Community, Identity and the State: Comparing Africa, Eurasia, Latin America and the Middle East

COMMUNITY, IDENTITY AND THE STATE Community, Identity and the State Comparing Africa, Eurasia, Latin America and the ...

Author: Moshe Gammer

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COMMUNITY, IDENTITY AND THE STATE

Community, Identity and the State Comparing Africa, Eurasia, Latin America and the Middle East

Editor

Moshe Gammer

First published in 2004 in Great Britain by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 70 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10006 Copyright collection © 2004 Copyright chapters © 2004 contributors British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 0-203-31232-5 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0–7146–5664–X (Print Edition) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

Contents Contributors Preface 1. 2.

Political Community and State Structures: Europe and Japan in Comparative View Paul Georg Geiss

vii xi 1

A Historical-anthropological Look at Some Sociopolitical Problems of Second and Third World Countries Dmitri M. Bondarenko and Andrey V. Korotayev

14

Informal Structures of Power (Clans) and Administration Models in the Post-Soviet and Post-colonial Worlds Vladimir (Ze’ev) Khanin

42

Criminal Social Structures and Normative Society in Russia Today: A Growing Interaction Igor Sledzevsky

69

Peronist Nationalism and the Hispanic Heritage in Argentina Raanan Rein

74

6.

National and State Identity in Syria Eyal Zisser

89

7.

Traditional Monarchy and the Emergence of Modern Nationalism: The Moroccan Experience Daniel Zisenwein

104

‘Ulama and National Movements in the Middle East: Between Harmony and Dissent Meir Hatina

116

Islamic Nationalism in Iran and Its Ideological, Military and Foreign-policy Aspects Nugzar Ter-Organov

132

3.

4. 5.

8. 9. 10.

Communities of Ideas: Blyden, Senghor and the Evolution of the Discourse Between Pan-Africanism and Islam Irit Back 142

11.

Oil and Tribal Politics: Changing the Guard in Abu Dhabi Uzi Rabbi

157

The Iraqi Kurds: Hour of Power? Ofra Bengio

171

12.

Index

181

Contributors Dr. Irit Back is Lecturer at the Department of Middle Eastern and African History, Tel Aviv University and at the Department of History, Philosophy and Jewish Studies, the Open University, Tel Aviv. She is the author of Islam in West Africa: Post-Colonial Perspectives (Tel Aviv, forthcoming) and of other publications on Pan Africanism, African Diasporas, contemporary Islam and gender in Africa. Dr. Ofra Bengio is Senior Research Fellow at the Moshe Dayan Centre, and Senior Lecturer at the Department of Middle Eastern and African History, Tel Aviv University. She is the author of Saddam’s Word: Political Discourse in Iraq Oxford, 1998), (Tel Aviv, 1989, in Hebrew) articles on contemporary Middle Eastern history; modern and contemporary politics of Iraq and Arabic language and literature. Dr Bengio is editor of Saddam Speaks on the Gulf Crisis, A Collection of Documents (Tel Aviv, 1991), co-editor of Minorities and the State in the Arab World (Boulder Co., 1999), and cotranslator and editor of Wine and Love Poetry (Tel Aviv, 1999, in Hebrew), a collection of poetry by Abu Nuwwas. Dr. Dmitri M. Bondarenko is Senior Research Fellow at the Institute for African Studies and at the Centre for Civilisational and Regional Studies, the Russian Academy of Sciences, Chair of the Department of Cultural Anthropology at the Centre for Civilisational and Regional Studies and Professor at the Centre of Social Anthropology at the Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow. His most recent books are A Popular History of Benin (Frankfurt am Main, 2003) Pre-imperial Benin: Formation and Evolution of the Socio-political Institutions System (Moscow, 2001, in Russian) and The Theory of Civilization and the Dynamics of Historical Process in Pre-colonial Tropical Africa (Moscow, 1997, in Russian). Dr. Moshe Gammer is Senior Lecturer at the Department of Middle Eastern and African History, Tel Aviv University. He is the author of Muslims Resistance to the Tsar. Shamil and the Conquest of Chechnia and Daghestan (London, 1992), The Lone Wolf and the Bear. Three Centuries of Chechen Defiance of Russian Power (London, forthcoming) as well as numerous articles on the history and comtemporary affairs of the Caucasus, Central Asia and the Middle East and editor/co-editor of

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Community, Identity and the State

