially supported the research, went to Skopje to offer the former Yugoslav Republic the support of his government in Athens. 3. The Foundation for Open Society Institute in Macedonia (FOSIM), who had also backed the polling research, along with other NGOs, set up programmes to motivate and educate the electorate as well as monitor voter registration and the elections on the appointed day through the Citizens Association MOST and Citizens for Citizens. 4. The US (through the National Democratic Institute – NDI) and UN (through former United Nations Assistant Secretary General Cedric Thornberry) facilitated the negotiation and adoption of the proposed Code of Conduct for Free and Fair Elections. Twenty-nine parties signed the code in July. 5. A new State Election Commission (SEC) was established on 12 July and issued guidelines to supplement the election law, establish an information and press centre, create a website, initiate voter election programmes, train election officials, produce election materials and arrange logistics.

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6. A high-level international assessment mission (including Lord Alderdice, Speaker of the Northern Ireland Assembly and Assistant Secretary General Thornberry) went to Macedonia to report on the state of the electoral process in August (Statement of the International Pre-Election Delegation to Macedonia, Skopje, 29 August 2002). 7. In September, the OSCE/ODIHR and European Commission deployed 800 observers in Macedonia, the largest election observation effort undertaken since the Albanian elections of 1997.

On 15 September, Macedonian moderates swept into power. With a strong voter turn out of 74 per cent Prime Minister Georgievski conceded defeat and called the vote the most democratic in the history of the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. Prime Minister elect Crvenkovski said ‘We showed that Macedonia is going to survive for eternity. I want to thank everyone who went out and voted. Together we are going to show that we are people who know when and what to do . . . and how to do it.’ George Robertson, NATO Secretary General, praised voters for their ‘political maturity’ and said the elections were ‘a decisive step in the right direction’. The elections did not pass without incident but in the absence of a clear demonstration of strong cross-community support for free and fair elections and all the domestic and international efforts that flowed from that fact, it is less likely that Macedonia would be where they are today. As for tomorrow, well only the free and fair election issues were elaborated from Table 8.2 in the final part of this poll. But all the proposed solutions to Macedonia’s problems could now be explored in the same way, the results made known, public support engaged, civil society activated and the international community brought on board to provide political and material support. Peace processes are not easy, they require continual commitment and effort but a very great deal can be accomplished when the people, politicians, civil society and international community can be persuaded to work together.

Cyprus, Israel and Palestine: the failures of peace research The methodological, intellectual and practical problems of running peace polls have, for the most part, been solved. The problem that must now be faced is more institutional or something to do with what might be called the ‘politics of peace research’. The fact is that in places like Cyprus, Israel and Palestine such work is dominated by the US through,

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for example, US Aid and the NDI, and their work is not up to standard. Indeed their work may often do more harm than good. With regard to Cyprus, I first made contact with the Oslo Peace Research Institute (PRIO) team, US negotiators, and Greek, Turkish and Cypriot parties in Istanbul in 1999. At that time the Cypriots wished to adopt the Northern Ireland methods and use them to address the problems they faced in their peace process. Regrettably a downturn in Greek–Turkish relations discouraged such activity at that time and due to what must have been some sort of failure of communications, US agencies went ahead and undertook a series of polls in Cyprus without reference to the new methods developed in Northern Ireland. An effort was made to correct this oversight in 2002 when I was invited to discuss the Northern Ireland approach to public opinion polling and conflict resolution with US Embassy staff, and members of the UN negotiating team in Cyprus. Although a cautious and, initially, private programme of research was proposed the work was not taken forward because of US misgivings about its impact on negotiations. Of course the US was right to be concerned about the success of the negotiations and that is why the proposed programme of research was drafted using a ‘step by step’ approach. However, it was pointed out that the Greek and Turkish Cypriots met with in 1999 wanted to initiate a programme of research similar to that undertaken in Northern Ireland at that time. Additionally, it was made clear to US representatives that I was an independent researcher and that although I would always take their views most seriously I would also seek the opinions of others particularly if, as then seemed to be the case, US, UN, and Greek and Turkish Cypriot views were not as one. It was also the case that other independent polling recently published in the island’s press had not been particularly helpful and could adversely affect the outcome of negotiations. Finally, it was also pointed out that the British and Irish governments were strongly opposed to the independent polling undertaken in Northern Ireland until they started to see the benefits of it and that the recent Macedonian work started out as simply an NGO exercise. With all the benefits of hindsight it was suggested that this might be the best way to proceed in Cyprus. With all these points in mind the question of running public opinion polls in support of the Cyprus negotiations was discussed at some length at the meeting of the Turkish–Greek Forum held in Rome on 10 April 2002. I was subsequently invited to meet with Greek and Turkish Cypriot politicians and representatives of civil society in order to complete a feasibility study. I flew to the island on 21 April 2002 and meetings

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were held with political, civic and business representatives of the Cypriot communities on both the North and South of the island. Although the representatives of civil society wanted to proceed with a programme of polling research some politicians and some representatives of the international community did not, so no peace polls were undertaken. Those responsible for the negotiations, particularly the US Embassy staff, were wedded to the paradigm of deals to be done ‘behind closed doors’ between the senior leaders of the two communities. Regrettably those negotiations failed in 2003 although most observers took the view that the majority of the people on the island of Cyprus would have been willing to accept the proposals put forward by the UN. But the people of Cyprus were never given an opportunity to make their wishes known either through a referendum or the polling methods used so successfully in Northern Ireland and Macedonia. An opportunity was lost and the people of Cyprus were denied the possibility of becoming active partners in their own peace process. In Cyprus, US Aid and the State Department through the US Embassy in Nicosia had sponsored the series of private polls that they shared with their staff and key figures in the Greek and Turkish Cypriot negotiating teams. But the questions were all wrong. They pointed up differences and attitudes more than looking for and mapping out common ground and when some of these questions ended up in local media polls they only served to demonstrate how difficult a settlement might be. They looked more for problems than solutions and consequently the Embassy staff thought they were dealing with a particularly intractable problem. However, when I took these matters up with the representatives of civil society it was clear that the problems were, as in Northern Ireland, not nearly so bad as their political leaders would have ‘us’ believe. The UN team in Cyprus wanted me to go ahead with a poll but the US Embassy and US Aid would no longer have anything to do with it. In part, I suspect, because it may not have fitted their own political and regional agenda but in part, I also suspect, because they did not want to expose the failures of their own programme of confidential research. In Israel and Palestine the US has sponsored programmes of public opinion research over many years through a variety of institutions. Again the research is superficial when looked at alongside the Northern Ireland work. And although the polls clearly demonstrate the desire of the people for an agreement around security and a two-state solution the research is not done as a collaborative effort with party negotiators in an effort to pin down the details of an acceptable accommodation. 19 The ‘people’ are not brought into the process in a pro-active public way

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so that when deals are attempted they tend to fail for lack of public preparation. Regrettably President Clinton’s efforts may have failed because of this lack of pre-negotiation, problem-solving and ‘stage setting’, and it seems very likely that future efforts may similarly fail if negotiating practices are not changed. 20

Conclusion Social and political tensions and conflicts resulting from ethnic or similar communal cleavages and the problems associated with them are a major source of instability in the post-Cold War world. They affect not just the countries in which they occur, but very often engulf their neighbours and have a potential to throw entire regions into turmoil. Even if settlements are reached, prior to, or after, violent escalation, they often remain unstable and unsustainable, resulting in a return to violence or necessitating ongoing intervention by the international community. The research reviewed here has shown how the potential for the success of peace processes can be greatly increased when all sections of society are provided with opportunities to become active partners in their own peace process. Imposed solutions and deals done behind closed doors and backed up with international pressure and force may bring temporary relief to apparently intractable problems. But homegrown solutions that have the widest possible support amongst the various elements that make up a society are essential for progress towards long-term stability. In the modern political world of international norms, globalisation, mass media and an increasingly well-informed electorate, solutions to political, economic and social problems require a discourse and decisionmaking process that engages with the leadership, civil society and population at large. Achieving such a process in ethnically divided societies is problematic and requires every possible assistance and support. However, by taking advantage of some features that characterise and shape contemporary societies, it is possible to initiate a process of inter-track communication and decision-making that can bring divided communities closer to a consensus as to how they can best manage their affairs. By proactively testing public opinion as part of the search for compromise and common ground and then advising negotiators on how to analyse, interpret and act upon the results of the opinion polls, it is possible to build crucial consensus among conflict parties and strengthen the potential for political stability, economic prosperity and a degree of social cohesion necessary to sustain such stability and prosperity.

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But broad consensus politics as it has been described here is not presently mainstreamed as a significant element in international negotiation best practice. Perhaps, in part, this is due to some political scientists not taking such politics as seriously as they should. For example the principal focus of Peleg’s21 analysis for transforming ethnic orders into pluralist regimes tends to emphasise the importance of cooperation between the politicians and parties elected to represent the largest ethnic groups. This focus leads him to conclusions about the best way to manage such societies that diminish the value of centre parties who may accept compromises as their policies of first choice and ignore the modern dynamics of well-informed electorates who want and should be given an opportunity to take ownership of and a degree of responsibility for their own peace process. Historic grand compromises, he suggests, may be the best way to manage ‘the Turks in Cyprus, the Maronites in Lebanon, the Arabs in Israel, the Tamils in Sri Lanka or the Catholics in Northern Ireland’. But without real efforts to build consensus from the bottom up and centre out as well as from the polarities in, all as part of a political process leading to peace, then peace, in modern democracies, is difficult to sustain. We no longer live in an age where simply ‘doing deals behind closed doors’ is good enough – perhaps we never did.

Notes and references 1. For a detailed review of the issues raised in this chapter, see C. J. Irwin, The People’s Peace Process in Northern Ireland, Palgrave Macmillan, Basingstoke 2002. Some parts of this chapter were also published in C. J. Irwin, ‘How public opinion polls were used in support of the Northern Ireland peace process’, The Global Review of Ethnopolitics, Vol. 1, No. 1, September 2001, pp. 62–73, at www.ethnopolitics.org. Finally copies of all the questionnaires and statistical reports referred to in this chapter can be downloaded from www.peacepolls.org. 2. Dr. Colin Irwin is a Research Fellow in the Centre for the Study of Ethnic Conflict at the School of Politics, Queen’s University Belfast. His research was supported with grants from the Queen’s University Belfast, Foundation and the Joseph Rowntree Charitable Trust. The fieldwork for the Northern Ireland public opinion polls was undertaken by Market Research Northern Ireland. 3. For a comprehensive history of this period in the Northern Ireland conflict, see J. Bowyer Bell, The Irish Troubles: A Generation of Violence 1967–1992, Gill & Macmillan, Dublin 1993. 4. For a review of this period of the Northern Ireland peace process, see M. Cox, A. Guelke and F. Stephen (eds), A Farewell to Arms? From ‘long war’ to long peace in Northern Ireland, Manchester University Press, Manchester 2000. 5. For a more detailed review, see C. J. Irwin, ‘The people’s peace process: Northern Ireland and the role of public opinion polls in political negotiations’, Security

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7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

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Comparative Perspectives Dialogue, Vol. 30, No. 3, September 1999, pp. 105–17. C. J. Irwin, ‘Public opinion during the peace process’, Northern Ireland: Paths to Peace, Conference in University College Cork, 20 and 21 October 2000. C. J. Irwin, ‘Ulster people could decide way forward’, Belfast Telegraph, 3 December 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘The FEC . . . Fair To meddling?’, Belfast Telegraph, 20 November 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘Hitting a brick wall’, Belfast Telegraph, 22 October 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘Ulster amnesty rejected’, Belfast Telegraph, 30 September 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘The battle for the middle ground’, Belfast Telegraph, 12 September 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘Changing the force of habit’, Belfast Telegraph, 2 August 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘The Parade question’, Belfast Telegraph, 4 July 1996. T. Hadden, C. Irwin and F. Boal, ‘Separation or sharing? the people’s choice’, Supplement with Fortnight, No. 356, Belfast, December 1996. C. J. Irwin, ‘STILL POLLS APART, People longing for real talks to start’, Belfast Telegraph, 9 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘Referendums could bypass politicians’, Belfast Telegraph, 9 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘DRUMCREE THREE, Rule of law is what people of Northern Ireland want’, Belfast Telegraph, 8 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘Wide support for Bill of Rights’, Belfast Telegraph, 8 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘TRUCE HOLDS KEY, Sharp divisions on how talks replace the guns’, Belfast Telegraph, 7 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘Voter’s query parties’ push’, Belfast Telegraph, 7 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘Few believe peace is at hand’, Belfast Telegraph, 7 April 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘The people’s vote’, Belfast Telegraph, 12 September 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘YES vote for talks’, Belfast Telegraph, 11 September 1997. C. J. Irwin, ‘The search for a settlement: the people’s choice’, Supplement with Fortnight, No. 368, Belfast, February 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘A Comprehensive Settlement’, Belfast Telegraph, 14 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Constitutional Issues’, Belfast Telegraph, 14 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘What hope for Council of the Isles?’, Belfast Telegraph, Wednesday, 14 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Feasibility and reality of north-south bodies’, Belfast Telegraph, 13 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Why Ulster now wants to have new assembly’, Belfast Telegraph, 12 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Reforming RUC quite “acceptable”’, Belfast Telegraph, 10 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Protecting the rights of the people’, Belfast Telegraph, 10 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Steps we need to take to win peace’, Belfast Telegraph, 10 January 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Little support for SF agenda’, Belfast Telegraph, 1 April 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Majority say yes to the search for settlement’, Belfast Telegraph, 31 March 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Compromise or common ground?’, Belfast Telegraph, 31 March 1998. C. J. Irwin, ’Alternatives to a comprehensive settlement’, Belfast Telegraph, 31 March 1998. C. J. Irwin, ‘Implementation of the Belfast Agreement’, Belfast Telegraph, 4 March 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘What are the fears of failure?’, Belfast Telegraph, 4 March 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘Why the peace package is important’, Belfast Telegraph, 4 March 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘Ceasefires, paramilitary activity and decommissioning’, Belfast Telegraph, 3 March 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘Education, Health and Jobs’, Belfast Telegraph, 3 March 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘93% SAY: MAKE THE AGREEMENT WORK’, Belfast Telegraph, 3 March 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘Breaking the rock’, Belfast Telegraph, 27 October 1999. C. J. Irwin, ‘Guns, trust and the Agreement’, Belfast Telegraph, 26 October 1999.

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13. C. J. Irwin, ‘Unionism at the crossroads: what the people say’, Belfast Telegraph, 25 May 2000. 14. C. J. Irwin, ‘The people’s verdict’, Belfast Telegraph, 20 February 2003. C. J. Irwin, ‘What now for the Agreement?’, Belfast Telegraph, 19 February 2003. 15. C. J. Irwin, ‘Full implementation key to NI success’, Irish Times, 23 February 2001. C. J. Irwin, ‘It’s the Agreement – stupid’, Irish Times, 23 February 2001. C. J. Irwin, ‘The PEOPLE’S peace process’, Belfast Telegraph, 21 February 2001. 16. For reviews of violent conflicts around the world, see A. P. Schmid, ‘Early warning of violent conflicts: causal approaches’, in A. P. Schmid (ed.), Violent Crime and Conflicts, International Scientific and Professional Advisory Council of the United Nations Crime Prevention and Criminal Justice Programme, Milan 1997. B. Harff and T. R. Gurr, ‘Systematic early warning of humanitarian emergencies’, Journal of Peace Research, Vol. 35, No. 5, 1998, pp. 551–79. 17. For a review of group conflicts in general, see Minority Rights Group (ed.), World Directory of Minorities, Minority Rights Group International, London 1997. 18. C. J. Irwin, ‘Forum Macedonia: an opinion poll and its implications’, The Global Review of Ethnopolitics, Vol. 2, No. 1, September 2002, at www. ethnopolitics.org and C. J. Irwin, ‘Forum Macedonia: Reply – making dreams come true’, The Global Review of Ethnopolitics, Vol. 2, No. 1, September 2002, at www.ethnopolitics.org. 19. Seventy-two per cent of Israelis and 72 per cent of Palestinians would accept peace with the 1967 borders and the cessation of violence according to polls reviewed by Michael Emerson and Nathalie Tocci in The Rubik Cube of the Wider Middle East, Centre for European Policy Studies, Brussels 2003. 20. For a review, see Dr. Menachem Klein, Bar-Ilan University, Israel, Failed Israeli and Palestinian Interactions, Royal Irish Academy, 22 November 2002. 21. See Chapter 2.

9 The Politics of Imitation: The Role of Comparison in Peace Processes Adrian Guelke

Introduction Comparison plays such a large role in political discourse that it tends to be taken for granted. It provides such an obvious reference point for the discussion of any new political development that both the significance of comparison in general and the different forms that it takes tend to be overlooked. In particular, a broad distinction can be made between the comparative political analysis that academics engage in and political comparison. Todd Landman has identified the objectives of the comparative political analysis as being contextual description, classification, hypothesis-testing and prediction.1 Given the number of variables that can influence the course of political developments the last of these can be regarded as over-ambitious, a product of the discipline’s scientific pretensions. Political comparison, by contrast, is comparison for the purposes of legitimisation, de-legitimisation or as a guide to policymaking, or to put the same points in plainer language, comparison for the purposes of justification, condemnation or imitation. Just as any newspaper will provide examples of violence in its pages, so too can one find examples of political comparisons in any daily. Some examples of political comparisons made in the first week of April 2003 will illustrate the point. To the great surprise of political commentators, President Bush visited Northern Ireland on 7 and 8 April 2003. While his predecessor, Bill Clinton, paid three path-breaking visits to the province during his Presidency, George W. Bush was not expected to seek to emulate his role in the Northern Irish peace process. And, in fact, the peace process was not the main reason for Bush’s journey to Northern Ireland. Hillsborough, just outside Belfast, provided a convenient meeting place for Bush to discuss the final stages of the 168

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Iraqi war with the British Prime Minister, Tony Blair. However, some time was specifically set aside to discuss the progress of the Northern Irish peace process and in this context, Bush and Blair were joined by the Irish Prime Minister, Bertie Ahern. The three leaders issued a joint statement, which anticipated the publication later that week of proposals by the two governments to overcome the political impasse in the peace process which had resulted in the suspension of the province’s devolved institutions in October 2002. Their statement concluded as follows: We call upon Northern Ireland’s political representatives, community and business leaders, and citizens from all walks of life to respond positively to the forthcoming statements. We see no better way to fulfil the promise of the Good Friday Agreement. They have an unprecedented chance to continue their bold march from a troubled past to a future of promise and hope for generations to come. In seizing this opportunity, Northern Ireland will serve as a model to the world for dialogue and negotiation, demonstrating to all that what was once divided can be drawn together in a spirit of reconciliation and respect. 2 At a press conference at Hillsborough Bush explicitly praised the Northern Irish peace process as an example for Israelis and Palestinians. He declared: Prime Minister Blair and I are committed to implementing the road map toward peace, to bring closer the day when two states – Israel and Palestine – live in peace and stability. Peace in the Middle East will require overcoming deep divisions of history and religion. Yet we know this is possible; it is happening in Northern Ireland. 3 His remarks were interpreted both as a boost for the Northern Irish peace process itself and as support for the British Prime Minister. In particular, they were seen as being in line with Blair’s wish that the defeat of the Iraqi dictatorship should be quickly followed by an initiative to restart negotiations between Israelis and Palestinians to assuage Arab and Muslim anger over the war. By contrast, the British Prime Minister appeared to make little headway with the President over the issue of the involvement of the United Nations in the running of post-war Iraq. Bush’s support for the Northern Irish peace process could be seen as rewarding Blair for his steadfast support during the war without making any concessions over the future of Iraq.

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The link between Bush’s visit to Northern Ireland and British hopes to influence the administration’s approach to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict was underlined by an article in the Financial Times: What Mr Blair hopes is that he [Bush] also takes home the lesson of the recent history of Northern Ireland: with grit, determination and political courage even the most intractable of conflicts can be peacefully resolved. From the prime minister’s perspective the crossover to the Middle East is the obvious one. Much has been made lately of the differences between Mr Blair and Mr Bush over the shape of postwar Iraq – particularly the role of the United Nations. And there is no doubt that the prime minister wants the peace in Iraq to have the international legitimacy never achieved by the war. But what really matters to Mr Blair is resolving the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. The thread that runs from Belfast to Jerusalem is a belief in the capacity of politicians to change things.4 There is considerable irony in what followed President Bush’s visit to Northern Ireland. Civil society, to which the three leaders had appealed in their statement on 8 April never got the opportunity to demonstrate its support for the two governments’ plans. In any event, no statement of their proposals was forthcoming from the two governments on the appointed day of the fifth anniversary of the Belfast Agreement of 10 April 1998. This was because of unwillingness on the part of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) to issue a statement of its future intentions that would signal an end to paramilitarism. The statement the IRA was ultimately willing to make fell short of the minimum required by the two governments. In particular, they judged that it was not a sufficient basis for securing the co-operation of pro-Agreement Unionists to the re-establishment of devolution ahead of fresh elections to the Northern Ireland Assembly. In the absence of a satisfactory IRA statement, the two governments were unwilling to unveil their own proposals. These were intended to demonstrate their commitment to the complete implementation of the Belfast Agreement and to satisfy criticisms of the Republican movement that they had failed to implement the Agreement in full. No doubt both Bush and Blair considered this unfortunate sequence of events no more than a minor embarrassment against the backdrop of world events. But the issue of the long-running political crisis in the Northern Irish peace process was hardly a matter of small moment for the United Kingdom, however trivial the precise wording of an IRA

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statement might seem. The visit of Bush to Northern Ireland also inevitably prompted comparison of the governments’ approach to the situation in the province with the war against Iraq. The attitude of many Unionists was encapsulated in a column in the Belfast Telegraph. Soon it’ll be a “world without Saddam.” That means an Iraq friendly to the West. Just like Israel. Which leaves only Iran and Syria on the lunatic fringe. Result! If only Bush and Blair could be half as resolute with terrorists when they’re white, we might be a bit better off here.5 Blair’s promotion of the idea of Northern Ireland as a model for reviving the Israeli–Palestinian peace process was not new. It pre-dated both the Iraqi war and 9/11. He put the idea forward during the Weston Park talks on the future of Northern Ireland in July 2001. Blair was far from alone in connecting events in the Middle East to the province. In March 2002 when the Israeli Prime Minister, Ariel Sharon, launched a military offensive against the Palestinian Authority in response to the wave of suicide bombings afflicting Israel, Loyalist paramilitaries put up Israeli flags in the areas they controlled in Northern Ireland. Their purpose was both to signal their support for Sharon’s approach to the handling of terrorism and their opposition to that of the British government. Republican paramilitaries responded to the display of support for Israel in Loyalist areas by putting up Palestinian flags, as well as slogans in support of the suicide bombers. Within a short space of time almost every lamp post in the neighbourhoods controlled by the paramilitaries sported either an Israeli or a Palestinian flag. To the visitor it must have seemed that in the working-class neighbourhoods of Belfast, the locals preferred the Middle East’s war process to their own peace process. The ease with which the political comparison of two situations can be used to support quite different conclusions might suggest that the influence of particular comparisons on people’s actual attitudes and behaviour would be limited. That is one reason for questioning the importance of political comparison. Another is the ephemeral nature. Comparisons come and go with bewildering speed. Thus, by the time of Bush’s visit, few of the Israeli or Palestinian flags remained in place. Further, there were a number of indications of the opportunism of this particular comparison. The extreme right-wing British National Party (BNP) was one of the few external supporters of the Northern Ireland’s Loyalists. A visit by members of the BNP to a particular Loyalist neighbourhood in Belfast was preceded by a removal of signs of support for Sharon on the assumption that they might upset the visitors.