Political Thought and Political History. Studies in Memory of Elie Kedourie (London, 2003), The Caspian: A Re-emerging Region (London, forthcoming), The Caucasus: Post-Soviet Conflict (London, forthcoming) and Daghestan in the World of Islam (Helsinki, forthcoming). Dr. Paul Georg Geiss is research fellow at the German Institute for Middle East Studies in Hamburg. His publications include Nationenwerdung in Mittelasien (Frankfurt, 1995), The Pretsarist and Tsarist Central Asia. Communal Commitment and Political Order in Change (London, 2003) and articles on anthropology, social history and politics in Central Asia. Dr. Meir Hatina is Lecturer at the Department of Middle Eastern and African History at Tel Aviv University. He is the author of Islam in Modern Egypt (Tel Aviv, 2000, in Hebrew) and of Islam and Salvation in Palestine (Tel Aviv, 2001). Dr. Vladimir (Ze’ev) Khanin is Lecturer in Political Studies at Bar-Ilan University. Ramat-Gan, Israel, and Associate of the Jerusalem Centre for Public Affairs. He is the author of The Documents of Ukrainian Jewish Identity and Emigration, 1944–1990 (London, 2003) and numerous articles in East European, Israeli, Jewish and African Politics. Prof. Andrey V. Korotayev is Director of the “Anthopology of the East” Centre at the School of History, Political Science and Law of the Russian State University for the Humanities, Head of the Program in Sociocultural Anthropology of the East at the State University of “Higher School Economics,” and Senior Research Fellow at the Oriental Institute and the Centre for Civilisational and Regional Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences. Dr. Uzi Rabi is Lecturer in the Department of Middle Eastern and African History, Tel Aviv University. His recent publications are New Oman (Tel Aviv, 2000, in Hebrew) and several articles on the socio-political developments in the Arab Gulf states. Prof. Raanan Rein is Director of the Institute of Latin American History and Culture at Tel Aviv University and editor of the journal Estudios Interdisciplinarios de América Latina y el Caribe. His most recent books are Peronismo, populismo y política (Buenos Aires, 1998), Argentina, Israel and the Jews: Perón, The Eichmann Capture and After (Bethesda, MD, 2003) and Entre el abismo y la salvación: el pacto Franco-Peron (Buenos Aires, 2003). Prof. Igor Sledzevsky is Director of the Centre for Civilisational and Regional Studies, the Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow. His most recent publications are: ‘Russia in Africa and Africa in Russia,’ in: I.V.

Contributors

ix

Sledzevskiy, A.D. Savateev (eds.), Tretii Sbornik Rabot Uchastnikov Ezhegodnykh Chtenii, Posviashchennykh Pamiati D.A. Olderogge (Moscow, 2002, in Russian); ‘The Slipping Object of Study: A Cognitive Crisis in African Studies?’ Vostok/Orient, 2002, No. 2 (in Russian); ‘Globalist Metatheory: Epistemological Difficulties,’ Tsivilizatsii, Vyp. 5: Problemy globalistiki i globa’lnoi istorii (Moscow, 2002, in Russian). pp. 62–67; ‘The Problems facing the Development of Ethnocultural Education in Moscow,’ Etnodialogi. Almanakh. Prilozhenie k zhurnalu Etnosfera, 2002, No. 2 (in Russian); ‘The Civil Society and Absolute Values. Is it Possible to Build the Civil Society on the Premises of Moral Relativism?’ in: Abstracts of the Second International Conference ‘Hierarchy and the Power in the History of Civilizations’, St. Petersburg, 4–7 July 2002. (Moscow 2002), pp. 146–147. Dr. Nugzar Ter-Oganov was until 1999 Senior Research Associate at the Institute of Oriental Studies in Tbilisi, Georgia. Since his arrival in Israel he has been an independent scholar studying the military and political history of Iran in the 19th and 20th centuries, Russian–Iranian relations and the Caucasus. Among his most recent publications are K.N. Smirnov, The Diary of the Persian Shah’s Tutor, 1907–1914, edited, annotated, with an introduction and additional documents by Nugzar Ter-Oganov (Tel Aviv, 2002, in Russian) and “An Unknown Letter of V. Minorsky to K. Smirnov,” The Near East and Georgia (Tbilisi, 2000), pp. 112–118 (in Georgian). Daniel Zisenwine is Research Fellow at the Moshe Dayan Centre for Middle Eastern and African Studies, Tel Aviv University, specialising in North African history. He has contributed to the Middle East Contemporary Survey and submitted recently his Ph.D. dissertation on ‘The Emergence of the Moroccan Istiqlal Party, 1942–1950’. Prof. Eyal Zisser is Head of the Modern Middle East programme at the department of Middle Eastern and African History and Senior Research Associate at the Moshe Dayan Centre for Middle Eastern and African Studies, Tel Aviv University. He is the author of Lebanon: the Challenge of Independence (London, 2000) and of Asad’s Legacy: Syria in Transition (New York, 2000).

Preface Most of the chapters in this volume were originally presented as papers at an international conference on ‘Community, Identity and the State’ held at the School of History, Tel Aviv University, in April 2001. The conference gathered a wide variety of scholars from different backgrounds and disciplines in order to exchange views and experiences on these loosely defined terms, which have recently been at the centre of debate and subject to attempts at redefinition. The intention was to include both wide-range, comparative papers as well as specific case studies. The first three chapters belong to the former category. Central to recent discourse and debate is the question of whether modernisation, Westernisation and democratisation are identical, or at least interrelated. Chapter 1 may seem to be outside the scope of this volume’s title, since it deals with societies usually regarded as belonging to the ‘first world’. By comparing Japanese and European societies, however, it demonstrates that modernisation does not necessarily entail Westernisation. Chapter 2 examines this issue from a different angle: presenting a thorough comparison of societies throughout history, it poses the question of whether democracy is connected to a certain, specific type of social structure. Chapter 3 proposes a model common to both Second and Third World countries of their political, economic and social development. Although Chapter 4 belongs to the second category of studies in this volume, it focuses on one of the major topics discussed in Chapter 3: the relationship between criminal and ‘normal’ structures in society – in this case in Russia. In the following chapters the discussion moves from community to identity. The first three discuss the major focus of identity and politics in our time: nationalism. Chapters 5 and 6 study attempts by the state to form a peculiar national identity (or nationalism) to support and legitimise itself in a society lacking such a common identity and in a milieu where community and state boundaries are at odds with each other. Chapter 7 is a case study of a nationalism built around a monarchy, rather than opposing it, as is the usual case. The next three chapters deal with the interrelationship between different and competing foci and ideologies of identity, and all three also involve Islam. Chapter 8 deals with the involvement of the ‘ulama (religious leaders) in, and their attitude to nationalism at its initial stages in three

xii


areas in the Middle East. Chapter 9 studies the Islamic ideology of revolutionary Iran and its merger with, or growth into, Iranian nationalism. Chapter 10 studies the clash between pan-Islamism and pan-Africanism in the views of two major leaders and developers of pan-Africanism. The last two chapters in this volume go back to communities, ones with a developed identity, and their relationship with the state. Chapter 11 also discusses the process of modernisation, the focus of the first two chapters: it examines the changes generated by the discovery and exploitation of oil and their influence on tribal politics in Abu Dhabi. Chapter 12 discusses the problem of the Kurds in northern Iraq. The chapter is a slightly abridged version of an article to be published in the British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. Thanks are due to the School of History at Tel Aviv University and its head, Professor Joseph Kostiner, for support in organising and holding the conference and to its participants, as well as to all the contributors to this volume. Moshe Gammer, Tel Aviv, April 2003

1

Political Community and State Structures: Europe and Japan in Comparative View* PAUL GEORG GEISS

Max Weber defines ‘communisation’ (Vergemeinschaftung) as a set of social relations that informs action orientations based on the subjectively experienced affiliation of the persons concerned.1 In this view, the ‘communal’ is opposed to the ideal type of association (Vergesellschaftung), which is dominated by the rational pursuit of interest.2 Weber’s differentiation is similar to Ferdinand Tönnies’ dichotomy between community (Gemeinschaft) and society (Gesellschaft), which elaborates the difference between social relations based on an organic unity of kinship – family and friendship – and those oriented towards the tensional unity of interest.3 Development theorists, called in previous times modernisation theorists (currently the term transitologist is broadly used), often interpret both dichotomies from an evolutionary and teleological perspective and perceive or criticise development or transition as a progression from ‘traditional’ community to ‘modern society’, nowadays identified as ‘democratic society’.4 In a similar way, they have understood Parsons’ pattern variables5 as action orientations between two poles: modern and traditional. Affectivity, collective orientation, particularism, ascription and diffusiveness are regarded as more traditional orientations, whereas neutrality, self-orientation, universalism, performance and specificity are more modern.6 Parsons shows, however, that the pattern variables have to be related to the four different types of the action orientations of the AGIL scheme.7 Adaptive orientations are best characterised by a combination of universalistic and performative, specific and neutral orientations, whereas goal attainment demands particularistic and performative, specific and affective orientations. Integratively biased action depends on particularistic and ascriptive, diffuse and affective orientations, the action orientations of latent pattern maintenance on ascriptive, universalistic, neutral and diffuse ones.8

2


This differentiation indicates that no social order can be identical with either Gemeinschaft or Gesellschaft, and with traditionality or modernity.9 Parsons’ nexus of pattern variables and the AGIL scheme reveal that only the integrative subsystem operates, as community is theorised and that the adaptive subsystem, i. e. the economic system, is similar to Gesellschaft. Consequently, both structural types are typical for only some of the action spheres of social orders: Gesellschaft for the economic and Gemeinschaft for the communal sphere based on solidarity.10 Thus the so-called ‘modern’ and ‘traditional’ features of societies are not mutually exclusive.11 Both are necessary elements for enduring political orders. There need not be a conflict between communal and economic orientations, since economic structures cannot replace communal ones. This is the reason why the dichotomy ‘traditionality’–‘modernity’ should not be considered the proper analytical concept to describe social and political change, and why interpreting the two terms as the poles of a continuum is not at all useful. Such an interpretation is misleading not only because societies are based on both ‘modern’ and ‘traditional’ features, but because political change is analysed from the perspective of the ‘modern’ Western liberal democracy and the European constitutional state. According to this interpretation political orders structured along different political and communal action orientations are ‘defective democracies,’12 that is, deviations from the ‘international’ – i.e. Western – political standards of the constitutional state. Similarly, Western scholars measure social and political change with the single yardstick of progress in establishing civil society, party pluralism, free mass media, checks and balances in state institutions and the granting of civil and political liberties. Since political reform processes are rooted in different political cultures, however, non-European societies are often able to institutionalise elements of the constitutional state only in a limited way. In countries such as Japan, where Western-inspired constitutions are not merely declarative but actually regulate the political sphere, specific political culture and state–society relations set a completely different framework (from the European) to which political actors refer in making political decisions, forming mutual expectations and setting political agendas. Theorists of political change must pay greater attention to this different cultural context according to the extent to which it differs from those features of European political culture that embed and lay the foundations of the constitutional state.13 Another misplaced practice is the careless use of Western political concepts in analysing authority relations in non-European societies without taking into account – or even understanding – the specific European historical and cultural context that enabled impersonal authority relations in Europe. Too often sociological interpretations of Western