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However, it would be a mistake to dismiss the influence of political comparison in general because of the ephemeral or opportunistic nature of particular comparisons. There are cases of comparisons being sustained over many years and exercising a very considerable influence on political attitudes. The principal example that will be examined in this chapter is the remarkable influence that comparison of South Africa and Ireland or Northern Ireland has had on political attitudes. What is more remarkable about this particular comparison is that it has taken quite different forms in different historical periods but has still managed to retain its resonance in both societies.

South Africa and Ireland During the first half of the 20th century, the comparison that held sway in both South Africa and Ireland was that of Irish nationalism and Afrikaner nationalism. Both were seen as battling British imperialism at more or less the same time. In a book comparing the rise of Irish nationalism, Afrikaner nationalism and Zionism, Mark Suzman argues that the Anglo–Boer War of 1899–1902 was one of two major events that enabled the Gaelic League to extend its influence beyond the intelligentsia and the upper middle classes to the populace at large. (The other was the centenary celebration of the rising of 1798.) Suzman writes: The sight of a small ‘nation’ struggling for freedom against the might of the oppressive British Empire struck a chord with the Irish. A brigade of volunteers went out to fight for the Boers, and nearly all Irish political leaders from the parliamentarians to the IRB [Irish Republican Brotherhood] made public statements of solidarity with the embattled Afrikaners. Collections were held, songs written and even some streets renamed in their honour. This spilled over into a new articulation of Irish ethnic pride, a sentiment that the League was ideally placed to tap and direct. 6 The Irish were by no means alone in linking their struggle to the conflict in South Africa. It had a wider resonance. Indeed, it was a South African politician who proved most successful in exploiting the currency of the comparison in the aftermath of the war. In February 1906 the Boer War general, Jan Christian Smuts had a meeting in London with the British Prime Minister, Sir Henry CampbellBannerman. Campbell-Bannerman had become Prime Minister in

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December 1905 and his Liberal Party had just won the ensuing general election by a landslide. Smuts wrote the following in his diary about the meeting: ‘I put a simple case before him that night in Downing Street. It was in substance: Do you want friends or enemies?’. Smuts set out the advantages of friendship and warned the prime minister that the alternative was ‘possibly to have another Ireland on your hands’. Smuts’s appeal worked. ‘That talk’, the diary entry concluded, ‘settled the future of South Africa’.7 In the immediate aftermath of Smuts’s visit, the British government agreed to the granting of self-government to the Transvaal and the Orange River Colony on the basis of the same whites-only franchise that had been in operation in the defeated Boer republics. This effectively paved the way for the creation of the Union of South Africa under white minority rule. Smuts’s threat of another Ireland would hardly have possessed the potency it did if the analogy had not already been widely prevalent. Smuts repaid his debt to the British government by acting as an intermediary between the British government and Irish nationalists, while urging them to accept Dominion status. He also wrote the conciliatory speech delivered by King George V on the opening of the Northern Ireland parliament in June 1921. The reversal in the lines of sympathy between Afrikaner and Irish nationalism occurred in the 1960s. An episode in 1960 provided a bridge between the two eras. In that year the Conservative government planned to hold exhibitions across the United Kingdom to celebrate the existence of the British Commonwealth. The government wanted the South African High Commissioner to open the Belfast exhibition. However, the Unionist government refused to give its consent. Unionist hostility towards hosting the South African envoy derived, in part, from memories of the Anglo–Boer War and, in part, from the determination of the Verwoerd government to hold a referendum to turn South Africa into a republic. However, one of the younger Unionist ministers struck an altogether different note. Faulkner stated his objection as follows: The word ‘apartheid’ had already been maliciously applied to conditions in Northern Ireland. Some sections of the national press might mischievously use the South African association with the Belfast Exhibition to make misleading and damaging comments.8 Faulkner proved prophetic.

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Apartheid and Northern Ireland A landmark in the development of the comparison as part of nationalist political rhetoric within Northern Ireland was a speech made in the South African Parliament by the Minister of Justice, B. J. Vorster, in 1963. Vorster offered to exchange the bill he was presenting to Parliament for one clause of the Northern Ireland Special Powers Act. The Opposition, drawing most of its support from English-speakers, had criticised the powers in the bill as draconian and unprecedented in a Western liberal-democracy. The speech got picked up by the civil rights movement in Northern Ireland which was campaigning to get rid of the Special Powers Act. Thus civil rights leaders were able to claim that the act was the envy of the fascist government in South Africa. In short, the comparison was being used for very different purposes in the two societies. However, Vorster’s use of the comparison was not especially significant. Another comparison held sway in South Africa in the 1960s and it was ‘Look what happened in the Congo’. This became the rallying cry of whites throughout southern Africa in their effective opposition to African majority rule. Thus, whereas at the start of the 1960s it had seemed inevitable that majority rule would engulf southern Africa, by the 1970s particularly in South Africa the only prospect for political change seemed to lie in finding an alternative to majority rule. It was in this context that first the white opposition and then the government itself discovered the writings of Arend Lijphart. Lijphart’s theory of consociationalism seemed to offer the possibility of democracy without majority rule. Further it seemed especially justifiable in a divided society. Consociationalism provided the basis for comparing South Africa to societies outside of Africa, including Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland was especially attractive for the purpose of comparison. Consociationalism was very widely seen outside Northern Ireland as the only realistic basis for creating a stable government in Northern Ireland. In 1985 the South African Ambassador to London, Denis Worrall, made an extraordinary visit to Belfast. The Alliance Party and the SDLP refused to see him. The Unionists, who did, criticised Alliance and the SDLP for supporting majority rule in South Africa but not in Northern Ireland. The extraordinary denouement of the visit was a press conference the Ambassador gave at the end of his visit in which he declared: ‘Northern Ireland and South Africa are examples of societies in which majority rule cannot work.’ As Ilan Peleg’s chapter in this book underlines, the assumption that consociational or similar devices are required

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in deeply divided societies to prevent the domination of minorities by ethnic majorities is a view that continues to enjoy considerable support among academics specialising in ethnic conflict. Worrall also revealed that he had sought a meeting with Sinn Féin.9 Ultimately the National Party’s hopes for a consociational settlement in South Africa were to be dashed, though Joe Slovo’s sunset clauses helped to sugar the pill of majority rule. Republicans in Ireland came to the comparison with South Africa through a very different route. In the mid-1970s the Republican movement abandoned its expectation that just one more push would persuade the British to withdraw. It adopted what it called ‘the long war’ strategy. The war was going to have to go on until the middle of the 21st century if necessary. In this context the sustainability of the armed struggle in the long run became more important than the amount of violence at any one time. However, justifying violence became more difficult. This is where comparisons with other places came in. Two comparisons proved especially attractive to the Republican movement – the comparison of the IRA with the ANC and with the PLO. One might have thought that the initiation of peace processes in the 1990s might undercut these analogies. But on the contrary they reinforced the use of the two comparisons as they became the basis for legitimising the Republican movement’s adoption of a peace strategy. To a degree, the analogies forced their hand. After February 1990 in South Africa and the release of Mandela, and after September 1993 and the handshake on the White House lawn between Arafat and Rabin, the inevitable question of journalists to Gerry Adams was ‘Where is your peace process?’. After the British and Irish governments launched their peace initiative with the Joint Declaration of December 1993, the two governments pressed the case for a positive response from the Republican movement by emphasising the analogies. For a variety of reasons the South African analogy gradually became the principal one used by Republicans. The most important of these was the much weaker political position of the Palestinians compared to that of the black majority in South Africa. That made the former comparison much less attractive to Sinn Féin leaders seeking to convince their followers that participation in the peace process was not tantamount to defeat. Another reason was the lesser interest in Northern Ireland in the Middle East. Thus, Israelis, whether supporters or opponents of the Oslo process, had little reason to identify with the Unionists in Northern Ireland. By contrast, South Africans showed considerable interest in both the peace process in Northern Ireland and the use of South Africa

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as a model for political progress. Thus, the IRA ceasefire was greeted with the banner headline ‘IRA takes SA option’ in the country’s leading evening newspaper, The Star.10 The use of the South African analogy put the peace process in the context of the Republican movement’s conception of the conflict in anti-colonial terms. The ANC was flattered by the comparison and has provided support for Sinn Féin through different stages of the process. Gerry Adams visited South Africa in 1995 at the invitation of the ANC. In 1997 after the breakdown of the peace process in 1996 the South African government invited all the parties to South Africa to a conference on lessons of South Africa’s transition. The purpose was to assist the leadership of the Republican movement to secure a renewal of the IRA ceasefire, and thereby to facilitate a resumption of the negotiations among the parties on a political settlement. When the Belfast Agreement was reached in 1998, leading members of the ANC were on hand to help Sinn Féin leaders in persuading their followers to take a positive view of the deal. After suspension of the Executive in February 2000, South African intermediaries were credited with convincing the IRA of the need to open up arms dumps to international inspectors, including the ANC’s chief negotiator during the South African transition, Cyril Ramaphosa. Following the further suspension of the Executive in October 2002, Martin Ferris, Sinn Féin T. D. for North Kerry briefed ANC leaders on the difficulties in the peace process on a visit to Cape Town in December 2002. However, the ANC’s continuing engagement with the peace process in Northern Ireland does not mean that the outcome in either South Africa or Northern Ireland has been what the parties who initiated the comparison of the two cases have sought. In fact, the irony of the outcomes is striking. The National Party in South Africa looked to Northern Ireland to get a consociational outcome, but what it in fact got after a brief transitionary period was majority rule. By contrast, the Republican movement in Ireland looked to South Africa to get an anticolonial outcome and what it got was the consociational settlement of the Belfast Agreement. However, the consequences of the comparisons for the parties that promoted them have been very different. The National Party fared well in the general elections of 1994. However, as the New National Party it lost two-thirds of its vote in the general elections of 1999. After an abortive merger with the Democratic Party in 2000, it has survived as a very junior partner of the ANC. By contrast, Sinn Féin has flourished as a political party both in Northern Ireland and in the Republic of Ireland.

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The differing consequences for the parties can be seen as a reflection of the different nature of the outcomes in the two cases. The South African transition resulted in a new dispensation that to all intents and purposes is irreversible, so that whatever the future holds for the country it is extremely unlikely to involve the restoration of the political power of the white minority. Given the widespread fears that existed that the demise of apartheid would be accompanied by a racial bloodbath, it is hardly surprising that South Africa’s transition has been dubbed a miracle and that it has provided inspiration to other societies going through major change. By contrast, the future of both the Belfast Agreement and Northern Ireland as a polity remains far more uncertain. Nevertheless, despite Northern Ireland’s ongoing political crises, the perception of the Agreement as successful in greatly reducing the level of political violence in the province has provided inspiration to people engaged in peace processes in other conflicts. These include those initiated or proposed in the Basque Country, Corsica, Kashmir, Sri Lanka, Colombia and, of course, as already considered, Israel–Palestine.

The Basque Country, Corsica and beyond While in the world of post-Cold War peace processes, Northern Ireland was usually seen as a beneficiary of the example of others, from the beginning of his involvement it was touted as an example to others by Bill Clinton. Clinton recognised the potential of the Irish case for promoting the proposition that political settlements were possible even in the world’s most intractable and long-running conflicts. There were two cases in which the influence of the Irish peace process was most evident, the short-lived opening in the Basque Country in 1998–99 and the attempt at constitutional reform of Corsica’s place within France by the French Prime Minister, Lionel Jospin, in the period 1999–2002. 11 In each case a factor in facilitating both comparison and influence was the strong links between the political and military wings of the Republican movement in Ireland and similarly constructed movements in the Basque Country and Corsica. Sinn Féin has long had open links with Herri Batasuna, ETA’s political wing. These were not just a reflection of ideological affinity between nationalist parties challenging the legitimacy of existing Western European states, but also the visible dimension of co-operation between the IRA and ETA that dated back to the early 1970s. In the late 1980s and early 1990s a diverse range of peace movements and initiatives appeared in the Basque Country. The strength of civil

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society in demanding an end to the violence appeared in marked contrast to the narrowness of support for such initiatives in Northern Ireland. In 1992 after the failure of talks among Northern Ireland’s constitutional parties, it seemed far more likely that the Basque Country would provide lessons in peacemaking for Northern Ireland rather than, seemingly, the other way round. In the event, the Irish peace process both preceded and influenced the Basque process. The Joint Declaration by the British and Irish governments in December 1993, as well as the dialogue which preceded this initiative between the SDLP and Sinn Féin, provided inspiration to constitutional nationalists of the PNV (Basque National Party) to launch their ‘dialogue without limits’. Even more remarkable was the influence of the Good Friday Agreement in providing a model for the Basque peace process in 1998. The Lizarra Declaration, which secured the support of 23 organisations in the Basque Country including nationalist parties, trade unions, community groups and the IU (United Left), consisted of an analysis of the factors that led to the Good Friday Agreement in Ireland and their applicability to the Basque Country. The meeting that drew up the declaration – signed on 12 September 1998 – was appropriately called, in the circumstances, the Irish forum. The Lizarra Declaration was followed by ETA’s declaration of an indefinite ceasefire on 16 September 1998. ETA issued a statement announcing its intention to end the ceasefire on 28 November 1999. This setback might be compared to the breakdown of the first IRA ceasefire of August 1994 in February 1996. However, events since the breakdown of ETA’s ceasefire have not followed the same pattern. In particular, while Sinn Féin continued to prosper electorally after February 1996, the same has not been true of ETA’s political wing, which has lost a substantial proportion of its votes as a result of ETA’s return to violence. Further, the eagerness of the British and Irish governments to revive the Irish peace process after the setback of the Canary Wharf was not shared by the Spanish government as underlined by its continuing disagreement with the approach taken by constitutional nationalists in the Basque Country. An important dimension of the disagreement between the Spanish government and the constitutional nationalists of the PNV concerns precisely the relevance of the Belfast Agreement to the Basque Country. The Spanish government has been very insistent that the Belfast Agreement has no relevance for Spain and that unlike the position of Northern Ireland within the United Kingdom, there is no question of the Basque region ceasing to be part of Spain. By contrast, it is precisely the fact that the Good Friday Agreement treats the question of British

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sovereignty over Northern Ireland in other than all-or-nothing terms that has stimulated such interest in the Agreement among Basque nationalists. Comparison of the case of Corsica with Northern Ireland dates back to the 1970s when the danger of the Irlandisation of Corsica was a theme of French analysis of the political violence on the island. When the French government outlawed the FLNC (Corsican National Liberation Front) in 1983 its links with the Provisional IRA was given as one of the reasons for the ban. The initial response of the French government to violence in Corsica was to enact economic reforms. With Mitterrand’s election in 1981 there was a change of approach resulting in the setting up of a directly elected Assembly for the island. Through the 1980s and 1990s nationalists formed a minority of those elected, divided – as in Northern Ireland and the Basque Country – between constitutional nationalists eschewing political violence and those with links to the militants. Despite the creation of a Corsican Assembly, political violence by groups seeking independence from France continued, though at a much lower level than in Northern Ireland or the Basque Country. In 1990 a major split occurred within the FLNC, setting the scene for the approach taken by the French government up to 1999. Farimah Daftary characterises the situation as follows: The response of the French State to the problems in Corsica can be characterised as a policy of “double diplomacy”: negotiating with the main Corsican political actors while at the same time dealing with clandestine movements and playing one against the other. Negotiations (overt or secret) have alternated with periods of open repression. The Corsican nationalist movement also practised a double policy of clandestine violence and political tactics, setting off bombs while candidates of the nationalist parties ran for regional elections. 12 The growth of electoral support for nationalists at the end of the 1990s forced the French government to consider more radical measures to defuse the Corsican crisis. In particular in the regional elections of 1998, regionalist, autonomist and independence-minded groupings won close to 22 per cent of the vote in the first round of voting. Corsica Nazione linked to the FLNC (Canal Historique) was the only such grouping to qualify for the second round of voting and in this round it won just under 10 per cent of the vote. In a re-run of the regional elections in 1999, regionalist, autonomist and independence-minded groupings won over 23 per cent

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of the vote. Once again Corsica Nazione was the only grouping to qualify for the second round, in which, after a much stronger first round showing, it won nearly 17 per cent of the vote. The opening up of a dialogue on a political settlement in Corsica was prompted in part by the desire of nationalists to create peace within their own ranks. After the 1999 regional elections 15 nationalist groupings committed themselves to a common programme and renounced violence against each other. Another factor encouraging a wider dialogue was the growing interest in autonomy from politicians linked to other non-nationalist groupings. An emerging consensus that larger autonomy for the island was required to bring an end to the Corsican crisis was apparent in a conference in August 1998 that was attended by representatives of a wide range of opinion in Corsica. The conference in Finland on the theme of ‘Island Regions in the New Europe’ was organised by the European Centre of Minority Issues. An opening speech by Pierre Joxe, the former French Minister of the Interior, set the tone by declaring: ‘If the Northern Irish can find a solution, why can’t the Corsicans?’13 A turning point in tentative movement towards full-scale negotiations occurred at the end of November 1999 when the French Prime Minister, Lionel Jospin, declared his willingness to meet with elected representatives from the Corsican Assembly, including members of Corsica Nazione. Two major meetings in Paris were held in December 1999 and April 2000. Further meetings followed in what was dubbed the Matignon process – named after the French Prime Minister’s office in Paris. They led to the Compromise of 20 July 2000. The reforms agreed included the creation of a single Corsican region, without parallel state administration through two Departments, the limited transfer of legislative powers and the introduction of the mandatory teaching of Corsican. These measures were supposed to be enacted over a four-year period. However, they ran into both political opposition within the French National Assembly and legal opposition from France’s Constitutional Council which had the effect of watering down the reforms even before Jospin’s shock defeat in the first round of France’s Presidential elections in May 2002. Interest in the Belfast Agreement as a possible model for a political settlement which takes place within existing political boundaries, but which seeks simultaneously to reduce their political impact, is by no means confined to Europe. The Belfast Agreement has attracted attention as offering lessons for the resolution of conflict in such diverse places as Kashmir, Sri Lanka and Colombia.14 Of course there is much

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argument over the translation of the model in other contexts and, as in the Spanish case, the analogy with Northern Ireland has opponents as well as supporters. The most obvious points of relevance to other conflicts are the Belfast Agreement’s emphasis on cross-border bodies as a way of softening the effect of national sovereignty and the provision in the British–Irish Council for relations among different levels of government outside the sovereignty of a single state. Both these elements can be seen as a reflection of the development of less absolutist notions of sovereignty, particularly in the context of European integration. A weakness is that the international community has yet to make any definitive statements on a post-Cold War interpretation of the principle of self-determination. Ad hoc response by the international community to events in the Balkans leaves large uncertainty as to any common understanding of the legitimacy of secession or the claim of territorial integrity. In the absence of rules in these areas, the danger is that the outcome of ethno-nationalist conflicts will, in practice, be determined by power politics and any innovative potential of new ways of interpreting and implementing sovereignty will be lost. Of course whether in fact the Belfast Agreement represents a new way forward for the settlement of ethnic conflicts is very much open to dispute. Should the Agreement fail, the argument that the Agreement was simply an attempt to appease physical-force Republicanism in the context of a truce among the paramilitaries will gain ground. We can also be sure more attention will be given to the case of those who have argued since April 1998 that the Agreement was a futile attempt to reconcile what could not be reconciled. The complex nature of the Agreement – attractive to supporters who argue that this was necessary to tackle the various elements of the conflict in Northern Ireland – has been seen by many of its opponents as a weakness. Similarly, mechanisms that have been hailed as requiring a wide measure of consensus for the enactment of public policy have been highlighted by critics of the Agreement as indicating the Agreement’s large potential for creating political paralysis.

Conclusion The scope for disagreement over the applicability to another situation of a political settlement addressed to a particular conflict is obviously large. It is consequently understandable that political scientists analysing the process that leads to agreement should on the whole want to focus on factors directly relevant to the conflict in question.

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However, it is evident from political discourse that imitation in fact has played a considerable role in a number of peace processes. Notwithstanding the elusive nature of argument by analogy, greater account needs to be taken of this factor in analysing why and how negotiations have come about. The fact that imitation may lead to unintended consequences and a very different political trajectory from that originally envisaged does not alter its significance or the need to comprehend it. Further, there are some very good reasons why imitation is of especial importance in the context of both peace processes to end ethnic conflicts and democratisation. First, external support is vital to the success of virtually all peace processes. Only rarely would any government embark on a peace process without the incentive that it would improve the country’s international standing. Further, the fragility of peace processes means that the existence of a favourable external environment is vital to their prospects for survival. Secondly, the achievement of peace requires more than a calculation of the balance of political forces at the time and its embodiment in a political settlement. Settlements that simply reflect balances of power rarely endure for the simple reason that over time there are inevitably shifts in the relative weight of the political forces that make up the polity. The legitimisation of a new political dispensation is dependent on its having normative dimensions that can be defended in terms of current best practice internationally. Thirdly, even the most successful peace processes encounter difficulties and obstacles along the way. This provides a valuable lesson to those in the midst of a peace process that the difficulties they encounter have been overcome in other situations and that ultimate success is possible.

Notes and references 1. Todd Landman, Issues and Methods in Comparative Politics: An Introduction, Routledge, London and New York 2000, p. 4. 2. Irish Times, 9 April 2003. 3. Ibid. 4. Philip Stephens, ‘The thread that links Belfast to Jerusalem’, Financial Times, 7 April 2003. 5. Gail Walker, ‘Hypocrisy high on the agenda for the summit’, Belfast Telegraph, 8 April 2003. 6. Mark Suzman, Ethnic Nationalism and State Power: The Rise of Irish Nationalism, Afrikaner Nationalism and Zionism, Macmillan, Basingstoke 1999, p. 24. 7. Quoted in W. K. Hancock, Smuts: The Sanguine Years, 1870–1919, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962, p. 215.