Europe and Japan in Comparative View

3

modern societies in terms of functional and structural differentiation of societal subsystems14 and normative interpretations of the European societies’ particularity15 create a one-sided understanding of the specific historical and cultural preconditions of the constitutional state or of the emergence of the rule of law. This, in turn, prevents a sound analysis of authority relations in non-European societies. If one intends to compare authority relations of European and nonEuropean societies, one must be interested in more than legal frameworks (constitutions, constitutional laws) and political institutions (parliament, administration, legal system, and so on). One must examine the way in which the members of each specific society are committed to the norms and values of their political order. Thus, in order to find out why in European countries the political process functions fairly closely to the letter and spirit of their constitutions while in other countries it does not, one must analyse political community structures. Those societies that have established state institutions and the corresponding political community structures have been able to do so because they were successful in solving the problem of political integration. Such an integration has been achieved by establishing a strong normative order that regulates and informs the political orientations of politicians, officials and citizens alike. In this way strong political community structures refer to enduring and stable institutional arrangements and ascertain the political legitimacy of regimes, i.e. the political obedience of the ruled to the decisions of state authorities. From this perspective few non-European societies have established a strong normative political order comparable to that of the European constitutional state. Because of weak political community structures the political stability of the state has rather been secured by the military apparatus, single-party systems, autocratic monarchs or presidents relying on a mixture of economic incentives and coercive means (i.e. military and security services). One of the few non-European societies to have established a strong normative order and an enduring political system is Japan. This is why Japan might serve as an Asian example for a comparison of political community structures. This chapter will deal with three subjects. First it will outline some features of the political community structures in European societies and briefly elaborate how they emerged within the European historical context. Second, it will recall some of the historical developments that shaped community structures in Japan and describe some of their implications for Japanese economy, politics and legal institutions. Finally, it will analyse the significance of community structures for political reforms in non-European countries and highlight some implications for the problem of political integration.

4


EUROPEAN POLITICAL COMMUNITY

The German sociologist Richard Münch wrote about European societies: From a sociological perspective the establishment of adequate circumstances of universalistic community structures represents the decisive step towards modern society. If there exists a central feature among various marks that separate Occidental societies from nonOccidental societies, it will be the overcoming of particularism based on clans, castes, patriarchalism and estates by establishing a universalistic order, which provides other aspects of modernity with the foundation to prosper and survive. It is neither the extension of market relations and business activities nor the rationalisation and extension of power relations that basically characterises Occidental development, but the emergence of universalistic economic and political orders and – in addition – the universalisation of cultural and moral orders.16 One can observe this universalism of European culture in various societal spheres: the establishment of a market community resulted from the combination of a specific interpenetration of ethical world views and the market order that emerged in the autonomous sphere of medieval town life. This market community fully developed when Calvinist religious activism had to pass the test in worldly success in the economic sphere. Particularistic orientations were overcome by a specific alliance of civil ideals and religious ethics.17 In the political sphere, the establishment of a European universalistic political order did not result merely from the centralisation of authority relations, as Huntington stressed in his analysis of the emergence of European and American state institutions.18 Neither did it emerge from the extension and intensification of interdependencies of action, which Norbert Elias regarded as main reason for the disciplining of European societies since the Middle Ages.19 Rather, universalised political community structures in Europe emerged from the constitutional process that backed the development of state structures, regulated the authoritative use of power and limited the exercise of coercive sanctions. This kind of community structure emerged in a universalistic legal culture that levelled particularistic local legal tradition and the privileges of estates. From a formal point of view one can say that European constitutionalism promoted legal cultures that constituted the rule of law in two ways, and still shape in different ways state–society relations in Anglo-American and continental European countries. Anglo-American legal culture emerged from the evolutionary development of the Common Law that existed prior to the development of state structures and gradually limited the power of the king and his emerging


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bureaucracy. In the ‘Glorious Revolution’ (1687–88) the yeomen (free farmers) and the rural gentry succeeded in asserting the primacy of the Parliament and restored the Common Law as the shared legal order above king and Parliament. Independent courts and associations of independent legal experts became important pillars of this legal order.20 In continental Europe the legal community was established by the absolutist state, which, by forming an alliance with the emerging citizenry and the civil servants trained in the universalistic character of the Roman law, erased the particularism of estates and unified the heterogeneous local legal traditions. The restriction of state authority initially involved neither the separation of powers nor the granting of liberal rights. The legal procedural orders only limited executive power structures and spread the commitment to the rule of law. This intermediate – absolutist – stage of the universalisation process ended when, in the course of the democratisation process, growing parts of the population were included in the political system. In both cases constitutionalism established universalised legal orders and political community structures which overthrew the political particularism of estates and castes, of clans and regions, and thus enabled the individualisation of European societies.21 European political community structures are based, in Max Weber’s words, on the citizens’ commitment to a shared political order based on impersonal legal authority relations. These political community structures are closely related to legal and market community structures and inform the commitment of citizens, politicians and officials to the shared legal and political order. Because of this commitment European political institutions often function as described and postulated by Western theorists of democracy. The central elements of this institutional order are the separation of powers into executive, legislative and judiciary branches, the constitutional state or the rule of law, party pluralism and fair elections, a system of checks and balances, and the granting of liberal and political rights. Members of European societies may have different collective and political identities. With universalised political and legal order state citizenship became the privileged focus of political identity.

POLITICAL COMMUNITY STRUCTURES IN JAPAN

The political unity of Japanese society was traditionally symbolised by a god-like emperor, whose authority was based – according to the Shinto mythology of the ruling Yamato clan (300 BCE) – on his descent from the sun goddess Amaterasu. In the Japanese view the sacral kingship of the emperor, who revoked his divine status only after the Second World War, was a 2,000-year-old symbol of Japanese unity and of the ‘sacred particularity’ of Japanese society, as Werblowski phrased it.22 By the