Adrian Guelke 183 8. Quoted in Bryan A. Follis, ‘Friend or foe? Ulster unionists and Afrikaner nationalists’, Southern African–Irish Studies, Vol. 3, 1996, p. 172. 9. Worrall’s visit is described in the Irish Times and the Belfast Telegraph, 11, 12 and 13 April 1985. 10. The Star (Johannesburg), 1 September 1994. 11. For a discussion of the influence of the Irish peace process in the two cases, see Fancesco Letamendia and John Loughlin, ‘Peace in the Basque Country and Corsica?’ in Michael Cox, Adrian Guelke and Fiona Stephen (eds), A Farewell to Arms?: From ‘Long War’ to Long Peace in Northern Ireland, Manchester University Press, Manchester 2000. 12. Farimah Daftary, Insular Autonomy: A Framework for Conflict Settlement? A Comparative Study of Corsica and the Aland Islands, European Centre for Minority Issues, Flensburg 2000, p. 31. 13. Quoted in John Loughlin and Farimah Daftary, Insular Regions and European Integration: Corsica and the Aland Islands Compared, European Centre for Minority Issues, Flensburg 1999, p. 23. 14. See, for example, the comparisons with Northern Ireland in an issue on frameworks for peace in Kashmir of Seminar (New Delhi), No. 496, December 2000.

10 The Concept of Justice in the Early Post-Conflict Transitional Period: A Comparative Perspective Marcia Byrom Hartwell

Introduction One of the greatest challenges a country or society will ever face is attempting to coexist and rebuild a peaceful society with former enemies. One of the most difficult quests during the early months of peace is finding ways to satisfy the need for justice. Court trials can take too long for traumatised survivors who desire to move on. Rebuilding a peace that is dimly remembered or unknown to a younger generation is a daunting task. The dilemma of limiting justice to a criminal trial where punishing perpetrators may not automatically give benefits to the victims must also be confronted. Instead, a broader scope of social reconciliation that encompasses all members of society; victims, perpetrators, their beneficiaries, and bystanders, may require other forms of justice.1 This chapter proposes that the concept of justice as fair treatment is a key issue in the early post-conflict period and has great impact on the long-term success or failure of a peace process.2 It maintains that contrary to waiting for justice to be enacted in a court of law, informal assessments of perceived fair or unfair treatment, dubbed as justice judgements, will be used by former enemies, both individuals and groups, when deciding whether or not to cooperate in the earliest phases of a peace process. 3 It also suggests that this concept of justice is equally important to external interveners who offer economic, political, and social assistance to post-conflict societies. This chapter cites three areas of former conflict with observations on key justice issues: Serbia and the Milosevic trials; Northern Ireland and prisoner releases in the 184

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1998 Good Friday Agreement; and South Africa and the 1995 Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Justice as fairness In the aftermath of a violent conflict, there is a strong urge to move on quickly with the business of rebuilding lives. While slow-moving formal trials serve a ritualistic purpose in much the same way as formal truth commissions, humans need a faster way to judge fairness of treatment in order to understand and develop their place in the new political, social, and economic order. There is much evidence to suggest that justice judgements are formed very early, and tend to be inflexible. It is clear . . . that the time to establish a favorable fairness impression is early in the resolution of a dispute . . . What this means is that once people arrive at the conclusion that they are being fairly treated, they cease to look for, or even attend to, additional information that might cause them to revise that impression. . . . [However] if procedures and outcomes seem to be very unfair, the implication of rejection and exploitation can add an extra sting and make people ignore even their interest as they seek to harm those whom they believe have treated them unfairly. The advantage of using ‘justice judgements’ in this way ‘is that it allows people to get around the logical problems associated with co-operation . . . They can construct their social identities and contribute to the common good without fearing too much that they will be exploited or rejected. Gone is the need to calculate all of the potential consequences of co-operative actions and to attempt to guess the probability of others’ favourable or unfavourable behaviours. It is enough to decide that the relationship is fair’. 4 Much recent debate has focused on the role of retributive justice in high-profile war criminal trials but in early post-conflict situations there are two distinct views – external and internal – of justice being served. The external is composed of outsiders – the international community, including hostile countries, who are the mediators, aid givers, and peacekeepers. The internal is composed of groups formerly in direct conflict and security forces (military, police). This view indicates that the way groups perceive that they are being treated, especially by the international community, feeds into a process directed towards either sustained peace or future retribution. It is a time of great danger for

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laying the foundation for former predators turning into victims seeking retaliation and former victims becoming aggressive predators. During this phase, the ethnic and political composition of commissions, the way war crimes trials are initiated, the groups chosen to receive the majority of economic, political, and social aid, and accountability in the way funds are spent become extremely important to all groups. Social psychologists have put forward two theories as to why people care about justice. The first is the social-exchange-based resource model arguing ‘that people want to maximise the resources they obtain from social interactions, a goal that they believe is facilitated by following rules of distributive and procedural justice’. The other is an identity-based relational model suggesting: that people attempt to maintain high status within groups and use the justice of their experiences to evaluate their group status . . . . An important contribution of social psychology to the study of the antecedents of individuals’ feelings and behaviors in groups is the demonstration that people in groups and organizations react to thirdparty allocations and dispute resolution decisions by evaluating their fairness, not simply their absolute or relative favorability.5 Justice, in interviews in Northern Ireland and Serbia, has been expressed as a remedy of previous inequality of access to economic, political, and social resources such as: equal opportunity to participate in future political arrangements; equal application of the rule of law; equal access to funding for economic development; equal access to quality education, housing, jobs; and elimination of identity coding to prevent or limit access to resources. Social concerns, mentioned and observed and the underlying support that keeps peace on track, included hypersensitivity of language (the choice and context in which words are used assume huge importance); types of commemoration signs, statues, monuments, murals, and graffiti publicly displayed; negotiating the future role of ethnic minorities who are not members of conflicting groups or collaborators (Northern Ireland has a sizeable Chinese community in Belfast; Serbia has over twenty ethnic minorities); acknowledgement of diverse geographical (urban, rural) and socioeconomic (working class, middle class, wealthy) experiences of the population during conflict; internal corruption; reintegration of ex-combatants – paramilitary members, child soldiers – and refugees (where applicable); and reform of the security sector including military and police (a situation faced by both Northern Ireland and Serbia/Kosovo).


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Acknowledging that there is ‘no perfect jural order; [as] it always functions within political structures and . . . is never neutral or immune to power’, anthropologist John Borneman feels that justice by trial is valuable in two ways, ‘righting the wrong and re-establishing the dignity of the victim’ and ‘both are necessary to prevent cycles of retributive violence’.6 In their quest for showy public trials, the international community may be overlooking the way perceptions of fair treatment shape the human sense of justice.

Serbia and the case of Milosevic In the case of Serbia, an externally driven quest for justice centred on the extradition and trial of Slobodan Milosevic for war crimes at the Hague in exchange for economic assistance. Internally, this action is seen as the price demanded by the international community, in its desire to publicly humiliate the man who defied the West and instigated the break-up of the former Republic of Yugoslavia in the early 1990s. Most anti-Milosevic Serbs feel justice was served by throwing him out of office and forming a new government. ‘October 5th’ (2000) is code for the ‘revolution’, the day when a large cross section of Serbs stormed the Parliament and defied the security forces (who in the end refused to act against them). For these people the case of Milosevic was finished and his arrest cynically viewed as a diversion from the real domestic issue – recent passage of a hefty tax law. Many now feel that it is time to find ways to address the real problems, such as finding a job that will earn a subsistence wage without having to work two or three legitimate jobs, or without being pushed towards the temptations of the black market. There has been recognition that the new democratic Serbia must apply internal justice in a way that will best overcome large social divisions. There are groups composed of pensioners, state employees, and others who were dependent on the previous regime for protection and financial benefits. A significant group of Serbs actively resisted Milosevic, by protesting the draft at great risk, and by enduring professional expulsion. The police and military are another group who were equally vulnerable and representative of the State regime. There are also dozens of ethnic minorities – Montenegrins, Albanians, Hungarians, Yugoslavs, Muslims, Gypsies, Croats, Slovaks, Macedonians, Romanians, Bulgarians, Russians, Vlachians, Turks, Slovenes, and others who have lived in relative peace inside Serbia (excluding Kosovo) throughout the latest war.

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Ironically, one of the major internal Serbian post-conflict issues centres on the status of refugees. Blamed for starting the war in Croatia and Bosnia in the early 1990s, and in Kosovo in 1999, Serbia now has an estimated 900,000 Serb refugees (700,000 from Croatia/Bosnia; 200,000 from Kosovo), which makes it host to one of the largest refugee populations in the region. Milosevic refused to allow refugees to take Yugoslav citizenship, which denied them jobs and property rights. Recent figures compiled by the European Union’s Stability Pact for the Balkans have shown that only three per cent of the refugees have a living standard above the average and the remainder survive in the grey economy. Their kiosks selling CDs, clothing, and so on proliferate throughout the central areas of Belgrade. In Subotica, a Serbian city on the Hungarian border, refugees are seen as ‘a problem of social adaptation’ – one where they ‘have to accept and adopt rules in this area’. They were seen as ‘confused’, and not knowing ‘how to behave . . . not used to hearing different language and different kinds of customs’. A distinction was made between the rural and city refugees, with the urban ones cited as acclimatising more easily, while the rural ones are still living in local refugee camps with no land to till and no other adaptable skills. The issue of repatriation versus local integration is becoming more pronounced. The New Serbia Forum (a programme for the reconstruction of Yugoslavia, administered by the British Association for Central & Eastern Europe) held post-Milosevic in December 2000, stated: If safe return is not possible for these groups in the foreseeable future, many experts agree that a new democratic government should promote their permanent settlement in Serbia. This would require additional resources to provide adequate accommodation, welfare assistance, and job creation schemes. A new government will clearly find it difficult to finance these measures implying the need for EU and international assistance to help promote durable solutions for refugees. At the current time, the overall internal Serb reaction tends to be cynical resentment tempered with resignation – if the world wants Milosevic as the price for economic aid, then so be it. Their reaction needs to be understood against the background that Serbs feel they have long been demonised by the international community. For many, the feeling has been that things could not get much worse and they are eager to forge ahead.


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Northern Ireland and prisoner amnesty One of the greatest post-conflict challenges to the concept of justice in Northern Ireland has emerged in the act of granting amnesty to prisoners and the implied link to decommissioning. The early release of paramilitary prisoners included in the 1998 Good Friday Agreement was one of the most controversial but arguably one of the most important incentives for peace. Both the IRA (Irish Republican Army) and Loyalist paramilitaries worked separately and together to help broker peace deals inside the Maze prison and from the beginning it was understood that amnesties for all political prisoners would be made part of the Good Friday Agreement. As Gusty Spence, Commanding Officer UVF (Ulster Volunteer ForceLoyalist/Protestant), stated in his speech to fellow paramilitaries in Northern Ireland’s Long Kesh prison (also known as the Maze) calling for a universal ceasefire a full twenty years (12 July 1977) before the 1998 Good Friday Agreement: The political prisoners and the paramilitaries cannot be made the scapegoats for our society’s ills because ours was a sick society long before the fighting men came on the scene. . . . Before we can reconstruct we must have a peace with a modicum of trust in order to bind the wounds created by . . . three hundred years of strife, hatred, mistrust and oppression with no one side having a monopoly on good and evil.7 The differences between the Northern Ireland communities on amnesty for prisoners are rooted in their different understandings of the conflict. For many Unionists, ‘terrorism’ was an aberration on the body politic, a problem perpetuated by a few irredentist ‘men of violence’ . . . With little support or sympathy for Loyalist prisoners beyond the narrow electoral base of the fringe Loyalist parties, and no comparable historical experience of political imprisonment to the nationalist community in Ireland, the mainstream Unionist view of ‘terrorist’ violence was sustained and nurtured by the official discourses of the state. Security force members were not protagonists to the conflict but rather upholding ‘law and order’ . . .8 The critical issue for Republicans as well as for the IRA, has been recognition that their fight has been for a political, not criminal cause.

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The Good Friday Agreement, unlike the previously similar but failed 1973 Sunningdale Agreement, incorporated the paramilitaries in the process through their associated political parties and represented an ‘acceptance of the political motivation of paramilitaries, an implicit acknowledgement of the state as a protagonist in the conflict, and a preference for politics over “security” ’. This acceptance of political incentives for the paramilitaries did ‘not imply either approval or appeasement. Neither Republicans nor Loyalists have achieved the stated objectives of their respective campaigns of violence . . .’.9 The insistence by the British government, and the Unionist and Loyalist communities that prisoner releases be linked to decommissioning before all-party talks could begin has been widely regarded as a major contributor to the failure of the (1994) IRA ceasefire in 1996. For both Republican and Loyalist paramilitaries surrender of arms runs against a deeply ingrained survival mechanism that reaches for weapons in defence when trouble starts. For Republicans, the issue of decommissioning is clearly linked to the question of demilitarization, withdrawal of British troops, the dismantling of security installations, controls on legally held weapons by Unionists, and police reform. For the mainstream Loyalists (the UDA and UVF), decommissioning is tied up with the actions and attitudes of Republicans and their capacity to attack the Loyalist Community. 10 It can be argued that a perception of justice as unfairness has plagued the Unionist community more than any other throughout the peace process. It has been reflected in their reactions to the Good Friday Agreement and in their interpretation of international intervention. Much of this perception of being the demonised group abandoned to their fate by Great Britain, the Republic of Ireland, and the United States of America has reinforced the feeling that Protestants are the only ones who can be relied on to save their people. This survivor’s anxiety has been reflected in the Unionists’ dogmatic stance on decommissioning and in the last-chance atmosphere that is associated with the annual Drumcree parades. The serious implications of these feelings for the continued success of the peace process have begun to be more openly acknowledged – and indeed forced into the public eye by the Protestant population – and increasingly recognised as a perception that needs to be addressed in a more reassuring way by all parties.


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South Africa and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission The underlying implication for the internally created 1995 South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was that by somehow making truth public the country would be able to acknowledge a criminal past without holding its perpetrators accountable, setting their country free to create a future without a backward glance. It was a courageous step for a new government to take, especially as they, too, would be questioned for past misdeeds. However, its importance as a tool for reconciliation and healing was misunderstood both by internal participants and by external observers. One of the major weaknesses of the TRC was its attempt to stifle rage and acknowledgement for the power of retributive justice. The amnesty given in exchange for testimony was challenged by the families of murdered Black Consciousness Movement leader, Steve Biko, and defence lawyer, Griffiths Mxenge, as denying their right to bring the men’s killers to trial. The emotionally charged Human Rights Violations hearings also promoted an exclusively religious Christian view that ‘invoked notions of confession, forgiveness, sacrifice, redemption and liberation’. They ‘became national rituals of “reconciliation”, forgiveness and truth-telling . . . which generated collective moral values and sought to inculcate them in all who participated, including those watching hearings on television each night. Like all rituals, they were met with a complex mixture of compliance, acceptance, indignation and resistance’.11 While articulation of a version of the truth (the story is almost always influenced by the teller) may end the silence of a perpetrator’s previously denied complicity and coercion, allowing the victim to understand life-altering traumatic circumstances, truth telling on its own is not a panacea guaranteeing social healing and reconciliation. ‘All truth is bitter’ goes the Zulu saying and as Derek Summerfield, psychiatrist for the Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of Torture has asked: Does the truth purify? . . . How are we to measure the social impact of a truth commission in comparison with, say economic factors . . . [and] what happens when a sizeable section of the public is instinctively against the trawling of the past, as in East Germany, where an astonishing number of ordinary citizens were drawn into the security service’s informer networks at some point during the communist era? What emerges . . . might be inflammatory and divisive rather than reconciling . . .12

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The real value of post-conflict public truth telling, both formal and informal, is that it may function as a kind of public forum for acknowledging the almost inexpressibly deep anguish of loss, giving a common platform of dignity and respect for the experience of all. It is clear however, from the subsequent events in South Africa – the failure for a glorious all-encompassing economic turnaround, the subsequent rise in crime, and the now devastating AIDS epidemic – that the TRC, though significant in addressing one way of dealing with past injustice, was not enough on its own to address the perceptions of fair and unfair treatment for many Africans of all backgrounds.

Conclusion Each country’s culture and individual history of conflict will influence and shape the creation of the reconciliation process necessary for a sustained peace. Writing about recovering from genocide in Rwanda (When Victims Become Killers), Mahmood Mamdani asks: ‘Is a form of justice possible that is not at the same time victor’s justice? Is a form of reconciliation possible that is not at the same time an absence of justice, and thus an embrace of evil?’ His answer is an alternative version he calls ‘survivors justice’ which refers not only to surviving victims ‘but to all those who continue to be blessed with life in the aftermath of a civil war’. He goes on: Where beneficiaries [of a dominant group’s action] are many [as was the case with South Africa’s white population], reconciliation has to be social to be durable, which is the same thing as saying there can be no durable reconciliation without some form of social justice. But where beneficiaries are few [and perpetrators many as in Rwanda], the key to reconciliation is political . . . The prime requirement of political reconciliation is neither criminal justice nor social justice, but political justice. It requires not only shifting the primary focus of reform from individuals to institutions, but also recognizing that the key to institutional reform is the reform of institutions of rule.13 (This interpretation of political justice would be intimately familiar to current and former members of Northern Ireland’s IRA who staged prison hunger strikes in 1981 to gain recognition as political prisoners, rather than as criminals and terrorists.) However, in the process of reforming institutions during the early post-conflict period the impact of perceptions of fair treatment by


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formerly dominant groups and their influence on a peace process should not be underestimated. Despite the dubious palatability of the ‘legitimised’ dominant group’s position in earlier society, it must be understood that in post-conflict situations they are the ones being asked to make the very difficult transitions by ceding or sharing power as well as social, economic, and political control. Whatever they may have done in the past, there can be no future peace without their cooperation. Understanding the importance of ways in which justice is perceived during this time can assist all parties in discouraging formation of a cult of victimisation among these formerly dominant groups, thus helping to prevent future aggression. Serbs in the former Yugoslavia and the Protestants in Northern Ireland have long held an image of themselves as misunderstood victims, forced to defend themselves against hundreds or thousands of years of constructed historic persecution. This beleaguered image was also adopted in South Africa by the Afrikaner minority to justify apartheid. Their victim/survivor identity constructed on the ashes of defeat by the English in the Anglo–Boer War of 1899–1902, and reinforced by life in their concentration camps, was later used as a defensive weapon to justify the construction of apartheid. 14 This assumption of a universal victimhood has been challenged by Marie Smyth, director of Northern Ireland’s The Cost of the Troubles Study: We cannot say we are all victims, because to do so implies that we have all had equally difficult experiences. . . . At a moral level, it is incorrect to lay claim to victim-hood on the basis of paltry experiences of the Troubles, in comparison to the immense suffering of others. Smyth pointed out that the attempt to make victimhood universal implied that distribution of post-conflict resources should be equitable among all groups. She protested this approach in that it ‘mask[s] the way in which damage and loss has been concentrated in certain geographical areas, communities, occupational groups, age groups, genders’. 15 This task of rebuilding and creating institutions that allow citizens to transfer a conflict from open warfare to heated debate is excruciatingly difficult but making the effort to arrive at a consensus or an agreement to disagree is a step forward towards long-term peace. As the philosopher Stuart Hampshire has observed,

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All modern societies are, to a lesser or greater degree morally mixed, with rival conceptions of justice, conservative and radical, flaring into open conflict and needing arbitration. . . . No state will realize a perfect fairness in the representation of the conflicting moral outlooks within it.16 In peaceful societies this simply means a compromise that is preferably smart rather than shabby, but the stakes are much higher for postconflict environments where the buffering middle layer of civil society has often been destroyed or severely limited. For them this can mean the choice between achieving a compromise that settles conflict with emotional rhetoric within an institutional setting, or reverting to all-out bloodshed on the ground. It is institutions and their rituals that hold society together as long as ‘they are successful and well established in the resolution of moral and political conflicts according to particular local and national conventions’. Justice and fairness in procedures ‘whether in duels, sports, games, law courts, parliaments, in all kinds of arguments and in adversary processes in which one side wins and another side loses, either fairly or unfairly. . . . is how politics and social life go forward, at best in controlled and recognised conflicts, sometimes enjoyably, sometimes painfully’. 17 In a war, all have suffered, but different groups and individuals have varying intensity of experiences. It is in the way in which justice is perceived to be administered during the earliest days of a peace process and how fairness towards all groups is seen to be utilised in creating and rebuilding new post-conflict institutions that has the possibility of most strongly affecting the will to persevere towards a sustained peace.

Notes and references 1. Mahmood Mamdani, ‘From justice to reconciliation: making sense of the African experience’, Crises And Reconstruction – African Perspectives (Discussion Paper 8: 1997: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet). 2. In this context, an early post-conflict society is described as one in which enemy groups have ceased fighting each other in direct combat on the ‘ground’ and have moved the fight to an institutional forum. This situation may last for years and evolve through several phases. Violence is common during this period as the all-out intensity of street-fighting shows, transforming itself into punishment beatings, and other forms of intimidation, used to settle old scores. 3. Allan E. Lind, Social Conflict and Social Justice: Lessons from the Social Psychology of Justice Judgments (Inaugural oration for the Leiden University Fund Chair in


4. 5.

6. 7.

8.

9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

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Social Conflict: Presented to the Faculty of University, Leiden, The Netherlands, June 1995: Rijks Universiteit Leiden), pp. 15–16. Ibid., pp. 11–13, 15–16. Tom R. Tyler, ‘Psychological models of the justice motive: antecedents of distributive and procedural justice’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, Vol. 67, No. 5, 1994, p. 850. John Borneman, Settling Accounts: Violence, Justice, and Accountability in Post-Socialist Europe, Princeton University Press, Princeton 1997, pp. 11–12. Oration delivered by Augustus Andrew (Gusty) Spence, the Commanding Officer, Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) in Long Kesh prison (aka the Maze), 12 July 1977. Kieran McEvoy, ‘Prisoners, the Agreement, and the political character of the Northern Ireland conflict’, Fordham International Law Journal, Vol. 22, No. 4, April 1999, pp. 1575–6. Ibid., pp. 1574–5. Ibid., p. 1567. Richard Wilson, ‘Human Rights, Reconciliation and Revenge’, Sussex Development Lecture, 15 February 2001 (drawing on his book, The Politics of Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge), pp. 6–7. Derek Summerfield, ‘South Africa: does a truth commission promote social reconciliation?’, British Medical Journal, No. 7120; 29 November 1997, p. 1393. Mahmood Mamdani, When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism and the Genocide in Rwanda, Princeton University Press, Princeton 2001, pp. 272–3. On the Serbs, see Sabrina Petra Ramet and Ljubisa S. Adamovich (eds), Beyond Yugoslavia, Politics, Economics, and Culture in a Shattered Community, Westview Press, Boulder 1995, pp. 101–22. A Protestant (Unionist) in Northern Ireland claimed that: ‘History has shown us as Protestants, that on this island there is no place here for us, unless we acquiesce and lie down . . . and say nothing about our culture and don’t express it in any visible way that shames anyone or offends anyone. Yet there is much in the other culture [Catholic/nationalist] that offends Protestantism . . .’, Feargal Cochrane and Seamus Dunn, International Study of Peace/Conflict Resolution Organisations (ISPO): Northern Ireland Report, June 1999, p. 22. On the case of the Afrikaners, see June Goodwin and Ben Schiff, ‘Heart of Whiteness’, in Afrikaners Face Black Rule in the New South Africa, Scribner, New York 1995, pp. 187–9. Brandon Hamber (ed.), ‘Past Imperfect’, Dealing with the Past in Northern Ireland and Societies in Transition, INCORE, Londonderry 1998, pp. 34, 38 and 49. Stuart Hampshire, Justice is Conflict, Gerald Duckworth & Co, London 1999, pp. 38–9. Ibid., p. 35.

11 Punishment, Amnesty and Truth: Legal and Political Approaches Tom Hadden

Introduction Political theorists like to establish simple oppositions. The idea that liberal democratic ideals can be contrasted with those of consociational arrangements as a means of resolving ethnic conflict is a case in point. In most cases, however, a complex combination of both is likely to be required. The idea that there are some fundamental human rights principles that should underpin any settlement and that help to create the pressure for change is equally attractive. In the real world of ethnic and political conflict the principles of human rights must in practice be thought of as correspondingly flexible. The unsatisfactory nature of any simple oppositions in this area can be illustrated in one of the most important and controversial issues in the resolution of serious ethnic and political conflict, that of dealing with past or continuing human rights violations that inevitably occur during conflicts of this kind. There is a stark difference between human rights lawyers and politicians in their approach to issues of prosecution, punishment and amnesties in the aftermath of wars and conflicts. Human rights lawyers and activists usually insist that those responsible for serious human rights violations or war crimes should be prosecuted and punished. 1 ‘No impunity’ is their current slogan. The universal implementation of the statute of the International Criminal Court is their longer-term objective. Politicians, particularly those closest to negotiations on peace settlements or their implementation, more often support or acquiesce in settlements which involve formal or informal amnesties for crimes committed during the conflict. 2 In their view it is 196

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‘the big picture’ – achieving lasting peace – which takes precedence and anything which interferes with that objective is to be avoided or sidelined.

Recent examples of these differing approaches It is easy to illustrate these differing approaches. In the aftermath of almost all recent major conflicts the human rights community has campaigned for the immediate arrest, trial and punishment of those responsible for war crimes or serious human rights abuses, while politicians have usually found some way of avoiding or at least postponing all or most prosecutions. In Argentina the new democratic government which replaced the military junta following the ‘dirty war’ from 1976 to 1983 and the Falklands war in 1983 put the leading generals on trial. But mounting pressure from the army for an end to prosecutions led to the enactment in 1986 of an effective amnesty for many alleged violations: the ‘full stop’ (punto finale) law (No. 23.492) set a 60 day deadline for the termination of all criminal proceedings arising out of the ‘dirty war’ and the ‘due obedience’ law (No. 23.521) provided for an irrefutable presumption that military personnel were acting in the course of duty. This was followed in 1989 by a Presidential Decree of Pardon (No. 1002/89) for all those not benefiting from the amnesty laws. The validity of these laws has repeatedly been challenged in lower courts and a ruling by the Supreme Court is pending. In Chile, General Pinochet insisted on the enactment of a general amnesty and personal protection from prosecution in advance of his agreement to co-operate in the restoration of civilian government in 1990. Following his arrest in 1999 in the United Kingdom on charges by a Spanish prosecutor of torture and other human rights violations, the House of Lords decided that there was no immunity for heads of state in respect of international crimes.3 But the British government, apparently with the support of the Chilean government, eventually decided not to extradite him to Spain on the ground of ill-health. Following his voluntary return to Chile, his immunity from prosecution as life senator was removed by the Chilean Supreme Court in August 2000. However, the Court subsequently held that he was unfit to face trial on the grounds of mental incapacity. In South Africa an effective amnesty for both government and opposition forces was negotiated as an essential part of the agreed transfer of power from the White minority to the Black majority. In formal

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terms, as provided in the Promotion of National Peace and Reconciliation Act 1995, this was conditional on an application to the amnesty committee of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, full disclosure of the facts of the violation, and evidence that it was carried out for political purposes and that the violation was proportional to that purpose. A challenge to the amnesty provisions on the ground of incompatibility with international law and the human rights provisions of the new constitution was rejected by the Constitutional Court in 1996 on the ground that the constitution gave specific precedence to national reconciliation. 4 In practice no proceedings have been initiated against those who have not applied for formal amnesty. The evidence of systematic war crimes and human rights violations in former Yugoslavia since its break-up in 1991 led to the establishment, under the auspices of the United Nations, of the International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) in 1993. A number of middle-ranking Serbian and Croatian officers have been prosecuted and convicted and further trials are under way. Despite the evidence that President Milosevic was responsible for organising or supporting many of the most serious violations, however, the international community relied on his support in persuading the Bosnian Serbs to agree to the Dayton Peace Accords for Bosnia in 1995. In 2000 Milosevic was formally indicted in respect of war crimes during the renewed conflict over Kosovo by the ICTY. Though the new democratic government in Yugoslavia initially showed no immediate inclination to arrest or try him, the pressure to do so from the United States and others resulted in his extradition to the Hague where his trial commenced in 2002. There are indications that the ICTY will be wound up as soon as two other leaders, Radovan Karadic and Ratco Mladic can be arrested and tried. In Guatemala the peace agreement sponsored by the United Nations in 1994 provided explicitly in the section headed ‘Commitment Against Impunity’ that ‘the Government shall not sponsor the adoption of legislation or any other type of measures designed to prevent the prosecution and punishment of persons responsible for human rights violations’; provision was also made for a Commission for Historical Clarification which was to make an objective report on the events during the conflict but was not to identify those responsible. In 1996, however, the political parties in Guatemala decided to abandon the commitment against impunity and enacted the Law of National Reconciliation which provided for the granting of an amnesty to anyone who had committed war-related offences during the conflict, though offences of genocide, torture and forced disappearances were not covered.

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In Peru following the lengthy Civil War between government forces and the Sendero Luminosa (Shining Path) guerrillas from May 1980 until June 1995, President Fujimori enacted a general amnesty for state forces in 1995 under Decree Law 26.479. The amnesty was subsequently held to be unlawful and inapplicable by a lower court in the case of Salazar Monroe. The Peruvian Parliament responded by passing an interpretative law stating that the amnesty did not violate international human rights law nor limit the independence of the judiciary and extending the amnesty to cases in which there had not yet been a conviction. These provisions were subsequently upheld by the Peruvian Supreme Court. In 2001 the Inter-American Court of Human Rights declared that these amnesty laws violated the American Convention on Human Rights.5 Following this ruling and the restoration of a democratic regime, Peruvian courts have ceased to apply the amnesty laws and have commenced criminal proceedings against members of the military regime. By 2002 over 700 cases were under investigation or trial. In addition in June 2001 a Truth Commission was established to investigate human rights violations by both state agents and terrorist organisations and to formulate proposals on reparations to victims. In Northern Ireland no formal amnesty was granted under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 or other elements of the peace process. Instead the Agreement provided for the early release of those previously convicted of ‘political’ crimes: under the Northern Ireland (Sentences) Act 1998 large numbers of Loyalists and Republicans have been freed and release within two years has been promised to anyone convicted in future of similar offences committed before the Agreement. In practice no further prosecutions have been pursued against members of state security forces or the main paramilitary bodies for pre-Agreement offences. In March 2001 the British and Irish Governments issued a statement suggesting that outstanding prosecutions and extradition requests would not be pursued and in April 2003 plans to establish a formal tribunal to extend the provisions of the Agreement to a number of suspected offenders who are ‘on the run’ were announced as part of a wider package of measures in support of the Agreement. In Sierra Leone following a lengthy Civil War the Lomé peace agreement, sponsored by the United Nations in 1999, provided for a general amnesty with a view to creating a power-sharing government with representatives of both main factions. The opposition of human rights activists to this aspect of the settlement was initially overruled, though the United Nations entered a formal reservation on the issue. Following the breakdown of the power-sharing deal, the United Nations has sponsored

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a special court to try those ‘who bear the greatest responsibility’ for crimes against humanity and war crimes and a Truth and Reconciliation Commission has been established.

Is a compromise possible? It is clearly unsatisfactory for the international community to leave unresolved such a stark contrast in both formal and practical terms between the claim that international law requires the prosecution and punishment of all serious human rights violators and the response that in the real world it is either impractical or impolitic to comply. That can only damage not only the claim of binding status for the rules of international law but also popular attitudes to expert opinion on either side. It is almost always better in any sphere to seek a formulation of the law that can in practice be applied rather than to assert principles that are systematically breached or ignored by those most directly affected by them. This may be thought of as the ‘reality principle’ – that law should not only guide but also reflect the realities of human conduct. Something of the kind is already accepted in the concept that one of the primary sources of international law is established state practice. So it is at least worth making a serious attempt to find a formulation of the rules of law and practice in this area that is acceptable both to the human rights community and to the politicians whose task it is to see that they are applied. That will involve a more detailed and practical assessment of the principles and arguments on either side.

The human rights arguments The demands of the human rights community for prosecution and punishment, and for the rejection of any form of impunity, are based on a combination of formal and practical arguments. At a formal level the obligation to prosecute and punish is derived from four overlapping legal sources: the obligation on all states to secure the prosecution of all those responsible for serious war crimes and other offences under international criminal law; the decisions of international human rights courts in respect of disappearances, arbitrary executions and amnesties; the emerging practice of the international community in establishing special international criminal tribunals for Yugoslavia and Rwanda and ratifying the statute of the International Criminal Court; and continuing pressure within international human rights institutions for the adoption of more demanding standards on impunity. These formal

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obligations are then supported by more practical arguments in respect of the need to deter potential violators and to satisfy the demands of the victims. The Geneva Conventions and Protocols and other international conventions The binding obligations on states to prosecute and punish those responsible for war crimes may be traced back to the reaction against the holocaust and other atrocities during the war of 1939–45. In the Genocide Convention of 1948 genocide was declared to be an international crime that all signatories undertook to prevent and to punish. 6 And each of the four new Geneva Conventions of 1949 provided that States Parties shall provide effective penal sanctions for grave breaches, shall search for persons alleged to have committed or to have ordered such breaches to be committed and shall bring such persons before its own courts or hand them over to another High Contracting Party.7 In addition any amnesty in respect of grave breaches was specifically prohibited: No High Contracting Party shall be allowed to absolve itself or any other High Contracting Party of any liability incurred by itself or any other High Contracting Party in respect of [grave breaches].8 These obligations were reiterated in respect of the expanded list of grave breaches in Additional Protocol I of 1977. 9 It should be noted, however, that these express obligations apply only in respect of grave breaches committed in international armed conflicts or in those to which Protocol I applies. The position in respect of non-international armed conflicts governed by Additional Protocol II or common article 3 of the 1949 Conventions is less clear. It is generally assumed that there is an obligation to provide criminal penalties for and to prosecute those responsible for conduct which is expressly prohibited and which is similar to that which is defined as a grave breach of the main Conventions. It should also be noted that the International Committee of the Red Cross has interpreted article 6(5) of Protocol II, which calls on States to provide for the widest possible amnesty on the termination of any relevant internal armed conflict, as applying only to offences under national law based on participation in the conflict and not to those which are expressly prohibited by Protocol II or common article 3 and are of the same character as grave breaches.10 In this way the prohibition of amnesties has been treated as extending to serious violations in internal conflicts.

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A similar obligation on all States Parties to prohibit, investigate and prosecute or extradite those responsible for torture is imposed under the Convention against Torture and other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment of 1984.11 It was this provision which persuaded the British House of Lords to rule that General Pinochet as a head of state was not entitled to immunity from extradition. It should be noted that there is no reference in this Convention to an obligation to punish those responsible for prohibited activities, as opposed to providing for ‘appropriate penalties which take into account their grave nature’ and to deal with them in the same way as other serious crimes are dealt with.12 Nor is there any explicit prohibition of an amnesty. Decisions by human rights courts The decisions of international human rights courts have arisen in two distinct sets of circumstances: cases in which the courts have developed a general obligation on states to investigate, prosecute and punish those responsible for serious human rights violations and cases in which the legitimacy of specific or general amnesties has been challenged. The development of the obligation to investigate, prosecute and punish may be traced to a series of decisions of the Inter-American Court and the United Nations Human Rights Committee in respect of ‘disappearances’ in Latin America. The initial focus of attention in these judgements was on the duty of states, arising out of their commitment to guarantee the right to life, to carry out an effective investigation in cases in which there have been allegations or suspicions of direct involvement or collusion by state forces or agencies. But this was usually extended to include a duty to prosecute and to punish those responsible, whether as members of state or non-state forces. The United Nations Human Rights Committee in a series of cases involving alleged violations of the right to life initially formulated the duty in persuasive rather than absolute terms: There are serious reasons to believe that the ultimate violation of article 6 [the right to life] has been perpetrated by the Uruguayan authorities. . . . the Human Rights Committee urges the Uruguayan Government to reconsider its position in this case and to take effective steps (i) to establish what has happened to Eduardo Bleier . . . ; to bring to justice any person found to be responsible for his death, disappearance or ill-treatment; and to pay compensation to him or his family for any injury which he has suffered. (Bleier v Uruguay, 1982)13

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In the leading decision on the issue of disappearances by the InterAmerican Court of Human Rights in 1988, however, the state’s duty was expressed in more categorical and general terms: The State has a legal duty to take reasonable steps to prevent human rights violations and to use the means at its disposal to carry out a serious investigation of violations committed within its jurisdiction, to identify those responsible, impose appropriate punishment and ensure the victim adequate compensation. (Case of Velasquez Rodriguez, 1988)14 A similar, though somewhat less demanding, approach was eventually adopted by the European Court of Human Rights in a number of cases of alleged violations of the right to life by state security forces in Turkey: The obligation to protect the right to life under article 2 of the [European Convention on Human Rights], read in conjunction with the State’s general duty under article 1 of the Convention to ‘secure to everyone within [its] jurisdiction the rights and freedoms defined in [the] Convention’, requires by implication that there should be some form of effective official investigation when individuals have been killed as a result of the use of force. This investigation should be capable of leading to the identification and punishment of those responsible. (Ogur v Turkey, 1999)15 It should be noted, however, that in this and other cases the European Court of Human Rights has been careful to restrict its decisions to the imposition of an obligation to carry out an effective investigation which is capable of leading to prosecution and punishment rather than an obligation actually to prosecute and punish. The second set of decisions by international human rights bodies is more directly relevant to the legitimacy of amnesties. In a series of rulings on amnesties proclaimed in Latin American states following conflicts and new constitutional settlements, the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights has held that general amnesties are in themselves contrary to the obligation of States under the American Convention on Human Rights to investigate and punish human rights violations. 16 A series of complaints under the American Convention on Human Rights were made in respect of the amnesty laws in Argentina which established an irrefutable presumption that military personnel were acting in the course of duty during the ‘dirty war’ (Law 23.521) and set

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a 60-day time limit for the termination of criminal proceedings arising out of the ‘dirty war’ (Law 23.492) and also of the Presidential Decree ordering that all current proceedings for such human rights violations be discontinued (Decree of Pardon No. 1002/89). The Inter-American Commission held that the laws were incompatible with the right under article 25 of the Convention to judicial protection in relation to the obligation of States to guarantee the full and free exercise of rights under article 1 of the Convention. This was expressly distinguished from the right of victims to compensation which had been duly provided (Report on Argentina, 1992). 17 A similar series of complaints were made in respect of a Uruguay amnesty law which prevented further criminal proceedings against members of state forces for human rights violations during a military regime prior to a settlement between a civilian government and the armed forces in 1985. Though the amnesty had been approved by a popular referendum and was justified by the government as part of a process of national reconciliation, the Inter-American Commission held that it was a violation of the right of victims to a fair trial of the perpetrators under article 8 of the American Convention on Human Rights (Report on Uruguay, 1992).18 The Inter-American Commission has also held that the failure of the newly restored democratic government in Chile to revoke amnesty laws introduced by a previous military government was in itself a violation of human rights: What is at issue here . . . is not the violation of human rights involved in the illegal detention and disappearance of the 70 persons named in their complaint . . . but more fundamentally two problems: (a) failure to revoke – and hence to allow to remain in force – the amnesty decree-law 2191 that was issued by the military government but which has remained in force under the democratic government, even after Chile ratified the American Convention and assumed the responsibility to comply with it; and (b) failure to investigate, to identify the responsible parties and to prosecute the authors of those deeds . . . (Hermosilla v Chile, 1996)19 This general approach has been upheld by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in a multiple complaint against the amnesty laws in Peru: This court considers that all amnesty provisions, provisions on prescription and the establishment of measures designed to eliminate

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responsibility are inadmissible, because they are intended to prevent the investigation and punishment of those responsible for serious human rights violations such as torture, extra-judicial, summary or arbitrary executions and forced disappearances, all of them prohibited because they violate non-derogable rights recognised by international human rights law. (Aguirre and others v Peru, 2001)20 A similar position has been taken by the United Nations Human Rights Committee in its comments on the report by Peru under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights: The Committee is deeply concerned that the amnesty granted by Decree Law 26,479 on 14 June 1995 absolves from criminal responsibility and, as a consequence, from all forms of accountability all military, police and civilian agents of the State who are accused, investigated, charged or convicted for common and military crimes for acts occasioned by the ‘war against terrorism’ from May 1980 until June 1995. It also makes it practically impossible for victims of human rights violations to institute successful legal action for compensation. Such an amnesty prevents appropriate investigation and punishment of perpetrators of past human rights violations, undermines efforts to establish respect for human rights, contributes to an atmosphere of impunity among perpetrators of human rights violations, and constitutes a very serious impediment to efforts undertaken to consolidate democracy . . . (Comments on Peru, 1996)21 These decisions were based expressly on the principles adopted by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in the Velasquez Rodriguez case and represent the high point of the assertion by human rights lawyers of an absolute principle of no impunity, not least in the express denial of the relevance of issues of national reconciliation or popular approval. International criminal tribunals International agreement in 1998 on the establishment of the International Criminal Court with universal jurisdiction over war crimes and serious human rights violations and a requirement for international co-operation can be portrayed as a comprehensive vindication of these formal arguments. The Statute of the Court is clearly based on those of the ad hoc tribunals set up to deal with particularly serious offences of ethnic cleansing and genocide in former Yugoslavia and Rwanda, which in turn were based on those established to deal with the holocaust and

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other atrocities during the Second World War. Though the Nuremberg and Tokyo Tribunals were in one sense a form of victor’s justice, the crimes they dealt with were asserted to be of universal concern and the precedent they created led directly to the Genocide Convention of 1948 and the initial attempts to establish an international criminal court in the 1950s.22 The International Criminal Tribunals for Yugoslavia and Rwanda not only confirmed the list of international crimes with some extensions but also imposed express obligations on all states to co-operate in the arrest and trial of those indicted. The Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court is the culmination of these developments. Its Preamble includes an express reference to the determination of the parties ‘to put an end to impunity for the perpetrators of these crimes and thus to contribute to the prevention of such crimes’. It codifies in considerable detail the extent of international criminal conduct in wars and internal conflicts with an express requirement that crimes against humanity be committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack and an emphasis that war crimes be part of a plan or policy. 23 It imposes an express obligation on signatory states to co-operate in the collection of evidence, to arrest those indicted, and where they are unable or unwilling to try them in their own courts to hand them over for trial in the International Criminal Court.24 In this sense it represents the implementation in international law of the campaign against any form of impunity. 25 Action within international human rights institutions There has been a sustained effort within the United Nations since the early 1990s to reach agreement on a general set of standards in respect of the rights of victims of human rights violations. The first step was taken in respect of summary executions by state forces during states of emergency in the Principles on the Effective Prevention and Investigation of Extra-legal, Arbitrary and Summary Executions: these stated that ‘Governments shall ensure that persons identified by the investigation as having participated in extra-legal, arbitrary or summary executions in any territory under their jurisdictions are brought to justice.’26 This was followed in 1992 by the Declaration on the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearances, which stated that ‘persons who have or are alleged to have committed offences . . . shall not benefit from any special amnesty law or similar measures that might have the effect of exempting them from any criminal proceedings or sanction’. 27 The United Nations Sub-Commission on Human Rights then initiated two detailed expert studies on the issue: one of these concluded that any legal

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or de facto impunity for gross violations of human rights effectively barred victims from redress and reparation 28 and the other that states are under ‘an obligation to ensure that perpetrators of human rights violations are prosecuted, tried and duly punished and to provide victims with effective remedies and reparation for the injuries suffered’.29 A subsequent review of these studies for the Human Rights Commission by a further expert concluded that the obligation to prosecute and punish is restricted to the somewhat more limited category of violations of international human rights and humanitarian law that constitute crimes under international law.30 Practical arguments The human rights community has sought to give added weight to the assertion of these formal principles of international law by arguing that there are significant practical advantages in implementing them, first in deterring future violations and secondly in meeting the legitimate demands of victims for a full acknowledgement of past violations by their perpetrators as well as for appropriate recompense. The argument from deterrence is fairly straightforward: that if those responsible for serious human rights violations or war crimes are allowed to go unpunished in the alleged interests of national reconciliation or otherwise, future dictators and military leaders will believe that they too can safely resort to war crimes or crimes against humanity without fear of future prosecution or punishment. In a series of cases arising out of the amnesty laws declared in 1995 by the Government in Peru the Inter-American Commission has given a succinct summary of this argument: The amnesty laws frustrate and contravene the State’s duty to investigate and punish those responsible for violations of human rights, whether they are military or civilian personnel. The expectation of an eventual amnesty grants a cloak of impunity to the armed forces and to any non-military violator, which allows them to commit any atrocity in the name of their cause, and this climate inevitably encourages excesses and disrespect for the law. An amnesty in one country of the region that has just emerged from a civil conflict encourages the expectation of a similar amnesty in the next country, even when that country is still in the midst of a domestic conflict. A policy that allows this kind of impunity, enshrined in amnesty laws, must inevitably undermine the prestige and professionalism of the

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armed forces in the eyes of the rest of the population. (Salazar v Peru, 1998)31 This is a particularly attractive argument from the point of view of human rights activists since it in effect requires all past violations to be prosecuted and punished and thus gives further support to the rejection of any form of impunity. The argument from the rights of victims is also largely self-supporting: that victims of serious violations or their families are entitled to formal acknowledgement not only of the facts of what was done but also of the identity of those responsible, whether in their capacity as politicians or commanders who organised them or as those who actually carried them out. Most, though not all, proponents of this view add that they are entitled to have those responsible brought to justice and punished. All appear to take the view that the only or best means of achieving appropriate acknowledgement or justice is to insist on at least the formal trial and for most the punishment of those responsible.