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mid-nineteenth century, when the Japanese political elites (shogun, daimyos and samurais) felt inferior vis-à-vis the expanding Western civilisations and were under Western pressure to open Japanese borders, the daimyos urged the last Tokugawa shogun to resign, which he did in 1867. They gave back their feudal tenures to the emperor and passed on to him the regency in order to initiate the necessary institutional and economic reforms. (This political step was named – after the ruling emperor – the Meiji restoration, and it started the Meiji era.) At that time the most talented samurais were chosen to travel to European countries in order to study European legal, administrative, military and educational institutions and to establish similar ones in Japan. Germany’s civil and criminal law, the French Ministry of Internal Affairs, the British navy and the Prussian army thus became blueprints for their counterparts in Japan. The emperor became the supreme commander of the army and navy. His dominant position, however, was balanced within the Japanese tradition of indirect rule by the genro – a council of pre-constitutional reform oligarchs who were the main initiators of the Meiji reforms. The genro, not the emperor, appointed and dismissed members of the government. This Meiji government financed model factories with foreign managers to make the Japanese familiar with industrial management and, once this had been achieved, sold them to Japanese business families. In 1889 the emperor conceded the Meiji constitution, which established a bicameral parliament with budgetary and legislative powers. In the 1920s, once the members of the genro had all passed away, the two main parties (Seiyukai and Kenseikai) increased their influence on the government. In 1925 all male Japanese gained suffrage. When political reforms were undertaken under the auspices of the Supreme Commander of Allied Powers in Japan (SCAP), General Douglas MacArthur, and a new constitution was enforced in 1946, civil politicians replaced the military apparatus (which had dominated political life since the 1930s). The democratisation programme of the SCAP cleared the way for the dominant role of the Liberal Democratic Party. This has stayed in power since the end of the Korean War in 1955 and with only one interruption – a short intermezzo in 1993–94 of a government formed by a coalition of opposition parties. The Japanese constitutional process has not, however, led to universalisation of the political community structures and the political order. Neither has it been linked – at least not up to the 1990s – to any significant individualisation of society.23 The Japanese have maintained their particularistic political orientations and strong commitments to communal ties all through the industrialisation process. The Japanese preference for vertical hierarchical groups is rooted in the basic communal unit, known as ie and usually translated as ‘family’ or ‘house’.24 Each ie was guided by a head. The members of a ie included not only its living members, but also all those who belonged to it in the


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past and the descendants as yet unborn. It was the duty of the living members to remember their ancestors and to secure the continuation of the ie. Members of the ie were expected not to bring shame on the house. The younger members of the house were held to be indebted to their elders for their upbringing and were therefore expected to take care of the older ones. Sons and daughters personalised their duty to the house by being loyal to their parents. The relation between various houses was strictly hierarchical. In some areas of northern Japan it still is. The national political community was constructed by the fact that all ie groups traced their descent to a branch of the emperor’s family. As the British social anthropologist Joy Hendry noted, ‘the most basic idea is that of putting the house before individual needs, and this principle has been transferred to many other areas of Japanese life’.25 The Meiji state managed to strengthen central control over peripheral areas of Japan and to unify the country legally and administratively, by emphasising ‘a combination of the primordial sacral components of the Japanese collectivity as a whole – embodied in the semimythical figure of the emperor – and the alleged virtues of communal harmony at the periphery’.26 This extension of central control did not spread a new revolutionary vision of a just society informed by Western ideologies. Rather, it promoted the unity of periphery and centre. The bond between village and nation was established on the basis of the extension of communal ie commitments to the national level with the emperor as symbol of the national community.27 The most famous modern ie group is the Japanese company. Its management has taken over the functions of the head of newly constituted ie communities in urban areas. Japanese employees became workers of their companies for their entire lives and enjoyed guaranteed positions in their new house. Whereas permanent employees were expected to work overtime – leaving work before one’s superior was regarded as indifference to the company’s business – the company also organised their leisure activities. Changing one’s workplace was extremely unusual and practically impossible.28 As companies engaged in business mutually owned the shares of their shareholder companies, management was in a much stronger position to take the interests of the employees into consideration in comparison to European management which has to aim at profit maximisation.29 For this reason maximal profit was not an end in itself but was subordinated to the well-being of the company’s members. In the political sphere parties resemble hierarchically structured ie groups. The horizontal dimension of the electorate’s majority is reached by vertical political structures based on patron–client relations. This is markedly the case in rural areas. Since senior deputies or ministers are expected to use their positions to mobilise resources for the electorate in

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their constituencies (in the form of public orders, personal gifts, and so on), the electorate votes for a candidate known for his generosity and engagement in local affairs. Politicians often start their political careers in local assemblies as personal secretaries of MPs. They usually build a reputation and considerable status before entering the political stage. Good local family connections are very important in this respect, for in many parts of Japan personal allegiance is still stronger than party issues.30 Clubs of personal supporters (kyenki) have become permanent institutions aimed at ensuring the re-election of deputies. The fluctuation within Japanese parties and the permanent power struggles among competing factions within the Liberal Democratic Party are the result of this clientelism. Nevertheless, Japanese politics has operated efficiently because of the strength of the civil service. Although policies are approved by the concerned Policy Affairs Research Committee (PARC) of the ruling party, they have usually been formulated by civil servants. (Of course the PARC approves them after taking into consideration the interests of its electoral clientele.)31 In this way officials in ministries such as the Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI), rather than short-serving ministers, have ruled the country for many years and promoted its industrialisation. Since most of the elite officials have been recruited from the leading Law Faculty of the University of Tokyo, they have usually been well trained for these tasks. Their commitment to efficient work is also attributable to the fact that Japanese civil servants regard their ministries as their ie group.32 The comparison between European and Japanese political community structures reveals more than the contrast between universalised individualised structures in European countries and particularistic ones in Japan or other Asian societies. In both types of society members have different ‘faces’ and collective identities. While citizenship holds a prime place in European societies, however, Japanese citizens’ basic loyalty is to their ie communities. In Seigo Hirowatai’s words, ‘Japanese society is not a society of citizens, but a society of company communities.’33 Japanese community structures also differ from European ones in that the universalisation of European legal culture was linked to the extension of legal relations within society. More and more societal spheres became regulated by legal norms, leading to a de-communisation of social relations. As the legal order grants subjective rights to its members, they are inclined to sue people and institutions for having infringed on their rights. The result is that in European societies people turn to the courts fairly frequently. This extension of legal regulation (Verrechtlichung) has never occurred in Japan. Because of the conventions regulating social conduct and the predominance of membership in ie groups, communities involved in