The approach of politicians The approach of politicians to these issues is not based on any countervailing arguments of formal legal principle. At that level it is based largely on the denial of the binding nature of the legal principles asserted by human rights activists. Their primary arguments are pragmatic: that human rights are better protected by seeking a political settlement to the conflict during which the violations have taken place and that a political settlement cannot in many cases be achieved without some form of amnesty. An integral part of this argument is therefore a rejection of the practical arguments relied on by the human rights community. Arguments on the flexibility of international law Politicians typically prefer flexibility to precise and binding rules. In this sphere, therefore, their primary concern is to emphasise the flexibility of international standards and in particular the absence of any binding obligation to prosecute and punish those responsible for war crimes or serious human rights violations. This approach can be supported by a number of interrelated arguments. One of these is the distinction between internal and international conflicts. The allegedly binding obligation to prosecute and punish war crimes (grave breaches) under the Geneva Conventions and Protocol I, as has been seen, is imposed in respect of international armed conflicts.

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Most of the cases in which the legitimacy of amnesties arises, however, are in the aftermath of internal conflicts. It is therefore open to argument whether the same international rules apply in respect of the prosecution and punishment of those responsible for equivalent offences in internal armed conflicts under Protocol II and common article 3. The fact that neither of these imposes any express obligation to prosecute and punish those responsible for breaches and the inclusion in Protocol II of an express reference to the desirability of implementing the broadest possible amnesty on the termination of the conflict lends support to this view. The fact that the International Committee of the Red Cross and other commentators take a different view, as outlined above, can then be treated merely as an expression of opinion rather than an authoritative statement of international law. This line of argument was a significant element in the decision of the South African Constitutional Court on the legitimacy of the amnesty powers of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission under the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act of 1995. [W]hatever be the proper ambit and technical meaning of these Conventions and Protocols, the international literature in any event clearly appreciates the distinction between the position of perpetrators of acts of violence in the course of war (or other conflicts between states or armed conflicts between liberation movements seeking self-determination against colonial and alien domination of their countries), on the one hand, and their position in respect of violent acts perpetrated during other conflicts which take place within the territory of a sovereign state in consequence of a struggle between the armed forces of the state and other dissident armed forces operating under responsible command, within the state on the other. In respect of the latter there is no obligation on the part of a contracting state to ensure the prosecution of those who might have performed acts of violence or other acts which would ordinarily be characterised as serious invasions of human rights. . . . The need for this distinction is obvious. It is one thing to allow the officers of a hostile power which has invaded a foreign state to remain unpunished for gross violations of human rights perpetrated against others during the course of such conflict. It is another thing to compel such punishment in circumstances where such violations have substantially occurred in consequence of conflict between different formations within the state in respect of the permissible political direction which that state should take with regard to the internal structures of

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the state and the parameters of its political policies and where it becomes necessary after the cessation of such conflict for the society traumatised by such conflict to reconstruct itself. The erstwhile adversaries of such a conflict inhabit the same sovereign territory. They have to live with each other and work with each other and the state concerned is best equipped to determine what measures may be most conducive for the facilitation of such reconciliation and reconstruction. (AZAPO v South Africa, 1996)32 A similar argument has been adopted in some national court judgements in Latin America.33 A second line of argument is to focus on the elements of the judgements of international human rights courts that concentrate on the obligation to carry out an effective investigation of serious human rights abuses rather than prosecution and punishment. As has been seen, the Inter-American Commission and Court have usually combined the obligation to investigate with that of prosecution and in most cases punishment. But the European Court of Human Rights has consistently restricted its judgements in cases of disappearances and killings involving alleged involvement or collusion by state forces to the obligation to carry out an effective investigation, leaving open the issue of prosecution and punishment. This divergence seems to be due, in part at least, to the view adopted by the Inter-American Court and Commission that the right to a fair trial extends to the right of victims to have alleged perpetrators fairly tried, a position that may be linked to the particular procedural rules which apply in some South American jurisdictions. In the face of this major difference in approach between leading human rights courts, it is certainly possible to argue that there is no binding international rule that requires the prosecution or punishment of all persons responsible for serious human rights violations. Additional support for this view may be drawn from the reaction of states to the proposed guidelines on the rights of victims under consideration within the United Nations. During the consultative meeting on the issue held in December 2002 a number of leading states, including the United States, Sweden, Japan and Russia, questioned the binding nature of the obligation to prosecute and argued that there was an inherent discretion under international customary law for national authorities to decide whether or not to institute criminal proceedings. 34 This may be linked to a more general argument to the effect that the right of victims of serious human rights violations is a right to truth and compensation for themselves rather than a right to justice for

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perpetrators. This formulation of the rights of victims is widely accepted for ‘ordinary’ crimes, in respect of which the relevant international standards are restricted to information about the process of investigation, involvement in any trial process and compensation for any injury or loss suffered. There is no reference to any right to insist on prosecution or punishment. It is not immediately clear whether a different approach should be taken in respect of human rights violations. And the widespread practice of establishing truth commissions, with or without a formal amnesty, in the aftermath of internal conflicts may be taken as evidence of the kind of general state practice on which rules of international law are often based.35 A final argument may be based on the express provision in the Statute of the International Criminal Court which entitles the United Nations Security Council to delay, and thus in principle to block indefinitely, the initiation of proceedings by the prosecutor in respect of war crimes, crimes against humanity and other conduct within the Court’s jurisdiction: No investigation or prosecution may be commenced or proceeded with under this Statute for a period of 12 months after the Security Council, in a resolution adopted under Chapter VII of the Charter of the United Nations, has requested the Court to that effect; that request may be renewed by the Council under the same conditions. 36 The purpose of this provision is presumably to permit the Security Council to delay and ultimately to veto proceedings by the International Criminal Court in the interests of international peace and security. If this is permitted at an international level, it is hard to see why a similar process should not be permitted at a national level in the interests of national peace and reconciliation. Practical arguments The primary political argument against an absolute bar on amnesties is that the human rights of the population at large are best protected by achieving a lasting settlement to the conflict during which the violations have occurred. There is compelling evidence that it is during wars and internal conflicts that the most serious human rights violations usually take place and that the level and scale of abuses usually drop substantially when a political settlement is achieved. From this perspective anything which stands in the way of a lasting settlement is likely to result in

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continuing human rights abuses which might have been avoided if that settlement could have been achieved. And in many cases an insistence on the arrest and prosecution of those responsible for war crimes or human rights violations is likely to have that effect, not least because many of those involved in the settlement negotiations are likely to have committed or been complicit in those crimes or violations. This argument is particularly relevant to internal conflicts in which large sections of the population have been directly or indirectly involved and in which neither side has been able to achieve a victory. In such cases the settlement will almost inevitably involve a series of compromises including some agreement on how offences committed during the conflict are to be handled. Some of the many examples have been outlined above. Compliance with an allegedly binding obligation under international law that all those who have been in any way responsible for war crimes or serious human rights violations shall be prosecuted and punished is unlikely to be practicable. The leaders of state and non-state forces involved in the conflict can rarely avoid some responsibility for the abuses which have occurred and cannot be expected to sacrifice those lower down in the chain of command or responsibility on whose continuing support the stability of the settlement will often depend. In many cases of internal conflict similar arguments will be relevant in respect of the need for national reconciliation rather than continued focus on past abuses. Strict compliance with an international requirement that all those responsible for war crimes or serious human rights violations should be tried and punished may take many years to complete and absorb financial and administrative resources that would be better employed in reconstruction and compensation. It may also serve to maintain rather than reconcile the differing recollections and attitudes of the various communal or political groups from which the conflict arose. Hence the decision in many countries that responsibility for abuses on either side should be dealt with by a relatively limited inquiry and report by a truth commission linked to a formal or informal amnesty rather than an extended series of criminal prosecutions. This approach may be linked to a further argument based on the uncertain effect of criminal prosecutions. The strict rules of evidence and procedure may lead to the acquittal of those most responsible for organising or directing the violations committed by state or paramilitary forces while those who were merely carrying out orders are convicted. In criminal proceedings those accused and their associates naturally

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seek to conceal their guilt and as a result the truth may never be fully established. A judicial inquiry or truth commission may be more effective in establishing an accurate account of what happened and locating the effective political or command responsibility, particularly if immunity from prosecution is granted to those who give evidence. A telling example is the acquittal in South Africa of General Malan on criminal charges, thereby casting doubt on his role in the abuses during the apartheid regime, compared with the more general picture of the regime which emerged in the hearings and report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. In this sense there may be a choice to be made between truth and justice. There is also some evidence from that and other truth commissions that some, if not all, victims are satisfied with an acknowledgement of their suffering and an authoritative identification of those responsible and are prepared to forego their claim to have them prosecuted and punished in the interests of personal or national reconciliation. An additional argument is that the deterrent effect of prosecutions for war crimes or serious human rights abuses which figures so prominently in the approach of human rights activists is unproven and probably greatly exaggerated. There is little evidence that general deterrence has much impact in other areas of criminal behaviour or that the prospect of future prosecution and punishment is likely to influence the behaviour of those engaged in serious internal conflicts. As in other spheres of criminal activity the prevailing belief of those involved appears to be that the immediate benefits from otherwise unlawful conduct far outweigh the prospects of any future risk of prosecution or punishment. In the field of communal or political conflict the deeply felt commitment to ‘the cause’, whether the preservation or the overthrow of the status quo, that is typically displayed by those most closely involved is a further reason to doubt the merits of a policy of relying on national or international criminal prosecutions as the best way of protecting potential future victims.

Possible convergence Where there is such a stark divergence between principles asserted by international lawyers and actual practice at a national level and when the formal and practical arguments on either side seem inconclusive, it may be appropriate to look for elements of convergence. The objective is to find some principles or criteria by which the rules of international law may be brought into line with best national practice.

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Some of the general and potentially convergent principles that seem to emerge from the accounts which have been given may be formulated as follows: • that punishment as opposed to establishing responsibility for serious violations may not always be either required or appropriate – the early release of those already convicted is widely accepted in the context of political settlements and there is also some support on both sides for waiving punishment for those who fully admit their wrongdoing; there is also an emerging consensus that the focus of prosecution and punishment should be on those most responsible for serious violations and that amnesty for those lower down in the chain of command or implementation may be more readily accepted; • that the claims of victims may in appropriate circumstances be satisfied by establishing the truth of what happened, a formal acknowledgement of responsibility for their suffering, and appropriate compensation rather than prosecution and punishment of all offenders – the value of various forms of truth commission is widely accepted; • that the objective of national or international reconciliation may in the context of a lasting and just settlement of the underlying causes of the conflict be given preference over exact retribution for past wrongs. It may be added that these principles of forgiveness and reconciliation appear to be accepted at a personal level in most of the great religions of the world and it seems odd to deny that they may appropriately be extended to national and international relations. More detailed criteria by which national and international agencies and courts may assess the implementation of these principles in the circumstances of particular conflicts or settlements will also be required. Some of the most important may be formulated as follows: • that any arrangements for amnesty or early release or for the operation of a truth commission should be open and even-handed between all the parties to the conflict – any element of victor’s justice is to be rejected; • any arrangement of this kind should be subject to independent approval, whether by popular referendum or international scrutiny – any

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form of amnesty which is granted by those who will benefit from it without some form of independent approval is to be rejected; • in cases where responsibility for serious violations can be fairly attributed principally to the conduct of political or military leaders who are no longer essential to the maintenance of a lasting settlement or to national reconciliation, prosecution and punishment of those leaders may be taken as a sufficient vindication of international obligations and those who were carrying out their policies at a lower level may be pardoned; • formal criminal proceedings, whether under national or international law, against those most responsible for serious violations may appropriately be delayed until their arrest and trial can be carried through without posing a serious threat to peace and stability; • any arrangements of this kind must include appropriate provisions for the acknowledgement of the suffering of victims, the attribution of responsibility for major violations and compensation for those affected by them – some form of truth commission may be appropriate for this purpose. Principles and criteria of this kind are already being applied in practice at national and international levels, notably in the selection of defendants by the international criminal tribunals and in the proposals for the special court in Sierra Leone. Since state practice has always been one of the primary sources of international law, it would not be inappropriate for them to be formally incorporated into international law by the usual means, first by an international declaration within the United Nations or other regional bodies and then by a more formal convention or by protocols to the existing conventions that are most relevant.

Notes and references This chapter is based on a contribution to a discussion group convened in Potsdam in November 2000 by Professor Horst Fischer of the University of Bochum with support from the Berghof Foundation; thanks are due to participants in Potsdam and Belfast for their comments and in particular to Louise Mallinder, who has assisted in updating the references to the various amnesties and the judicial decisions relating to them up to mid-2003. 1. See, for example, Naomi Roht-Arriaza (ed.), Impunity and Human Rights in International Law and Practice, Oxford University Press, Oxford 1995 and D. Orentlicher, ‘Settling accounts; the duty to prosecute human rights violations of a prior regime’, Yale Law Journal, Vol. 100, No. 8, June 1991, p. 2537.

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2. See, for example, the anonymous editorial, ‘Human rights in peace negotiations’, Human Rights Quarterly, Vol. 18, No. 2, May 1996, p. 249. 3. Reg. v Bow Street Metropolitan Stipendiary Magistrate, ex parte Pinochet Ugarte (No. 2), [2000] 1 Appeal Cases 119. 4. Azanian Peoples Organisation (AZAPO) and others v President of the Republic of South Africa, Constitutional Court of South Africa, Case CCT 17/96, 25 July 1996; (1996) 4 South African Reports 671. 5. Aguirre and others v Peru (the Barrios Altos case), Inter-American Court of Human Rights, Series C, No. 75, 14 March 2001. 6. Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, art. 1. 7. Geneva Convention I (Wounded and Sick on Land), art. 49; Geneva II (Wounded, Sick and Shipwrecked at Sea), art. 50; Geneva III (Prisoners of War), art. 129; Geneva IV (Civilians), art. 146. 8. Ibid., arts 51, 52, 131 & 148. 9. Art. 85. 10. International Committee of the Red Cross, Commentary on the Additional Protocols of 8 June 1977 to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949 (Martinus Nijhoff, Dordrecht 1987). 11. Arts 4–7 & 12. 12. Arts 4(2) & 7. 13. Eduardo Bleier v Uruguay, Human Rights Committee, Communication No. R.7/30, UN Doc. Supp. No. 40 (A37/40), 29 March 1982. 14. Velasquez Rodriguez case, Inter-American Court of Human Rights, Series C, No. 4, 29 July 1988, para. 174; Human Rights Law Journal, Vol. 9, 1988, p. 212. 15. Ogur v Turkey, European Court of Human Rights, 20 May 1999, para. 88. 16. See generally E. Lutz, ‘Responses to amnesties by the Inter-American system for the protection of human rights’, in David J. Harris and Stephen Livingstone (eds), The Inter-American System of Human Rights, Clarendon Press, Oxford 1998, pp. 345–70. 17. Report on Argentina, 1992. 18. Report on Uruguay, 1992. 19. Hermosilla and others v Chile, Inter-American Commission of Human Rights, Case 10.843, 15 October 1996. 20. Aguirre and others v Peru, Inter-American Court of Human Rights, Series C, No. 75, 14 March 2001 (the Barrios Altos case). 21. Comments on Peru, Human Rights Committee, UN Doc. CCPR/C/79/Add.67 (1996). 22. See generally, W. Schabas, Introduction to the International Criminal Court, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2001. 23. Statute of the International Criminal Court, arts 5–8. 24. Ibid., arts 86–102. 25. See also Jessica Gavron, ‘Amnesties in the light of developments in international law and the establishment of the International Criminal Court’, International and Comparative Law Quarterly, Vol. 51, No. 1, January 2002, p. 91. 26. Principles on the Effective Prevention and Investigation of Extra-legal, Arbitrary and Summary Executions, recommended by the United Nations Economic and Social Council, Resolution 1989/65 of 24 May 1989. 27. Declaration on the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearances, adopted by General Assembly Resolution 47/133 on 18 December 1992.

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28. Study concerning the right to restitution, compensation and rehabilitation for victims of gross violations of human rights and fundamental freedoms (Van Boven report), UN Doc. E/CN.4/Sub.2/1992/8. 29. Question of the impunity of perpetrators of human rights (civil and political) ( Joinet report), UN Doc. E/CN.4/Sub.2/1997/20/Rev.1. 30. The right to restitution, compensation and rehabilitation for victims of gross violations of human rights and fundamental freedoms (Bassiouni report), UN Doc. E/CN.4/2000/62. 31. Salazar v Peru, Inter-American Commission of Human Rights, Case 10.562, 19 February 1998. 32. Note 3, above, paras 30–1. 33. N. Roht-Arriaza and L. Gibson, ‘The developing jurisprudence on amnesty’, Human Rights Quarterly, Vol. 20, No. 4, November 1998, p. 843. 34. Report on the consultative meeting on the draft Basic Principles and guidelines on the right to a remedy and reparation for victims of violations of international human rights and humanitarian law, UN Doc. E/CN.4/2003/63. 35. See generally, P. B. Hayner, ‘Fifteen truth commissions – 1974 to 1996: a comparative study’, Human Rights Quarterly, Vol. 16, No. 4, November 1994, p. 597. 36. Art. 16.

12 Deepening Democracy and Ethno-Political Mobilisation: A Survey of Five Cases Britt Cartrite

Introduction According to an increasing number of scholars, normative and empirical concerns regarding democratic consolidation have begun to move beyond merely addressing the potential death of democracy, either quickly or slowly, to focus on the mechanisms by which democracy can be deepened. 1 The assertion is that even among ‘advanced democracies’ improvements can be made; no democracy can rest on its laurels.2 Larry Diamond argues, [T]he established democracies . . . must attend to the quality of democracy in their own countries... The established liberal democracies need renewed and more vigorous engagement of citizens in public life. They need to nurture and revitalize the associational structures through which citizens participate and cooperate directly, as political equals, and which breed the cultural foundations of a healthy democracy: trust, tolerance, efficacy, reciprocity, honesty, and a respect for law.3 The institutional requirements for this ‘positive consolidation’ are many, but the focus on decentralisation and improving legitimacy appear as central themes in the literature. 4 Unfortunately, in consolidated democracies with relatively large indigenous minorities the process of ‘completing’ democracy appears problematic. Institutional reforms seeking to ‘revitalize’ the citizenry, such as inclusionary reforms of language laws or political devolution akin to Peleg’s liberal model,5 appear to have the unintended consequence of exacerbating ethno-political mobilisation, frequently serving to increase, rather than reduce, popular dissatisfaction with the rationale of the 218

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existing state. Within the context of the advanced capitalist democracies, ‘deepening’ democracy may serve to catalyse the ethno-political mobilisation of groups that had previously displayed a relatively consistent level of ethno-political activity.

Why ‘deepen’ democracy? As scholars continue to assess the ‘third wave’ of democratisation, concerns regarding democratic ‘consolidation’ have emerged. Samuel Huntington in The Third Wave argues that three waves of democratisation have occurred, with both earlier waves being followed by ‘counter-waves’ in which some existing democracies reverted to authoritarian structures. 6 As the third wave crested, at least according to some scholars, there emerged a concern, both normatively and empirically, for assessing how the gains in democracy might be retained while the world waited for the onset of a fourth wave. Consolidation thus was understood as a classification for democracies in which the (re)turn to authoritarian structures was at best highly unlikely. Conceptualised in this way, consolidation was seen as dichotomous: one either was or was not consolidated. However, scholars quickly pointed out that there was a great deal of socio-political variation among consolidated democracies. Thus began a focus on differentiating between liberal and electoral democracies in an attempt to highlight significant differences within this category of states. Yet the transformation of consolidation from a dichotomous to a more continuous categorisation raised an important conceptual issue: Is consolidation teleological, in that all states are likely to proceed along the trajectory from electoral to liberal democracy, or do all states, irrespective of their degree of ‘consolidation’ have room for improvement and have at least the potential for stagnation or backsliding as democracies? A number of scholars have begun to focus on the latter issues, arguing the dangers of teleology. Furthermore, O’Donnell found that democracies appear to have an internal dynamic: if progress towards ‘deepening’ is not continuously underway, the risk of a ‘slow death’ of democracy, backsliding from liberal to electoral democracy, presents itself. According to Schedler policymakers in some consolidated democracies eventually shift their focus away from ‘negative’ consolidation, avoiding authoritarianism, and towards ‘positive’ consolidation, making democracy better. 7 Thus democratic deepening may not have solely normative impetuses, important though those may be; rather, policymakers may have vested interests in deepening democracy, both to maintain democratic vitality

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and to set examples for other democratising states to follow.8 Diamond finds that a key component to democratic deepening lies in the decentralisation of political authority: by bringing decision-making as close to the citizenry as possible, vitality and legitimacy are enhanced.9 As Putnam highlights in the case of Italy, the perception of governmental access and efficacy rises as the level of administration moves from national to regional to local. 10 This effect of decentralisation can be of particular importance for ethnic groups. For Diamond, ‘holding power at the local level . . . can give ethnic groups the assurance that they are represented and that there is a bulwark against abuse of their rights and interests by national leaders’.11 A second type of reform consistent with this image of deepening democracies lies in modifying language laws to permit the use of minority languages and, perhaps more importantly, to provide access to administration for speakers of the minority language. Clearly such an effort can be understood as part of the larger impetus towards deepening democracy, in that providing unfettered access to the courts and decision-making institutions represents an important task in ‘breed(ing) the cultural foundations of a healthy democracy’. 12 From a liberal perspective, reducing the impediments to individual participation represents a necessary institutional arrangement for democracy.