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conflicts usually settle them on their own. Also, the lack of lawyers and the time-consuming nature of legal procedures discourage legal action and promote informal conflict regulation. This can be easily seen when comparing statistics about the citizens’ use of courts: according to Wollschläger, in 1991 only 7.5 out of 1,000 Japanese citizens brought cases to civil courts as a first resort as compared to 100 in Germany and 60–70 in the USA, and while 360,000 cases were brought to German administrative tribunals in 1991, only 990 cases were registered in first instance in Japan.34 Japanese communal orientations are also very visible in business life. Japanese managers, like businessmen in Central Asia, do not start business relations by signing contracts, as their European colleagues would do. Business contacts are initiated by establishing bonds of mutual trust. Having established such relations, business partners expect that each of them values long-term relations more than short-term profits. They also have good reasons to anticipate that future problems will be settled according to the principle of bona et fide without signed formal contracts. In any case they are sure that the involved interests will remain balanced. If business partners or employees brought a case to the court, the relationship of mutual trust would be destroyed. This is why Japanese are not likely to bring a dispute to the court unless this bond of mutual trust has been destroyed, and why only employees who have left their company community or the business network are willing to go to court.35

CONCLUSION

Both European and Japanese societies have been able to build enduring political orders due to the establishment of political community structures. These community structures are more enduring and less open to change than political institutional arrangements and less likely to be transformed by reform politics. By analysing political institutional arrangements alone, some scholars consider that Japan represents a ‘liberal democracy’ and an ‘emancipated civil society’,36 while others describe Japanese political culture as a ‘defective’ type of the Western democratic one, the defects of which will be overcome by ‘democratic maturing’. Such descriptions are misleading, because societies that have not established universalised community structures and the rule of law can hardly be described as instances of ‘civil society’. The same is true of ‘liberal democracies’, which are not based on the concept of citizenship and do not represent institutional arrangements regulated by the rule of law. From the perspective of political sociology Western and Japanese political orders differ radically. The Western constitutional state is based on impersonal authority relations, whereas Japanese politics are rooted

10


in highly personalised community structures. Because of these opposite foundations, the same formal political institutional arrangement operates in different ways. For this reason neither institutional logic can be explained as a deviation, or as a deficient version of the other. Each has to be analysed in the context of the community structures involved. Political community structures are shaped by the cultural orientations of members of a society and appear to be resistant to change, since they inform the personal and collective identities of political elites. The discovery of ‘cultural difference’ after the end of the Cold War and the re-emergence of ethnopolitical conflicts testify to the persistence of cultural orientations, which continue to affect communal commitments. These commitments do not necessarily fuel a ‘clash of civilisations’,37 but neither do they lead to the single world culture predicted by theorists of globalisation. Political community does not emerge simply as a modus of local community life, nor can it be decreed by laws and constitutional arrangements. It emerges from the mutual penetration of communal and political orientations. If the action spheres interpenetrate, neither sphere dominates as the spheres are not isolated from one another. In this way politics is not communalised and incapable of adapting to situational changes, and does not politicise communal life and erase its source of communal commitments. For these reasons the strengthening of political community structures that enable legal authority structures such as the rule of law or the constitutional state cannot be reached by political, legal, administrative and economic reforms only. The prevailing traditions of communal ties must also be considered. It is this interpenetration of Western institutional arrangements and local communal orientations that has established an enduring political order of a specifically Japanese type both similar to and different from Western democracies. The enduring nature of community structures also explains why reforms of formal institutional arrangements such as the new election law of 1994 have not shown the results that would have been seen in Western societies. In many non-European countries this interpenetration of the political and communal sphere has been less, or even not at all, successful. The two spheres have remained separate and isolated from each other. This isolation has perpetuated the gap between state structures and local communities and alienated the latter from politics in most African, Asian and Middle Eastern countries. Only if communal commitment structures are successfully directed towards the state and communal orientations interpenetrate with political ones will non-European states be better able to solve the problem of political legitimacy, i.e. the problem of enduring political obedience of the ruled. Taking into account the perseverance of patriarchal communal commitment structures in non-European countries, one should not assume


11

that successful political reforms will promote a kind of European constitutional state. Collective and patriarchal orientations will continue to shape political community structures, even if political reforms are successfully implemented. In the Middle East as in Central Asia this problem of political integration has not been solved, because of the difficulties in integrating Islamic community structures into the state institutions. Secular regimes whose populations formerly adhered to Islamic law face more difficulties than Muslim monarchies that rule over populations with a tribal background. Because tribal traditions have not been successfully integrated within the established state structures, many African states face the dissolution of that state and the emergence of regional warlords who are usually less able and inclined to establish enduring political orders on a national level. The case of Japan also shows that enduring political order is not exclusively linked to the European constitutional state, nor is its emergence necessarily linked to the Westernisation of non-European societies. On the contrary, enduring forms of political order that emerge from the successful interpenetration of communal and political orientations are possible only if prevailing traditions are preserved and transformed. For this and other reasons one should be sceptical about the success of establishing civil societies and liberal democracies in non-European countries and more sensitive to the local conditions of political reforms.

NOTES

*The author is indebted to Johannes Pollak and Patrick Köllner for their valuable comments on this chapter. 1. M. Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie, ed. J. Winckelmann, Tübingen, 1972 (1921–25), p. 21 ( §9) (English: Economy and Society. An Outline of Interpretative Sociology, ed. G. Roth and C. Wittich, 2 vols, Berkeley, Los Angeles, CA and London, 1978). 2. Weber respectively attributes two of his four action types to both modes: communalisation is characterised by affective and traditional action orientations, whereas instrumentally and value rational actions refer to the mode of socialisation. 3. F. Tönnies, Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft, Leipzig, 1935 (1887), pp. 8–11, pp. 40–2. See L. Clausen and C. Schülter, eds, Hundert Jahre ‘Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft’. Ferdinand Tönnies in der Internationalen Diskussion, Opladen, 1991; Jan Spurk, Gemeinschaft und Modernisierung. Entwurf einer soziologischen Gedankenführung, Berlin and New York, 1990, pp. 32–54. 4. Cf D. Lerner, The Passing of Traditional Society: Modernizing the Middle East, New York, 1958; C. E. Black, ed., Comparative Modernization, New York, 1976; D. Harrison, The Sociology of Modernization and Development, New York, 1988, pp. 9–10; E. A. Tiryakian, ‘Modernisation: Exhumetur in Pace (Rethinking Macrosociology in the 1990s)’, International Sociology, Vol. 6, 1991/2, pp. 165–80; L. Sklair, ‘Transcending the Impasse: Metatheory, Theory, and Empirical Research in the Sociology of Development and Underdevelopment’ World Development, 1988/6, pp. 697–709; F. J. Schuurman, ed., Beyond the Impasse. New Directions in Development Theory, London and New Jersey, 1993. With regard to transition theory see for example: Samuel S. Huntington, The Third Wave. Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century, Oklahoma, 1991; Klaus von Beyme,

12

5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

Community, Identity and the State Systemwechsel in Osteuropa, Frankfurt, 1994; Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America and Post-Communist Europe, Baltimore, MD, 1994; W. Merkel, Systemtransformation. Eine Einführung in die Theorie und Empirie der Transformationsforschung, Leske & Budrich, Opladen, 1999. T. Parsons, The Social System, London and Henley, 1951, pp. 180–200. A. Webster, Introduction to the Sociology of Development, Harris, 1988, p. 11. The AGIL scheme was introduced by T. Parsons, R. F. Bales and E. A. Shils in Working Papers in the Theory of Action, Glencoe, IL, 1957. T. Parsons, R. F. Bales and E. A. Shils, ‘Phase Movement in Relation to Motivation, Symbol Formation, and Role Structure’, in Parsons et al., Working Papers, pp. 172–90, T. Parsons, ‘Pattern Variable Revisited: Response to Robert Dubin’, Sociological Theory and Modern Society, Free Press, New York, pp. 192–219. Cf R. Münch, Theorie des Handelns. Zur Rekonstruktion der Beitr?ge von Talcott Parsons, Emile Durkheim und Max Weber, Frankfurt, (1982) 1988, pp. 81–91. The discussion of Tönnies’ differentiation is so arbitrary because of the possibility of interpreting ‘community’ and ‘society’ as descriptive categories of historical societal formations and as analytical-theoretical concepts, as two exclusive societal forms or not. Spurk, Gemeinshaft, pp. 32–4. Cf E. Thiemer, Solidarität als ethischer, gesellschaftstheoretischer und politischer Begriff-Seine Bedeutung im Denken von Karl Marx, Max Scheler, Aristoteles und Talcott Parsons, PhD thesis, University of Vienna, Vienna, 1991, pp. 198–200; Spurk, Gemeinshaft, p. 23. J. R. Gusfield, ‘Misplaced Polarities in the Study of Social Change’, AJS, 1967/4, Vol. 72, pp. 352–62; S. N. Eisenstadt, Tradition, Wandel und Modernität, Frankfurt, 1979, pp. 128–44 (in English, Tradition, Change and Modernity, New York, 1973). In this and other studies Eisenstadt revised some of the assumptions of unilinear modernisation processes and described various societal settings where ‘traditional’ features continued to shape ‘modernised’ non-European societies. Nevertheless, he continued to adhere to this dichotomy. Samuel N. Eisenstadt, ‘Sozialismus und Tradition’, in Samuel N. Eisenstadt and Yael Azmon, eds, Sozialismus und Tradition (Heidelberger Sociologica, Band 15), J. C. B. Mohr , Tübingen, 1977, pp. 1–21 (in English, Socialism and Tradition, Humanities Press, New Jersey, 1977); S. N. Eisenstadt, ed., Democracy and Modernity. International Colloquium on the Centenary of David Ben-Gurion, E. J. Brill, Leiden and NewYork, 1992, pp. vii–xiii, 164–9. W. Merkel, ‘Defekte Demokratien’, in W. Merkel and A. Busch, eds, Demokratie in Ost und West. Für Klaus von Beyme, Frankfurt, 1999, pp. 361–81. On the problem of using Western sociological terms in a non-Western society such as Japan see Shingo Shimada, Die Erfindung Japans. Kulturelle Wechselwirkung und nationale Identitätskonstruktion, Campus-Verlag, Frankfurt and New York, 2000. Cf Hannes Wimmer, Evolution der Politik. Von der Stammesgesellschaft zu modernen Demokratie, WUV-Verlag, Vienna 1996, p. 403; Th. Schwinn, Differenzierung ohne Gesellschaft. Umstellung eines soziologischen Konzepts, Weilerswist, 2001, pp. 12–30. A. Giddens explains the inevitability of modernity by emphasising that ‘the modes of life brought into being by modernity have swept us way from all traditional types of social order’ (A. Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity, Stanford, CA, 1990, p. 4). Richard Münch, Die Struktur der Moderne. Grundmuster und differentielle Gestaltung des institutionellen Aufbaus der modernen Gesellschaften, Frankfurt, 1992 (1984), pp. 267–8. M. Weber, ‘Die protestantische Ethik und der Geist des Kapitalismus’, in M. Weber, Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie I, Tübingen, 1988 (1920), pp. 17–206; Richard Münch, Die Kultur der Moderne – Ihre Grundlagen und ihre Entwicklung in England und Amerika (Band 1), Frankfurt, 1986a; R. Münch, Die Kultur der Moderne – Ihre Entwicklung in Frankreich und Deutschland (Band 2), Frankfurt, 1986b. Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies, New Haven, CT, and London, 1968, pp. 98–109. Norbert Elias, Über den Prozeü der Zivilisation, 2 Vols, Frankfurt, 1976 (1937). Münch, Die Struktur, pp. 288–96. Ibid., pp. 284–95. J. R. Werblowski, Beyond Tradition and Modernity, London, 1976. If scholars such as Ben-Ami Shillony regard Japan as ‘a stable and viable democracy, similar to those of Western Europe’ and claim that ‘human rights … became absolute’ in the post-war era they are not necessarily unaware of cultural differences, but seem to pay little attention to the cultural orientations which shape political community structures regulating constitutional arrangements (Ben-Ami Shillony, ‘The Political