Exploring the universe of potential cases Attempting to assess the impact of institutional reforms reflecting democratic deepening involves assessing the general universe of cases from which particular specific examples may then be understood as particularly significant. Positive consolidation of liberal democracies requires, by definition, that a liberal democracy be in place. In this regard, beginning the analysis with OECD members represents a helpful start. Of these 30 countries, two can be excluded as non-liberal: Turkey and Mexico.13 For the purpose of this study, recent democratisers will also be excluded, as the conditions for a shift from negative to positive consolidation cannot yet be conclusively distinguished from the residual effects of their democratic transitions. 14 The resulting 24 cases represent advanced capitalist democracies widely, if not universally, regarded as (negatively) consolidated, in that democracy has become the ‘only game in town’.15 As a first-cut of analysis, this study will classify ethno-political activity as support for expressly ethno-political parties in national legislative

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elections. Of the 24 cases, 13 are cases in which no ethno-political parties have competed at the national level since 1945. Interestingly, the proportion of indigenous population appears, with the exception of Switzerland, to be a powerful predictor of whether or not a country will experience ethno-political mobilisation. Furthermore, among those cases with ethno-political activity, variation in the magnitude of that activity appears to be a function, to some degree, of the relative size of indigenous minorities, with those cases of the largest relative size of indigenous minorities representing the highest levels of ethno-political activity (Table 12.1).16 However, size is not a perfect predictor of the nature of variations of ethno-political mobilisation. Some cases reflect long-term gradual declines in support for ethno-political parties, such as the Swedes in Finland, a function, at least in part, of their continuing demographic erosion. 17 Others display relative long-term stability in electoral support. Yet in a few cases dramatic increases and variations in ethno-political activity occur and are continuing: Belgium, Canada, France, Spain, and the United Kingdom. In each of these contexts dramatic upturns in ethno-political mobilisation have chronologically followed either or both of the ‘deepening’ reforms outlined above, pointing to these policies as potential causal factors in ethno-political mobilisation. Each of these cases will be explored in greater detail, with a focus on tracing the institutional and ethno-political trajectories involved.

Table 12.1 Ethno-political mobilisation and relative aggregate indigenous minority size No mobilisation Switzerland Norway Australia United States Austria Sweden Japan Germany Iceland Ireland Luxembourg Netherlands Portugal

% Ind. min. 100 1.21 1.00 0.80 0.63 0.53 0.04 0.01 0 0 0 0 0

Mobilisation Belgium Spain Canada United Kingdom New Zealand France Finland Italy Denmark Greece

% Ind. min. 90.76 28.67 25.00 15.53 13.50 10.11 6.03 4.90 2.13 2.09

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Evaluating the cases Numerous theses have been articulated by scholars regarding the general phenomenon of ethno-political mobilisation in Western democracies, at least in part due to the expectation of development and state-building theorists that ethnic identity should decline as capitalism and democracy become entrenched in a society. 18 In some respects ethno-political mobilisation in Western societies can be understood as ‘a sequential, evolutionary step in the extension or the force field of nationalism’. 19 Indeed, the prevalence of ethno-political activity in consolidated democracies with ethnic minorities of sufficient size supports this hypothesis. However, focusing on variations of degrees of mobilisation may help illuminate some of the catalytic factors influencing these broader ‘evolutionary’ trends. Thus the focus of the case studies will be on institutional reforms consistent with deepening democracy that precede increases in ethno-political activity, indicated most clearly by support for ethnic political parties.20 The brief case studies outlined below have two distinct components. First, evidence of dramatic increases in ethno-political mobilisation, based on regional support for ethno-political parties, will be provided, with a brief discussion of the results. Support for ethno-political parties is used as a proxy measure for ethno-political mobilisation reflecting Miroslav Hroch’s Phase C, in which nationalism becomes a concern of the masses.21 While other forms of ethno-political organisation (i.e. special-interest groups, cultural associations, and language clubs) precede ethnic party formation in these cases, the shift from limited groups to political parties seeking mass support represents a critical development. Second, the exploration of institutional reforms preceding these changes and linkages between those reforms and the subsequent changes in electoral support will be undertaken.

Belgium Figure 12.1 shows aggregate percentage support for ethno-political parties by region in Belgium. Support for Flemish political parties in Flanders and among Flemings in Brussels began in 1893, but remained at a low level of support prior to 1961. In that election the political fortunes of such parties increased. The appearance of francophone parties in Brussels and Wallonia in 1968 is further reflected in the graph. Thus the elections of 1961 and 1965 appear to have been critical in increasing ethno-political mobilisation.

% Regional popular vote

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50.0 40.0 30.0 20.0 10.0 0.0

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Wallonia Flanders Brussels 1954 1958 1961 1965 1968 1971 1974 1977 1978 1981 1985 1987 1991 1995 Election years

Figure 12.1

EP support (%) – Belgium.

Ethno-political party support Prior to the universalisation of male suffrage in 1893 no ethno-political parties were involved in Belgian politics. While a variety of small Flemish organisations emerged during the 1840s and after, some making demands on the central government for more inclusive language laws, the weighted franchise gave the nascent Flemish movement the electoral support to initiate political mobilisation. However, traditional ideological cleavages continued to dominate Flemish political concerns; support for Flemish nationalists was resultantly sparse. 22 The collaboration of limited numbers of Flemish nationalists during the German occupations of both World Wars further inhibited the political support Flemish nationalists could garner.23 Support for the movement remained tepid after its revival in the early 1950s, as indicated on the graph above. However, the national elections of 1961 indicated the beginnings of increased support, with the Volksunie growing from 3.4 to 6 per cent of the vote in Flanders and 1 to 1.6 per cent in Brussels. The emergence of the Front Démocratique des Francophones in Brussels and Rassemblement Wallon in Wallonia in the wake of Wallonian general strikes of 1961 alongside continued increasing support for the Volksunie further polarised the polity, such that between 1968 and 1978 all three major ideological parties split along linguistic lines.24 Much of the subsequent decline in, especially francophone, ethno-political parties can be understood as a co-optation of some of these parties’ programmes by the linguistic offshoots of the main ideological branches. Thus the post-Second World War period in Belgium witnessed the revival of a limited Flemish national movement that, beginning in 1961, began its dramatic climb. Fears of Flemish domination of Belgian, especially economic, policy generated a heated response from the Wallonian francophone community, which had itself generated a variety of social organisations but, as yet, no political parties or mass support.25 While preconditions of ethnic awareness and an ethnic élite were present, the

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timing of this sudden increase reflects the role of institutional reforms, specifically those addressing linguistic parity in Belgium. Institutional reforms preceding ethno-political support Despite being the most highly fragmented society under consideration in this study, prior to the 1960s Belgium had remarkably little political fallout from such profound linguistic heterogeneity. Francophone élite led the Catholic drive for independence from the Netherlands in 1830. In addition, francophone Wallonia, with its rich deposits of coal, was the centre of the globe’s second Industrial Revolution, while the older Flemish textile industry declined in productivity.26 And with francophone élites occupying urban centres throughout Belgium, French became the de facto official language. The dominant social cleavages were the three (after 1893) familles spirituelles or zuilen: Catholic, Liberal, and Socialist political parties with associated labour unions, civic associations, sports and youth leagues, and presses.27 Each pillar contained both Flemish and French constituents. The consociational nature of Belgian society allowed élites to govern despite these clear divisions of society; additionally, the francophone character of the élite served to undermine the importance of language in government.28 Language was not absent from the political scene, however. An official policy of extending French language throughout Dutch-speaking Flanders represented an early attempt to eliminate this cleavage. 29 The ‘school question’, the funding of secular and Catholic schools, reflected to an important degree the ethno-political divide, in that Flemings tended to be Catholic, while in Wallonia the tendency was towards secularism; this issue would resurface frequently from 1836 to 1958, reflecting the underlying tension within consociational Belgium. 30 The Belgian government did respond to Flemish demands for increasing the use of Flemish in Flanders. In 1856 a Royal Commission drafted a series of recommendations for increasing the use of Flemish, some of which were included in the reforms of 1873–98.31 Despite significant moves towards linguistic parity on paper, however, most reforms were only partially implemented. Language law reforms enacted in the 1930s, extending in significant ways the earlier legislation, would serve to expand Flemish élite penetration into Belgian administration. A variety of laws were enacted that attempted to reassure Flemish élites and masses that linguistic parity and access to legal and administrative institutions were imminent.32 However, many of these reforms were implemented only haphazardly during the interwar period. Following the Second World War the

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language reform legislation was taken more seriously; in addition, a number of significant issues were addressed in an attempt to bridge the emerging linguistic divide by accommodating Flemish aspirations within the consociational structure. 33 Indeed, as linguistic parity progressed, bilingualism in administration tended to favour Flemings, as francophones traditionally had not learned Dutch. Accommodation of Flemish aspirations through linguistic law reform was expanded in 1961–62, but by this time Flemish nationalist aspirations were on the increase, as was increasing Wallonian reaction. While regional economic planning had been established in 1959, devolutionary reforms would occur subsequent to, and indeed as a result of, increasingly high levels of ethno-political fragmentation. Interestingly, both sides of the linguistic divide appeared to mobilise around the same phenomenon: increasing penetration of the political and administrative structures by Flemings, facilitated to a significant degree by the effective implementation of language laws leading back to the 1930s and earlier. Thus the dramatic increases in ethno-political mobilisation that occurred beginning in 1961 followed the serious implementation of language law reforms in the early post-War period. Such reforms strove to facilitate Flemish inclusion in administration and access to government. However, the net effect of such reforms was to provide political space for increasing ethno-political mobilisation, leading to the eventual division of Belgian society along linguistic lines.

Canada

% Popular vote

Figure 12.2 shows relative support within Quebec province for the Parti Québécois (PQ ). The highly decentralised nature of Canadian federalism makes national electoral results less representative of ethno-political sentiment than regional, a fact reflected in the paucity of Québécois parties at the national level prior to 1984. Unlike the Belgian case, in which ethno-political support is spread across three (including the German

50.0 40.0 PQ

30.0 20.0 1970

1973

1976

1981

1985

Quebec provincial elections

Figure 12.2

Parti Québécois.

1989

1994

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minority) linguistic divides and a variety of parties, Québécois nationalist fervour is represented in elections almost entirely by the PQ, making political support for the party a useful and concise measure. Ethno-political party support Unlike in Belgium, where Flemish ethno-political mobilisation had a long, if rather limited, history, Canadian francophone concerns had been accommodated, in varying degrees, by the nature of the Confederation established in 1867.34 Prior to 1960 the province was dominated by the Union Nationale (UN) and its leader, Maurice Duplessis, who ran the province through a highly developed system of patronage known as Duplessisme. Ideologically the party was committed to a policy of la survivance, which sought to retain the rural, Catholic character of Quebec within the Confederal system.35 With the death of Duplessis demographic shifts underway found expression in the triumph of the Parti Liberal du Québec (PLQ ) over the UN in 1960. Espousing a policy of Quebec distinctiveness within the Confederation, the tenor of this policy changed following electoral declines in 1963 to one seeking increased autonomy for the province. As yet, however, no political party represented ethno-political nationalism, nor did the electorate seem to demand it. In 1968, however, elements of the PLQ and other small groups merged to form the PQ, which espoused a clear ethno-political nationalist agenda, including tentative calls for secession by way of a policy of étapisme (step by step). This marks the clear beginnings of ethno-political mobilisation manifest in political party activity. The PQ , after dramatic increases in electoral support, took the reins of provincial government in 1976, with the Bloc Québécois contesting federal elections beginning in 1980. Thus the PQ emerged with high levels of support and quickly increased that support in subsequent years. Institutional reforms preceding ethno-political party support Beginning in 1960 with the election of the PLQ to government in Quebec, a series of reforms were undertaken that became known as the ‘Quiet Revolution’. Francophone élites in a newly industrialising and urbanising Quebec increasingly sought to redress the relative ‘backwardness’ of the province through the expansion of administration and the service sector; the PLQ slogan in 1962 was to make the Québécois ‘maître chez nous (masters in our house)’.36 The PLQ began to espouse, especially after electoral declines in 1966, deepening Quebec autonomy within the Canadian Confederation.37 Clearly, therefore, the beginnings

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of Quebec nationalism, as distinguished from francophone activism, emerged in a context of Quebec institutional reform. Equally important, however, were the actions taken by the federal government under Prime Minister Lester Pearson (1963–68) with regard to, especially, language law reform. As early as the election campaign of 1963, Pearson committed himself to the creation of a Royal Commission on Bilingualism and Biculturalism (RCBB), arguing that such a commission could provide information for developing true biculturalism throughout the Confederation. 38 The goal was ‘partly to make all francophones feel that the federal government was equally at their service as at the service of anglophones, and partly to recruit and hold talented francophones to the upper ranks of the federal bureaucracy’.39 What emerged was the Official Languages Act (OLA, 1969), establishing personal, rather than territorial, linguistic parity. 40 Unlike the Belgian case, in which language legislation was passed but was not followed by effective implementation, the OLA included provisions and funding for the creation of a commissioner of official languages and for the Department of Secretary of State to oversee official funding for language minorities.41 In that same year, New Brunswick, with a francophone minority of 35 per cent, passed its own Official Languages Act recognising French and English as the official languages of the province. Manitoba followed suit in 1970. 42 Reforms under Pearson extended beyond language laws, however. Federal economic expenditures were increased to facilitate regional development. Pearson recruited prominent Québécois into both the Cabinet, including senior economic portfolios, and federal administration in Quebec; additionally, special policy responsibilities and fiscal resources were devolved to Quebec in 1965 as part of the overall effort to bring Québécois élite into the Confederal fold.43 Thus although the OLA represents the clearest and most far-reaching attempt to provide francophones with a sense of access and inclusion, other reforms consistent with democratic deepening were also implemented during this period. Clearly the institutional reforms of Pearson precede the dramatic rise in ethno-political mobilisation represented by the PQ. Furthermore, while political expediency likely played a role in the reformers’ decisionmaking calculus, clear notions of the necessity of expanding democratic inclusiveness were central motivating factors. The effect, however, was not the hoped-for integration of Québécois élite and the francophone community more generally into the Confederal polity, but the opening of political space for the increasing demands of Québécois nationalism, with ethno-political electoral support rising in the wake of these reforms.

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France Ethno-political party support The measure of the dependent variable selected for this study, popular support for ethno-political parties in general (or in the case of Canada, regional) elections is highly problematic in the case of France, for a variety of reasons. First, statistics that address regional parties in general elections tend to group them together in the category of ‘other’. Second, the nature of French electoral rules serves to weaken support for small regionalist parties, although as will be shown below, the electoral rules of Great Britain are even more likely to inhibit regional parties, yet they exist and are growing. Perhaps most importantly, however, a difficulty exists in the nature of French administrative regions, established in 1982. The administrative regions fail to correspond clearly to the seven ethnic regions on the periphery of the Hexagon; thus electoral results from elections at that level would fail to generate the confidence in this measure that other cases provide. Additionally, perhaps as a result of the Jacobin tradition of ignoring ethnicities within France, the literature appears to suffer paucity in comparative studies of French indigenous ethnicities. While comparative studies of immigrant groups and individual case studies of ethnic groups abound, comparative ethnic studies that have produced such abundant literature for other cases are lacking. Thus the task of assessing changes in levels of ethno-political mobilisation in the case of France is a problematic one. However, as individual case studies reflect, there does indeed appear to be an increase in ethno-political activity in France, beginning in the 1960s in Brittany, expanding to Corsica and Alsace in the 1970s and the early 1980s, and subsequent increases in Basque, and Catalan and Occitan mobilisation.44 To the extent that these generalisations prove supportable, an assessment of French institutional reforms will be undertaken. Institutional reforms preceding ethno-political party support Central to any assessment of French policy towards indigenous ethnicities is the ideology of Jacobinism.45 The idealised notion of ‘France: One and Indivisible’ requires the gradual integration of particularistic units into French culture, administration, and society, such that the French state and the French people become coterminous. Interestingly, this dynamic of state-nation building is differentiated from the assimilationist theses of Karl Deutsch and others in that it requires a continued effort by the state to realise the francisation of the citizenry.46

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Efforts to realise the Jacobin goal of disseminating francité involved such efforts as the Ferry Laws (1880–87), establishing free, compulsory French elementary schools in which use of regional languages on school premises was a punishable offence.47 The centralising themes of Marxism, with the attendant view of ethnicity as ‘false consciousness’, further strengthened the drive to eliminate ethnic heterogeneity. Limited collaboration with the Nazis by some Bretons, Flemings, Alsatians, and Italians served to strengthen modern Jacobin anti-regionalism.48 Following the war concentrated efforts to modernise the regions, thereby integrating them into the Jacobin idealised state, were undertaken in the Fourth Republic.49 These continuing efforts serve to highlight the fact that the elimination of ethno-regional sentiment had largely failed.50 The passage of the Loi Deixonne in 1951 gave formal educational status to four regional languages: Basque, Breton, Catalan, and Occitan.51 However, the stipulations within the law were highly restrictive; as a result, the effects of the law were largely symbolic prior to 1970, when administrative and, perhaps more importantly, fiscal supports were provided. The real impetus for change resulted from the events of May 1968. Socialists began to abandon their Jacobin and centrist ideological positions and argue for a need to reinvigorate French political society by way, primarily, of decentralisation and, to a lesser extent, recognition of ethnic minorities. Mitterrand, in a speech in 1974, argued: The Socialist party has always decided to choose the development of the personality. And when one considers Brittany, Corsica, the Basque country, and the Languedoc region, too, it is true that the attempt to suffocate all the means of expression of original languages – for the structures of languages are also the deeper structures of the brain, touching the very essence of being – it is true that economic colonialism . . . and a certain reflex of centralistic domination of a colonialist nature – all that should be corrected . . . At one time the kings of France, the Jacobins, Bonaparte . . . were right . . . in their efforts to [fight against] centrifugal tendencies . . . Very well, it was necessary to make France. But . . . the necessary unity has become uniformity, in which individual being is stamped out . . . [Now we must respect] the right to be different.52 The Socialists would make administrative decentralisation and the encouragement of regional languages and cultures a central part of their electoral platform of 1980.

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At the same time, President Giscard d’Estaing began the process of establishing ‘cultural charters’ within regions, promising state funds for local cultural organizations and activities. The Haby Committee, in 1976, recommended expanding the teaching of local languages in schools, although the initiative was met with resistance from the Ministry of Education. 53 Thus both sides of the ideological divide saw the necessity in changing long-standing Jacobin traditions, with the Socialists taking the lead. In the early post-War years, therefore, institutional reform in France focused on revising language laws to enable local languages to expand. Eventually limited devolutionary reforms would be added after 1981, providing further stimulus to emerging ethno-political activities. While in all regions ethnic ‘entrepreneurs’ had attempted to establish organisations for expanding ethno-political identity, popular support for such efforts appears to have accelerated in the 1980s, continuing, in most cases, to the present.

Spain Ethno-political party support

% Popular support

Unfortunately, at least for the purposes of this study, dramatic shifts in ethno-political electoral support are far more ambiguous in the case of Spain than in the other cases selected in this study, raising the possibility that the relationship under examination in this study fails to obtain in this case. Furthermore, it is conceptually ambiguous at what point Spain can be considered negatively consolidated (although the rejection of a coup attempt in 1981 seems a relatively good indicator), such that efforts consistent with positive consolidation are likely and able to emerge. What is clear is that electoral support for regional parties has increased since 1976 and that devolutionary reforms have been an ongoing process (Figure 12.3). Additionally, ethno-political mobilisation in Galicia

10.00 8.00 6.00 4.00 2.00 0.00 1977

Figure 12.3

1979

1982 1986 1989 Election years

EP support (%) – Spain.

1993

1996

Basque Catalan Galicia Andalucian Aragon Canary Islands Valencia

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231

and regionalism in other areas appears to be on the increase in the wake of devolution, having emerged much later in the process than that of Catalonia and the Basque region.54 Institutional reforms preceding ethno-political party support Devolution has been a central feature of the Spanish Republic, with stipulations for two tracks of devolution being spelled out in the Constitution of 1978. Three regions were assumed to qualify for the fast track: Catalonia, the Basque areas, and Galicia.55 Interestingly, however, Andalusian leaders successfully pressed to qualify for a modified fast-track recognition of regional autonomy.56 However, following the coup attempt of 1981 the Cortes, in an attempt to eliminate fears of Spain’s disintegration as an excuse for military intervention, passed legislation effectively ending the fast-track process, although it appears no other regions were being prepared for such an undertaking.57 In addition, the passage of the Devolution Standardisation Act (Ley Orgánicia del Armonización del Proceso Autonómico, LAOPA) represented an attempt at cooling the fiebre autonómicia (devolution fever). However, strong opposition to the LAOPA among both Catalans and Basques led to its removal from the statute books in 1983.58 The powers devolved to the early group were significantly more extensive than for the rest of the regions with autonomy statutes. This asymmetry was corrected to some degree by a further round of devolution in 1992. This extension of powers to the ten additional regions that had sought autonomy provoked claims for additional powers by the four regions that had used the ‘fast track’ demanding some powers not expressly reserved in the Constitution for the central government.59 The need for support from regionalist parties for the Socialist Party to govern following the 1993 general elections facilitated additional revisions, especially with regard to regional taxation, in 1994. The victory of the conservative Partido Popular (PP) in regional elections of 1995 and the general elections of the next year was even weaker than that of the Socialists in 1993, forcing the PP to cater to regionalist demands even further. Thus the process of devolution continues both to deepen and to widen. Clearly the ambiguities of Spanish ethno-political activity, and its attendant regionalism, necessarily raise questions regarding the thesis outlined here. Some of the ambiguity results from the national election statistics used in the graph above; regional elections would likely be a better indicator of political support. Additionally, the uneven nature of Spanish devolution may necessitate exploring its impact on a

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region-by-region basis, an undertaking beyond the scope of this chapter. However, there is an interesting, and for my thesis hopeful, consensus from many scholars that the process of devolution is generating increasing demands from existing groups and the generation of new identities and attendant demands. Ross, Clark, Newton, Heywood, Losada, Núñez, and Newman, among others, expressly reflect this view.60 Thus the ambiguity reflected in this study may not necessarily undermine the importance of Spain as one of the cases for consideration.

United Kingdom Ethno-political party support

% Regional popular support

Both the Scottish National Party (SNP) and Plaid Cymru (PC) emerged as political parties during the interwar period. Given Britain’s first-pastthe-post system, which effectively serves to generate a two-party system, the emergence of any regional parties, for which few opportunities to participate in governance exist, represents a fairly significant event. However, prior to the 1970s neither party was able to garner much political support from their respective regions (Figure 12.4).61 Breakthroughs occurred for both the SNP and PC in the 1970 election, when support began to rise dramatically. For the PC this support stabilised around 9–10 per cent, while the SNP would continue to expand its base to a peak of 30.4 per cent in October 1974, although subsequent elections would show a significant drop to 11.7 per cent in 1983 before climbing back to around 22 per cent in recent elections. While support for PC has displayed much less volatility than that of the SNP, in both cases the late 1960s appear to be the onset of significant increases in support, despite the effect of Britain’s electoral rules. Additionally, no significant alternatives to the two main ethno-political parties have emerged, perhaps in part a function of the difficulties small parties have in gaining support in the UK.

35.0 30.0 25.0 20.0 15.0 10.0 5.0 0.0

SNP PC

1950 1951 1955 1959 1964 1966 1970 1974 1974 1979 1983 1987 1992 1997 (F) (O) Election years

Figure 12.4

EP support (%) – UK.

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233

Institutional reforms preceding ethno-political party support In both Scotland and Wales language has long since passed as a potential political concern. While Welsh is spoken at a much higher rate than Gaelic or Scots, in neither case does language represent the primary source of ethnic identification.62 Thus the issue of language laws so prevalent in Belgium and Canada have not been such major issues in the British context. Alternatively, the primary sources of identity have been historical/regional: each region represents a distinct ethnicity from that of England with a history of retaining, to varying degrees, that distinctiveness. For Scotland, which joined with Great Britain in 1707, this has entailed the retention of Scottish law and Scottish symbols on British currency; Wales, joined to England in 1536, has experienced a much higher level of assimilation, despite the higher retention of the Welsh language. Perhaps not surprisingly, therefore, the issue of territorial jurisdiction represents the central institutional reform preceding the sudden increases in ethno-political support in the late 1960s. The Liberal party has traditionally been the national party to consistently support regionalist claims, either as variants of ‘home rule’ institutions established in Ireland and other members of the Commonwealth or outright federalism. The Conservatives have long argued against devolution for Scotland and Wales as ‘anti-Union’, although support for Ulster devolution has been equally consistent. Furthermore, the Tories tend to do poorly in Scotland and Wales, thus providing them with little need to attempt to secure ‘nationalist’ votes in those areas. Labour, however, has depended on electoral support in the regions to rule. In fact, in four of Labour’s eight election victories since 1945, the Conservatives had won a majority of the English constituencies. 63 However, the more traditional socialist views regarding ethnicity and devolution articulated by Labour were consistent with those of the French Socialists prior to 1968: economic, and therefore state, centralisation was necessary and ethnicity represents a fragmentation and weakening of the working class. Furthermore, the experiences of the Second World War and post-War reconstruction strengthened the apparent necessity of centralisation. Since its rise in the 1920s Labour has shown an ambivalent attitude towards devolution. As a result, British devolutionary reforms have tended to be rather sporadic and, in many cases, policies articulated by parties when in opposition, especially by Labour, have frequently failed to come to fruition. However, clear moves away from post-War centralisation are evident, as is a growing discussion of devolution prior to the increase in political

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support for the SNP and PC. Although the Scottish Office was established in 1885, its remit was quite limited and directly controlled by Westminster, as the Secretary of State is a member of the Cabinet.64 Other devolutionary reforms, mostly centred on economic policy administration, followed in the wake of the Balfour Commission (1951–54) and led to the expansion of the Scottish Office with the support of both Conservatives and Labour MPs.65 Additional devolutionary reforms for Scotland were outlined in a Conservative Party White Paper of 1963. Finally, in the immediate aftermath of the SNP electoral surge of 1964 –70, the Kilbrandon Commission (1969–73) recommended a directly elected assembly for Scotland.66 Devolution for Wales emerged both later and to a lesser degree than that of Scotland, but also preceded the rise in PC electoral fortunes. Starting in 1907, a variety of Welsh departments emerged, on an ad hoc basis, such that by the 1950s some 17 were in existence. 67 The next logical step, a Minister for Wales, had been rejected in the 1930s and 1940s, but Churchill appointed his Home Secretary as the first Minister for Welsh Affairs in 1951. In 1957 the portfolio was given to the Minister of Housing and Local Government, a move that served to expand the office’s capabilities. 68 Labour also began to promote Welsh interests, promising the creation of a Secretary of State for Wales, which was established after Labour’s victory in 1964. Although the Welsh Office’s powers were much more limited than those of its Scottish counterpart, the devolution of executive authority to the region served to further distinguish the region from England. Finally, in 1965 regional economic planning councils were established in both regions whose task it was to address regional integration into the National Plan established by Labour.69 While the National Plan failed, the progress of regional devolution was such that in 1968 Conservative leader Heath issued his ‘declaration of Perth’ calling for a Scottish Assembly, although this was subsequently ignored when the Conservatives took power in 1970.70 Thus the principle and realisation of regional devolution that began in 1951 had, by the mid-1960s, emerged as a highly visible political debate, prior to but logically contributing to the surge in electoral success of both the SNP and the PC.

Conclusion As the case studies reflect, some negatively consolidated democracies experience dramatic increases in ethno-political mobilisation. In each of those cases institutional reforms consistent with democratic deepening

Britt Cartrite

Preceding institutional reform

Importance of language

Belgium Canada France Spain

Language laws Language laws Language laws Devolution

UK

Devolution

Very important Very important Varying Very important for some groups, not applicable to others Insignificant for Scotland; limited for Wales

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preceded the rise in support for ethno-political parties, and each set of reforms logically can be associated with such changes. Thus the reform of language laws and/or devolution appears to be a contributing factor to the phenomenon explored in this study. Within the context of the broader literature, this finding represents something new. While a great deal of scholarship exists focusing on the general phenomenon of ethnic mobilisation in Western democracies, relatively little has focused on variations within those cases. Yet the findings outlined here also point to new areas of research. First, while the focus on institutional reforms in this study implies the expansion of institutional opportunity structures for ethnic groups, research into the causal linkages between democratic deepening and ethno-political mobilisation is necessary; in particular, determining whether it is the normative expansion of democracy or the functional opening of new opportunity structures appears to be an interesting line of inquiry. Second, this study implies a link between the relative size of indigenous populations and ethno-political mobilisation; this connection should be further developed, with particular attention paid to the possible decrease in any necessary threshold for mobilisation and factors explaining that trend. A deeper understanding of the difference between ethnic and immigrant mobilisation, with territoriality as a possible factor, should be explored, especially with regard to territoriality under conditions of liberal democracy; relatedly, an analysis comparing ethnic and regional groups, with the apparent differentiating characteristic of language, should also be undertaken to assess the impact of linguistic differences on variations in mobilisation among territorially based groups. Each of these avenues of future research focuses on different factors in the relationship between ethnic groups and democracy and appear as immediate outgrowths from

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the findings of this chapter. By expanding the understanding of ethnic groups in democracy, significant insights into both should be realised.

Notes and references 1. G. A. O’Donnell, ‘Illusions about consolidation’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 7, No. 2, April 1996, p. 46. 2. A. Schedler, ‘What is democratic consolidation’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 9, No. 2, April 1998, p. 93. 3. L. Diamond, Developing Democracy: Toward Consolidation, Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore 1999, p. 274. 4. Schedler, 1998, p. 98. 5. See Chapter 2. 6. S. P. Huntington, The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century, University of Oklahoma Press, Norman 1991. Many scholars have criticised Huntington’s analysis as problematic; however, alternative studies do tend to identify waves and reverse-waves. See, for example, R. Doorenspleet 2000, ‘Reassessing the three waves of democratization’, World Politics, Vol. 52, No. 3, April 2000, pp. 384–406. For the purposes of this study the important issue is the emergence of ‘consolidology’ as a separate field of study within political science rather than the particularities of disagreement within that literature. 7. Schedler, 1998, pp. 98–9. 8. Diamond, 1998, pp. 273–5. 9. Diamond, 1998, p. 132. 10. R. D. Putnam with R. Leonardi and R. Y. Nanetti, Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy, Princeton University Press, Princeton 1993, p. 54. 11. Diamond, 1998, p. 129. 12. Diamond, 1998, p. 274. 13. The elections of July 2000 may indicate that Mexico deserves to be moved into the liberal camp, but are too recent for such an assessment to be definitively made. 14. These are: Czech Republic, Hungary, Korea (ROK), Poland, and Slovak Republic. 15. J. J. Linz and A. Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and Post-Communist Europe, Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore 1996, p. 5. See also Diamond, 1998, p. 65. 16. As an initial analysis, indigenous minorities are aggregated; future research will explore the possibility of necessary absolute sizes of specific groups for mobilisation. 17. M. A. Roessingh, Ethnonationalism and Political Systems in Europe, Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam 1996, pp. 225–7. 18. W. Connor, Ethnonationalism: The Quest for Understanding, Princeton University Press, Princeton 1994, pp. 172–3. 19. Connor, 1994, pp. 169–70. 20. Clearly, popular support for ethno-political parties in national elections can be used as only a rough proxy, as voting behaviour can be a function of

Britt Cartrite

21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

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a variety of motivations. However, the literature tends to use political party support as an appropriate measure; furthermore, as this study is concerned with changes in ethno-political activity, rather than in absolute magnitudes of such mobilisation, changes in voter support represent a reasonable measure. M. Hroch, Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe, Columbia University Press, New York 2000, pp. 25–30. B. Cartrite, ‘Ethnopolitical mobilization in Belgium’, Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, Vol. 8, No. 3, Autumn 2002, pp. 47–55. L. Vos, ‘The Flemish national question’, in K. Deprez and L. Vos (eds), Nationalism in Belgium: Shifting Identities, 1780–1995, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1998, p. 90. The chart only includes political support for expressly ethno-political parties, as few non-linguistically divided parties remain. C. Kesteloot, ‘Growth of the Walloon Movement’, in Deprez and Vos, 1998, pp. 143–50. S. Newman, Ethnoregional Conflict in Democracies: Mostly Ballots, Rarely Bullets, Greenwood Press, Westport 1996, p. 58. M. O. Hiesler (ed.), Politics in Europe: Structures and Processes in some Postindustrial Democracies, David McKay, New York 1974, p. 195. J. Fitzmaurice, ‘Belgium: a laboratory of federalism’, in D. MacIver (ed.), The Politics of Multinational States, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1999, pp. 27–32. J. T. Ishiyama and M. Breuning, Ethnopolitics in the New Europe, Lynne Rienner, Boulder 1998, p. 110; Fitzmaurice, 1999, pp. 91–2. J. Fitzmaurice, The Politics of Belgium: Crisis and Compromise in a Plural Society, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1983, pp. 27–32. Fitzmaurice, 1999, p. 93. Fitzmaurice, 1999, p. 94. Ishiyama and Breuning, 1998, p. 125. D. MacIver, ‘Canada: the politics of deep diversity’, in MacIver, 1999, pp. 243–4; H. Meadwell, ‘The politics of nationalism in Quebec’, World Politics, Vol. 45, No. 2, 1993, p. 205. Newman, 1996, pp. 109–11. Meadwell, 1993, p. 219; Newman, 1996, p. 113. P. M. Leslie, ‘Ethnonationalism in a federal state: the case of Canada’, in J. R. Rudolph Jr and R. J. Thompson (eds), Ethnoterritorial Politics, Policies, and the Western World, Lynne Reinner, Boulder 1989, p. 61. Leslie, 1989, p. 64. Leslie, 1989, pp. 64–5. M. J. Esman, ‘The politics of official bilingualism in Canada’, Political Science Quarterly, Vol. 97, No. 2, 1982, p. 234. W. Denis, ‘Language policy in Canada’, in Pi Li (ed.), Race and Ethnic Relations in Canada, Oxford University Press, Don Mills, Canada, 1999, pp. 187–8. Denis, 1999, pp. 189–91. Leslie, 1989, pp. 67–8. J. E. Reece, The Bretons Against France: Ethnic Minority Nationalism in TwentiethCentury Brittany, University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill 1977; R. Ramsay, The Corsican Time-Bomb, Manchester University Press, Manchester 1983; W. Safran, ‘The French state and ethnic minority cultures: policy dimensions and problems’, in Rudolph and Thompson, 1989; J. E. Jacob,

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45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

Comparative Perspectives Hills of Conflict: Basque Nationalism in France, University of Nevada Press, Reno 1994; D. Ager, Identity, Insecurity, and Image: France and Language, Multilingual Matters, Philadelphia 1999. Safran, 1989, p. 117. Linz and Stepan, 1996, p. 34. Safran, 1989, p. 117. R. Gildea, France Since 1945, Oxford University Press, New York 1996, pp. 123–30. Gildea, 1996, p. 129. P. Le Galès, ‘The regions’, in M. Cook and G. Davie (eds), Modern France: Society in Transition, Routledge, New York 1999, p. 103. Ager, 1999, p. 31. Quoted in Safran, 1989, p. 123. Ager, 1999, p. 32. C. J. Ross, Contemporary Spain: A Handbook, Arnold, New York 1997, p. 93. Ross, 1997, p. 175. M. T. Newton, Institutions of Modern Spain, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 1997, pp. 120–1. Ross, 1997, p. 77. P. Heywood, The Government and Politics of Spain, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1995, p. 145. Ross, 1997, pp. 99–100. Ross (1997); Clark (1989); Newton (1997); Heywood (1995); A. Losada, ‘National identity and self-government in Spain: the Galician case’, in W. Safran and R. Máiz (eds), Identity and Territorial Autonomy in Plural Societies, Frank Cass, Portland 2000; X. Núñez, ‘Autonomist regionalism within the Spanish state of the autonomous communities: an interpretation’, in Safran and Máiz, 2000; Newman (1996). Ishiyama and Breuning, 1998, pp. 141–6. Ishiyama and Breuning, 1998, p. 150. Parry finds that four of the six victories of Labour at the time of his writing would have gone to the Tories; I have updated that figure to include the 1997 and 2001 elections in which Labour’s margin was sufficient without MPs from the regions; R. Parry, ‘State and nation in the United States’, in U. Ra’anan, M. Mesner, K. Armes, and K. Martin (eds), State and Nation in Multi-ethnic Societies: The Breakup of Multinational States, Manchester University Press, Manchester 1991, p. 152. M. Keating, ‘Territorial management and the British state: the case of Scotland and Wales’, in Rudolph and Thompson, 1989, pp. 161–2. Newman, 1996, pp. 30–1. Newman, 1996, pp. 31. V. Bogdanor, Devolution in the United Kingdom, Oxford University Press, New York 1999, p. 158. Bogdanor, 1999, p. 159. Keating, 1989, pp. 163–4. Keating, 1989, p. 165.

13 Conclusion: Democracy and Ethnic Conflict Adrian Guelke

Democracy The chapters in this book have examined a variety of aspects of a common dilemma. How should the management and, hopefully, the resolution of violent ethnic conflict be approached in a liberaldemocracy? By liberal-democracy is generally meant a system in which there is universal adult suffrage for citizens, genuine electoral competition through political parties and protection of basic civil liberties so that an individual or group’s exercise of the right to dissent cannot be arbitrarily curtailed. In common parlance these are usually associated with democracy as such. In the 21st century the terms democracy and liberal-democracy have in practice become virtually interchangeable. The collapse of rival conceptions of government, such as fascism and communism, makes reference to different forms of democracy seem almost pedantic. Thus, the notion of a people’s democracy retains little credibility in today’s world. However, the global success of liberal-democracy should not blind us to the limitations of this form of government in practice. In the first place, reality falls somewhat short of the ideal of liberal-democracy as it is supposed to function. Thus, strict application of the criteria listed above might suggest the existence of very few actual liberaldemocracies, despite the prevalence of governments claiming to rest on liberal-democratic norms. Even some of what are seen as among the world’s longest established and stable liberal-democracies, have fallen short on one or other of the criteria. For example, the denial of the vote to African-Americans in the southern states of the United States of America until the civil rights revolution of the 1960s detracted significantly from American democracy. Indeed, it can be argued that America 239

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still has not fully overcome the legacy of the past in relation to race. Electoral practices which, designedly or otherwise, discriminated against African-American voters in Florida appear to have played a decisive role in George W. Bush’s narrow victory in the 2000 Presidential election in the United States. Common grounds for contesting whether this or that polity is a liberal-democracy include the laws governing who is entitled to vote in elections, the regulation of electoral competition among the political parties and the integrity of procedures for the counting of votes. Failings on any of these scores can be used to make a case that the polity in question does not fully satisfy the criteria of a liberal-democracy. Awareness that the holding of multiparty elections does not necessarily lead to the entrenchment of democratic norms in a society accounts for the prevalence of concepts such as emergent democracy.1 In addition it reflects the recognition of the fragility of liberal-democracy, especially in the Third World. But the use of a term such as ‘emergent democracy’ also provides a convenient way of describing polities where some of the trappings of liberal-democracy exist, but which are open to criticism over their tendency to treat opposition to the prevailing government as less than completely acceptable. Currently a further threat to liberal-democracy has arisen in the form of the measures that have been taken in a large number of countries in response to the panic over international terrorism since the events of September 11. These include legislation on terrorism that extends the legal definition of terrorism to cover a very wide range of activities that are distant from the actual commission of acts of violence. Of course, this is not to deny the need for action by states and the international community to meet the challenge posed by the operations of transnational terrorist networks such as al Qaeda. However, by dealing with the specific threat that al Qaeda poses under the rubric of a war against international terrorism carries the risk that what might be justified as emergency measures to deal with a concrete danger will become a permanent feature of these societies’ defences against hypothetical threats. A consequence could be that the protection of civil liberties will be weakened not merely temporarily but on a long-term basis. In the second place, liberal-democracy should not be confused with legitimacy. Admittedly, this is made more difficult by the various meanings of legitimacy. Thus, legitimacy has at least three meanings or levels. Thus, first, in describing a regime as illegitimate we may simply mean that it is not legitimate in our eyes. Secondly, more commonly, such a description is intended to convey the view that the regime is not

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legitimate among those it rules over. Thirdly it may be intended to convey the view that the regime is not legitimate in the eyes of the international community. Of course, these meanings may coincide. Indeed, since the end of the Cold War, there has arguably been an expectation that they do or at least should coincide. Thus, for some at least, liberal-democracy is the only legitimate form of government on normative grounds (the subjective level), while also being in practice the only basis on which these days the governed are willing to accord consent to their rulers (the domestic level). At the same time, it might be argued that liberal-democracy constitutes the only form of government recognised as fully legitimate internationally (the international level). Since the end of the Cold War, the notion has grown that people anywhere in the world have a right to democratic governance.2 However, even the most passionate believers in liberal-democracy would presumably acknowledge that historically governments existed that enjoyed the consent of the governed which were not liberaldemocracies and which were fully legitimate both domestically and internationally. If only that point is conceded, it is evident that liberal-democracy and legitimacy can be disaggregated, as can for that matter the various levels of legitimacy. Thus, in principle, a government may be legitimate internally and illegitimate internationally or vice versa. Further, a government elected and functioning in terms of liberal-democratic norms may or may not enjoy legitimacy either domestically or internationally. To give a current example, it is clearly the intention of the United States of America that there be democratic elections in Iraq to establish a new political dispensation in that country. Without underestimating the difficulties the occupying power may encounter, the staging of elections that broadly satisfy international opinion should not be beyond the capacity of the American government. However, it would be quite another matter to predict that America will be successful in establishing legitimate government in Iraq on a lasting basis. From the vantage point of 2003 that seems improbable. The reason that in categorisations of the world’s polities, only a minority tends to be classified as liberal-democracies (with more in the emergent democracy category) is not because there have been free elections in only a minority of states. On the contrary, there have been free elections at some stage in the history of most countries. It is the failure of liberal-democratic government after the holding of multiparty elections that accounts for the relatively small number of cases of long-established liberal-democracies. There are two common reasons

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for the failure of liberal-democracy: the overthrow of the government in a military coup or the adoption of dictatorial policies by the democratically elected government. It is arguable that the actions of military or political leaders thereby prevent the institutionalisation of liberaldemocracy as the only legitimate basis of rule. That may happen in a few cases. But the less palatable truth of the matter is that by the time of the coup or the adoption of special measures to keep the government in power, popular support for liberal-democratic institutions may already have declined to the point where the system lacks domestic legitimacy. This may even be the case while the system continues to enjoy international legitimacy. In the third place, liberal-democracy is an evolving concept. The recognition that formally equal treatment of individuals may disguise political orders that oppress minorities has led to conceptions of democracy in which group rights have been accorded a larger measure of legitimacy. Peleg identifies both liberal and consociational modes of accommodating differences in a democracy. 3 However, in societies with deep divisions, an entirely individualistic approach has increasingly come to be seen as providing inadequate protection for subordinate minorities. Neuberger’s discussion of the evolution of the Israeli political system underlines that even in a society under siege, there is pressure for the adoption of policies that brings the system more into line with the practices of established Western democracies. 4 That pressure, it should be acknowledged, has abated somewhat as a result of the reaction to 9/11 and of the breakdown of the Israeli–Palestinian peace process since 2000. Another dimension to the evolution of liberal-democracy has been the emphasis that has been placed on the underpinning of the holding of regular, competitive elections by the existence of a strong civil society. In particular, it is argued that if the participation of most citizens in the political process is confined to voting (or abstaining from voting) in national elections once every four or five years that is likely to detract from the legitimacy of the political system. Further, the existence of intermediary groups between the state and the ties of kith and kin presents a barrier to the dominance of patronage as the basis of political loyalties, another factor tending to undermine the legitimacy of liberal-democracy through its association with corruption. As a result, creating a healthy civil society as reflected in the existence of institutions independent of the state such as churches, trade unions and a buoyant voluntary sector has come to be seen as a significant element in a country’s transition to democracy.

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However, these trends in the evolution of the concept of liberaldemocracy are by no means mutually reinforcing. In particular, in the case of deeply divided societies, the civil society approach to conflict regulation and the consociational model are difficult to reconcile.5 The emphasis of the former is on overcoming differences at a local level, creating the basis for institutions that cut across communal divisions. By contrast, the consociational model depends upon a deal by the political élites. Their capacity to secure acceptance of the deal depends upon political demobilisation and the evolution of a passive mass base, as well as acceptance of the proposition that ‘high fences make good neighbours’. Consociationalism’s emphasis on the management of divisions over the healing of divisions runs counter to efforts to transcend divisions at a grass-roots level that characterises the civil society approach. Proponents of consociationalism argue that the peace that a consociational settlement is intended to establish, does in the long run allow for a reduction in communal divisions, so that eventually its mechanisms are no longer required. However, while compatible with the ultimate aim of creating an integrated society, an implication of the assumptions underpinning consociationalism is that the objectives of peace and integration can only be achieved in stages. This issue lies at the heart of Irwin’s disagreement with Peleg in this book.6 Irwin objects that Peleg’s emphasis on the consociational model as the best hope for the transformation of an ethnic order into a pluralist regime leads to his neglecting opportunities for creating consensus from ‘the bottom up and the centre out’ as Irwin puts it. In fact, the power that consociational devices place in the hands of élites can be objected to on democratic grounds because of the limits they place on the role of public opinion in the governance of society. A justification for consociational political settlements, notwithstanding their rigidities, is that it takes a deal between political leaders capable of securing and retaining support within their communities to bring violent conflict in deeply divided societies to an end. Thus, the pessimist tends to settle for consociationalism as the best that can be achieved in the circumstances, while the optimist sees such settlements as unnecessarily continuing to entrench society’s divisions and maintaining a fault-line that would otherwise disappear. At the end of the day the consociational and the civil society approaches are merely means to an end, the achievement of a durable political accommodation. However, such an outcome depends on more than simply the design of political institutions. As long as substantial numbers of people in a society have a burning sense of injustice, then

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the reconciliation that is needed to consign a conflict to the past may not be forthcoming. 7 Consequently, as the chapters of Marcia Hartwell and Tom Hadden underscore, issues of justice inevitably tend to loom just as large in the peace that follows a violent conflict as the functioning of a new political dispensation.8 The importance of the goals of justice and reconciliation also has a bearing on the role of external powers or third-party mediation in peace settlements. Parties external to ethnic conflicts commonly seek to promote consociational settlements, along with institution-building to strengthen civil society. They tend to do so without much, if any, awareness of the possibility of conflict between the two approaches. Further, they tend to do so without appreciating that these political formulas are intended to operate as means to much larger ends. Thus, for example, shoehorning local parties into the acceptance of power-sharing can be self-defeating if it does nothing to reduce the distrust between the parties. These considerations are at the heart of Hugh O’Doherty’s criticism of the nature of much third-party mediation, particularly its propensity to see peace-making as a technical matter and the reaching of a settlement as the end of its role.9 While his chapter focuses primarily on the case of Northern Ireland, his arguments clearly have much wider relevance. Indeed, in some respects, other cases provide stronger evidence for his arguments than does Northern Ireland. In particular, the self-effacing mediation of George Mitchell in Northern Ireland hardly bears comparison with the imperious behaviour of Richard Holbrooke in the Balkans. Nevertheless, O’Doherty’s emphasis on the importance of leadership in the implementation stage of a settlement is well made. Nelson Mandela’s role in South Africa in the 1990s is the outstanding example of a leader who meets the requirements that O’Doherty outlines.10 However, leadership of that calibre is a rare commodity in any society, let alone, a deeply divided one.

Ethnic conflict The concept of ethnic conflict is scarcely less problematic than that of democracy. Just as the term democracy can be treated as shorthand for liberal-democracy so ethnic conflict is best interpreted as encompassing social, economic and political conflicts with an ethnic dimension. Thus, violent conflict does not arise out of the existence of ethnic groups as such, even in cases where such conflict is lazily attributed to the persistence of ancient hatreds. Antagonism arises between ethnic

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groups in a particular social, economic or political context. The ethnic dimension to the conflict may predispose observers to see it as a conflict between all the members of one group and all the members of another, even if in practice the numbers directly engaged in violence on either side is very small. Those who claim to speak for a particular ethnic group may also only enjoy minority support even among those who accept identification with the group in question, with even less support among the wider community that political leaders wish co-opt into the group. At the same time, the picture of violent ethnic conflict as simply the product of manipulation from above is also seriously misleading. In particular, it underestimates the strength of ethnic identification through all sections of society once a situation of inter-communal violence has arisen. Once a cycle of violence has been created, conflict may become self-sustaining with little need for leaders to promote its continuation. In fact, political leaders may be helpless to prevent the continuation of violence. If ethnic antagonism cuts across other divisions in society, that may serve to dampen down conflict. On the other hand, ethnic antagonism may be reinforced by other cleavages, including class divisions and the division between centre and periphery. The declining ideological salience of class divisions since the end of the Cold War has helped to underpin the impression that there has been a large increase in the number of ethnic conflicts in the world since the Berlin Wall came down. However, it is a moot point as to whether there has been such an increase. It is arguable that what has happened is that there is a much greater propensity to label conflicts as ethnic which were previously described in other ways. The impression of a world beset by ethnic conflict has been compounded by the shifting boundaries of the term ethnic. Thus these days it is used to refer to religious, racial and linguistic divisions and not merely to named communities which have made a claim to a specific and unique homeland for themselves. Confusion can arise when the term ethnic is applied to cases when these divisions do not coincide or overlap. A good example is South Africa. There has been a strong correlation between race and voting behaviour in post-apartheid South Africa. However, the ethnic divisions that the apartheid regime attempted to promote within the African majority have remained relatively unimportant politically, with the exception of the support that the Inkatha Freedom Party enjoys among Zulus in the rural areas of KwaZulu Natal. 11 It is also a moot point as to the extent to which greater legitimacy attaches to political claims advanced on the basis of ethnic identities

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than was the case in the past. The expansion in the number of sovereign states in the world, with a number of members of the United Nations climbing from a figure of 159 in 1989 to 190 in 2002 underscores the success of ethno-nationalists in creating new states in the post-Cold War era. In the process an important norm of the international political system has been shattered; the international community’s anathema against secession, enshrined in numerous declarations of the United Nations. This has removed a significant barrier to the creation of new states. Thus, it is no longer possible to rule out either secession or partition as options for the management of violent ethnic conflicts on the grounds of the international community’s overriding commitment to uphold the territorial integrity of existing independent states. At the start of the 21st century even the possibility of violent ethnic conflict is sufficient to justify change in a state’s boundaries, provided it is not done by force, as the remarkable case of Czechoslovakia described in Radka Hadlová’s chapter underlines.12 However, the peaceful break-up of Czechoslovakia should not be seen as an indication that partition can be achieved without bloodshed elsewhere in the world.13 There were special circumstances in the case of Czechoslovakia, not least the role that prospective membership of the European Union has played in reassuring minorities of their position in the new states. If European integration helped make possible the velvet divorce of the Czech Republic and Slovakia, it appeared that the prospect of membership of the European Union was having the opposite effect on Cyprus. The guarantees European Union membership offers minorities seems to have weakened Turkish Cypriot resistance to the reunification of the island to the point that a reversal of the partition that occurred as a result of the Turkish intervention in Cyprus in 1974 may happen. If it does, it is likely to be on the basis of the longstanding formula put forward by the United Nations of a bizonal, bicommunal federation. The role of the European Union as a guarantor of continuing democracy and the observance of basic human rights, including protection of the position of minorities, does not have an equivalent in any part of the world. At present, the assumption is that any member state that failed to live up to its commitments in these areas would put its membership of the European Union in jeopardy. Membership of the European Union is an important dimension to the politics of a number of the societies discussed in this book. It is a factor in four of the five cases analysed in Britt Cartrite’s survey of ethno-political mobilisation in Western democracy. 14 The emphasis that the European Union has given to regionalisation has undoubtedly

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given encouragement to territorially based ethnic minorities within its borders. At the same time, the restraining influence of European Union membership may also play a significant role in the evolving conflict in the Basque Country described in Luis Moreno’s chapter. 15 It may help to prevent the polarisation that has occurred between nationalist and non-nationalist parties from causing a breakdown in the Spanish political system, by acting as a check on the actions of both sides. Admittedly, the overarching influence of the European Union is difficult to measure directly. Further, in the wake of European divisions on Iraq, it may seem foolhardy to place much reliance on commitments that have arisen out of the process of European integration. However, too much can be made of the disarray in the European Union’s common foreign and security policy. It has little bearing on the attractiveness of membership to all but the very richest European states outside its boundaries. The foundation of post-war integration in Europe was reconciliation between France and West Germany, as John Hume, the Northern Irish nationalist leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner, never tires of reminding audiences in Ireland, convinced that their example is relevant to overcoming divisions elsewhere, including Ireland. The analogy is not exact, but one could perhaps argue that an accommodation between India and Pakistan has the potential to provide a similar foundation in Asia for the management of the region’s ethnic conflicts. That is the essence of the case put forward by Robert Wirsing in his chapter on Kashmir. 16 Wirsing argues persuasively that to see a resolution of the highly complex and multi-faceted Kashmir problem as the key to improving relations between India and Pakistan is to put the cart before the horse. India, with a reputation as the world’s most populous democracy tends to enjoy broader international support than does episodically democratic Pakistan. Further, the twin associations of terrorism and Islamic fundamentalism, especially after 9/11, hardly provide a fertile basis for engendering general international support for Kashmiri insurgents. Yet not merely has the Indian government found a response centred on the use of military force unproductive within the Kashmir Valley itself, it has also failed to dispel the impression that Indian rule in the state is low on legitimacy. This has encouraged tentative steps by India to seek a political solution involving accommodation with disaffected Kashmiris. The issue of Kashmiri identity is far from a simple one, but the more general point is that in situations where the world recognises that questions of identity are at stake, international opinion

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is disinclined to dismiss the grievances of insurgents as of no account. A similar argument can be put forward in relation to the conflict in Chechnya. While like the Indian government the Russian government has been assiduous in drawing the world’s attention to the connection of the rebels to al Qaeda, it has also attempted to make progress towards a political settlement without renouncing its sovereignty over the territory. International opinion in today’s world tends to be hostile towards policies that can be represented as entailing the suppression of the cultural identity of a minority, particularly an ethnic minority. That puts pressure on the state to seek to accommodate expressions of ethnic difference. Thus, any approach that combines tough security policies with policies that smack of forced assimilation is likely to encounter strong international criticism. That provides the scope for ethnonationalists to dispute the capacity and/or willingness of the existing state to protect the rights of minorities. However, there is sufficient ambivalence towards ethno-nationalism for most parties seeking popular backing for separation from existing states to present themselves as civic nationalists. This is because of ethno-nationalism’s association with intolerance towards groups other than the one it is championing. The coining of the term, ethnic cleansing, and condemnation of it as a crime against humanity virtually on a par with genocide underscores the hostility of international opinion towards the worst manifestations of ethno-nationalism. In fact, it is easy to overstate the extent to which the world has changed its attitude towards the break-up of existing states. The absolute anathema against secession has gone, but enthusiasm among the governments of the world for the multiplication of states is limited. In the run-up to the war against Iraq in 2003, the possibility of the break-up of the country after the overthrow of Saddam Hussein was generally used as an argument against military action to topple the Baathist regime. It is also possible to argue that the expansion of membership of the United Nations since the end of the Cold War has in fact been relatively modest. Thus, if every ethnic group were able to stake a claim to an independent state there would be no limit to the process of fragmentation of states, as the UN Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali pointed out in An Agenda for Peace in 1992. 17 However, the politics of identity is not confined to the issue of the creation of new states. Issues connected with ethnic identity, often under the rubric of multiculturalism, have become more important in the politics of many states, especially with the decline in the importance of class politics. The decline in the salience of class can be attributed to

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a variety of factors. The discrediting of communism as a rival system to that of capitalism and the hold of neo-liberal economic policies are among the most important. The redistribution of income and wealth used to be part of the raison d’être of parties on the left of the political spectrum. For disadvantaged groups in the past it made sense to combine with others to achieve greater equality. As the goal of equality has declined in importance even among nominally democratic socialist or social democratic political parties, the pursuit of particularistic claims has made more sense as a political strategy. Thus, the claim that a particular group is being disadvantaged by policies pursued in a particular area, such as education, is more likely to secure a sympathetic hearing than a claim based on general principles of social justice. Of course, by no means all of those advancing a claim on ethnic grounds can be said to be disadvantaged, particularly if economic criteria are used as a yardstick for judging this issue. Groups that are relatively privileged in socio-economic terms have been beneficiaries of state policies intended to accommodate minorities. The Basques in Spain and the Sikhs in India are examples. Further, the benefits of policies designed to assist members of a group that have suffered discrimination of one kind or another in the past are often unevenly distributed within the group. The Gini index measuring income inequality in South Africa has barely changed since the end of apartheid, but what has changed radically is the racial profile of the wealthy, who are no longer virtually all whites.18 That at least represents an advance of sorts. But what the South African case underlines is that the removal of discrimination, while providing opportunities for members of a previously oppressed group, does not automatically produce a more economically equal society. As economic inequalities have come to be seen as the product of forces such as globalisation that are practically beyond the power of politics to influence at a national level, so it has become more important politically that people’s identity should be accorded recognition in all its particularities. Democratic states have responded in a variety of ways to the increasing demands of ethnic minorities. Generally speaking, they have been sensitive to the charge of seeking to impose uniformity on society and of forcing minorities to conform to the cultural values and practices of the majority. In the case of minorities concentrated in a particular region, devolution of power from the centre, autonomy and federalism are some of the ways in which states have sought to accommodate these minorities. But such actions have by no means appeased these minorities. Indeed, Britt Cartrite’s interesting conclusion from his study

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of five cases is that reform by the state has actually preceded dramatic increases in ethno-political mobilisation.19 The implication might seem to be that governments and national political parties would be well advised not to attempt to buy off potential secessionists with concessions. However, Cartrite rightly stops short of drawing the conclusion that it is therefore unwise to deepen democracy in response to concern about the place of regional minorities within the polity. Recent political developments suggest the need for caution. In particular, the results of the elections in Québec, Scotland and Wales in April and May 2003 were a setback for the nationalists in each case, though in Scotland’s case the number of members of the Scottish parliament supporting independence actually increased, despite the Scottish National Party’s loss of seats. The three election campaigns took place against the backdrop of the war in Iraq, which gave added importance to questions of security, particularly in the light of fears that the war might lead to terrorist attacks. In the case of long-established and stable liberal-democracies, one might surmise that concerns over security would tend to dampen support for separatism on the grounds that conflict with the central state would cause additional uncertainty. However, by contrast, against a backdrop of political breakdown, insecurity is a potent factor in ethnic mobilisation, as the case of the former Yugoslavia underlines. Thus, the perception that the lives of members of the group are threatened provides one of the strongest motivations for support for ethnonationalism, with the claim to a separate state being based on the assumption that the creation of an ethnic homeland provides the only guarantee of the group’s safety. History may appear to provide ample justification for such an assumption. Where creating such a homogeneous ethnic homeland conflicts with the political aspirations of others, the stage is set for violence of the most savage kind. The Balkans, the Middle East and South Asia provide a number of examples. It is problems like these that prompt despair that democracy can ever be compatible with a society deeply divided on the basis of ethnicity. The cases discussed in this book demonstrate that for all the difficulties such despair is not warranted. However, they also demonstrate the wide variety of factors that influence political development in deeply divided societies and that there is no magic formula for achieving peace. That is not to say that mechanisms for promoting political co-operation between communities are not important or that we cannot learn from the experience of successful peace processes. The purpose of this book is to make a contribution to our understanding of how that can best be done.

Adrian Guelke 251

Notes and references 1. See, for example, J. Denis Derbyshire and Ian Derbyshire, Political Systems of the World, Chambers, Edinburgh 1989. 2. Carlos Santiso, ‘International co-operation for democracy and good governance: moving toward a second generation’, European Journal of Development Research, Vol. 13, No. 1, June 2001, p. 154. 3. See Chapter 2. 4. See Chapter 4. 5. This issue is discussed in relation to Northern Ireland in Adrian Guelke, ‘Civil society and the Northern Irish peace process’, Voluntas: International Journal of Voluntary and Nonprofit Organizations, Vol. 14, No. 1, March 2003, pp. 61–78. 6. See Chapter 8. 7. An excellent account of the importance of reconciliation in a society after conflict is Norman Porter, The Elusive Quest: Reconciliation in Northern Ireland, The Blackstaff Press, Belfast 2003. 8. See Chapters 10 and 11. 9. See Chapter 7. 10. See, for example, the account of Mandela’s role in Patti Waldmeir, Anatomy of a Miracle: The End of Apartheid and the Birth of the New South Africa, Viking, Harmondsworth 1997, pp. 268–72. 11. See Reynolds’s analysis of the 1999 elections in Andrew Reynolds (ed.), Election ’99 South Africa: From Mandela to Mbeki, St. Martin’s Press, New York 1999, pp. 173–209. However, ironically, Reynolds uses the term ethnic in the tables he uses providing a racial breakdown of party support. 12. See Chapter 6. 13. The drawbacks of partition are well described in Donald L. Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles 2000, pp. 588–92. 14. See Chapter 12. 15. See Chapter 3. 16. See Chapter 5. 17. Boutros Boutros-Ghali, An Agenda for Peace, United Nations, New York 1992, p. 9. 18. In terms of the distribution of income South Africa was and remains one of the most unequal societies in the world. The Gini co-efficient – zero for perfect equality, one for perfect inequality – has remained virtually unchanged through South Africa’s transition. It was 0.68 in 1975 and 0.69 in 1996. However, while whites constituted 95 per cent of the top decile in 1975, they were 65 per cent of the top decile in 1996. 19. See Chapter 12.

Index accommodationist model, 2, 3, 10–12, 15 African National Congress (ANC), 175–6 Afrikaner nationalism, 172–3 al Qaeda, 240, 248 amnesty, 4, 189, 191, 196–217 Anglo-Boer War, 172–3, 193 apartheid, 16, 173–4, 193, 213 Argentina, 197, 203–4 Barak, E., 69–71 Basque Country, 3, 4, 29–51, 177–9, 229, 247 Belfast Agreement see Good Friday Agreement Belgium, 4, 221, 222–5, 233 Blair, Tony, 121–2, 169, 170 British National Party (BNP), 171 Bush, George W., 168–71, 240 Canada, 4, 8, 20, 221, 225–7, 233 Chechnya, 248 citizenship, 17, 18, 20, 52 civil society, 163, 170, 177–8, 194, 242–4 Colombia, 177, 180 consociationalism, 2, 11–12, 16, 19–22, 29, 35, 46, 82, 118–19, 127, 131, 134, 174, 176, 196, 224–5, 242–4, 246 ‘core nation’, 8, 12–14, 29, 33 Corsica, 4, 177, 179–80, 228–9 Cyprus, 139, 161–3, 165, 185, 189–90, 198, 246 Czech nationalism, 104, 109–11 Czechoslovakia, 3, 103–17, 246 de Tocqueville, A., 9, 13 democratic consolidation, 2, 4, 218–20, 222, 234–5, 250 democratic integration, 52, 73

democratisation, 1, 4, 14, 16–17, 19, 46, 75, 219, 220 ETA, 21, 29–30, 33, 34–6, 40, 43, 45, 177–8 ethnic conflict, 3–4, 196, 239, 244–6 ethnic constitutional order (ECO), 2, 7, 8–9, 11, 19, 52, 114 ethnic democracy, 12, 52 European Union, 113–15, 188, 246, 247 exclusivist model, 2, 10, 12, 29, 37 Faulkner, B., 173 federal, 11, 16, 19, 20, 29–31, 33, 35, 84, 97, 105, 109–12, 225, 227, 233, 249 confederal, 84, 226–7 Flemish nationalism, 223–5 FLNC, 179 France, 4, 8, 221, 228–30, 247 Franco, F., 8, 19, 29, 32–5 fueros see under rights Geneva Conventions and Protocols, 201, 208 Good Friday Agreement, 4, 20, 35, 119, 128, 131–2, 139, 143–4, 151, 169, 170, 176, 178, 185, 189–90, 199 Gramsci, A, 8, 12 group rights see under rights Guatemala, 198 Havel, V., 110 hegemony, 2, 8–10, 12–19, 22, 29, 118–19, 127–8, 131, 134 Holbrooke, R., 133, 244 Huntington, S. P., 219 India, 3, 16, 81–2, 84, 86–93, 95–6, 98, 247, 249 integration, 14, 21, 22, 60–2, 64, 73, 80–2, 91, 105, 106 252

Index International Criminal Court, 196, 200, 205–6, 211 IRA, 120–2, 170, 175–7, 189, 190, 192 Iran, 171 Iraq, 169–71, 241, 248, 250 Irish nationalism, 140, 172, 173 Irwin, C., 243 Israel, 3, 8, 52–79, 84, 139, 161, 163, 165, 169, 171, 177, 242 Israeli Labour Party, 53–9, 61–2, 64–70, 72–3, 75 Kashmir, 3, 80–101, 177, 180, 247 Kelman, H., 126–7 Klaus, V., 112, 114 Kosovo, 84, 186–8, 198 Kymlicka, W., 8 liberal democracy, 14, 16, 18–19, 29, 33, 196, 219–20, 239–43, 250 liberal model or mode, 10–12, 16, 19, 21, 29, 30, 218, 242 Lijphart, Arend, 11, 174 Likud, 54, 56–9, 61, 65, 67–9, 72 Lin, A., 54 Lizarra Pact, 30, 35, 36, 178 Macedonia, 4, 21, 139, 156, 159–63 Malan, M., 213 Mandela, N., 175, 244 Marx, K., 9 Meciar, M., 20, 111, 112 Meretz, 61, 62, 66, 67, 70, 73, 75 Milosevic, S., 4, 184, 187, 188, 198 Mitchell, George, 119, 120, 125, 130, 132, 140, 143, 244 NATO, 113–15, 159 Netanyahu, B., 69, 70 Northern Ireland, 1, 3, 4, 20–2, 35, 46, 86, 118–35, 159, 161–3, 165, 168, 170–3, 178–9, 181, 184, 186, 189, 192–3, 198, 199, 244, 247 and opinion polls, 139–56 and South Africa, 174–7 Oslo Agreement(s), 67, 131, 132, 175

253

Pakistan, 4, 81, 82, 87–91, 98, 247 Palestine, 139, 161, 169, 177, 242 Palestinian Authority, 171 partition, 3, 22, 103, 111–13, 142 Pearson, L., 227 Peleg, I., 2, 3, 52, 55, 75, 118, 127, 165, 174, 218, 242, 243 Peres, S., 65, 67, 70, 131 Peru, 199, 204–5, 207–8 Pinochet, A., 197, 203 Plaid Cymru (PC), 202, 232, 234 PLO, 58, 60, 65, 67–9 procedural democracy, 2, 15, 16, 75, 145 proportional representation, 19, 140 Provisional Irish Republican Army see IRA Qaadan/Katzir case, 19 Quebec, 225–7, 250 Real IRA, 21 rights, 4, 7, 10, 17–18, 21, 30, 53, 57, 85, 119, 149–50, 191, 196–9, 200, 202–13, 220, 239, 246 civil liberties or rights, 9, 15, 20, 91–2, 118, 239–40 fueros, 30, 31 group rights, 10, 16, 80, 85, 242 Scottish National Party (SNP), 232, 234 secession, 33, 36, 37, 40, 80, 81 separatist, 59, 73, 84, 90, 105, 107, 250 September 11 (9/11), 1, 4, 46, 171, 240, 242, 247 Serbia, 8, 184, 186, 187–8 Sharon, Ariel, 69–71, 75, 171 Sierra Leone, 199, 215 Slovak nationalism, 104, 107–12, 114 Smooha, S., 52 Smuts, J. C., 172–3 South Africa, 4, 19, 172–7, 185, 191, 192, 193, 197, 209–10, 213, 245, 249 and hegemonic model, 12 and Ireland, 172–3 Spain, 3, 4, 8,19, 21, 29–51, 221, 230–2, 249

254

Index

Spanish 1978 Constitution, 29, 33, 34, 45, 231 Sri Lanka, 8, 14, 21, 22, 165, 177, 180 Syria, 171

United Nations, 163, 169, 190, 198–9, 202, 206, 210–11, 215, 246–8 United States of America, 161, 163, 190, 198, 210, 239–40, 241

Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), 4, 185, 191–2, 198, 200, 209, 213

Velasquez Rodriguez case, 203, 205 Vorster, B. J., 174

United Kingdom, 4, 84, 85, 119, 190, 197, 221, 228, 232–4

Zionism, 53, 54, 58, 61–2, 66, 70, 72, 172

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