24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30.

31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37.

13

Tradition of Japan and Its Impact on the Development of Japanese Democracy’, in Eisenstadt, 1992, pp. 109–10). J. Hendry, Understanding Japanese Society, London, 1987, pp. 24–34. Ibid., pp. 38–9. S. N. Eisenstadt, Japanese Civilization. A Comparative View, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL, and London, 1996, p. 47. Eisenstadt describes this extension of particularistic ie commitment as being based on the construction of generalised particularistic trust. He says: ‘The core process of mechanism of extension of trust has been the structuration of the transition from one relatively closed particularistic unit or context to other usually broader ones. In Japan such transition starts from the indulgent familial setting to the school, then from the school to some occupational setting – a company, enterprise or the like. Such transition does not entail, in contrast to the situation in most Axial civilizations, and especially in modern societies, a rupture with the solidarity and trust generated within the family, but a continual extension and transformation thereof, in broader and continually changing particularistic terms.’ (S. N. Eisenstadt, ‘Trust and Institutional Dynamics in Japan: The Construction of Generalized Particularistic Trust’, Japanese Journal of Political Science, Vol. 1, 2000/1, p. 61.) One-third of the Japanese employees received guaranteed positions in large business companies. During economic recessions the management reduced their staff by transferring labour force to their small supplying firms, which worked exclusively for them. Jürgen Hartmann, Politik in Japan. Das Innenleben einer Wirtschaftsmacht, Frankfurt, 1992, pp. 82–93; Max Eli, ‘Die Bedeutung wirtschaftlicher Verbundgruppen: Netzwerkstruktur und Keiretsu-Effekt’, in Manfred Pohl and Hans Jürgen Mayer, eds, Länderbericht Japan: Geographie – Geschichte – Politik Wirtschaft – Gesellschaft – Kultur, Bundeszentral für politische Bildung (Schriftreihe – Band 355), pp. 286–96. Cf Patrick Köllner, ‘Faktionalismus in japanischen Parteien: Eine Annherung aus konzeptioneller und komparativer Perspektive, Deutsches Übersee-Institut – Forschungsgruppe: “Informelle Politik und politische Parteien im interregionalen Vergleich”’ (Arbeitspapier), March, 2001. Manfred Pohl, ‘Die politischen Parteien’, in Pohl and Mayer, Länderbericht Japan, pp. 77–8. Hartmann 1992, pp. 144–8, Manfred Pohl, ‘Zur Politik in Japan: Von der “EinparteienDemokratie” zum Zweiparteiensystem’, in Pohl and Mayer, Länderbericht Japan, pp. 68–72. S. Hirowatari, ‘Das japanische Rechtsverständnis und die Gemeinschafsbezogenheit’, in W. Schweidler, ed., Menschenrechte und Gemeinsinn – westlicher und östlicher Weg? [Human Rights and Public Spirit – Western and Eastern Way?], Sankt Augstin, 1998, p. 397. Christian Wollschläger, ‘Die historische Entwicklung der Zivilprozeühäufigkeit in Japan und Europa seit dem 19. Jahrhundert: Kawashimas These im internationalen Vergleich’, Hikaku Ho Zashi [Review of Comparative Law], Vol. 27, No. 2, 1992, quoted by Hirowatari, ‘Das japanische Rechtverständnis, p. 397. Cf Eisenstadt 1995, pp. 126–35; Karl-Friedrich Lenz, ‘Rechtverständnis, Gerichtsorganisation und Strafvollzug, in Pohl and Mayer, Länderbericht Japan, pp. 461–2. Hirowatari, ‘Das japanische Rechtverständnis’, pp. 392–8. For example Merkel and Busch, eds, Demokratie in Ost und West, 1999, pp. 234–9. Samuel Huntington, ‘A Clash of Civilizations?’ Foreign Affairs, Summer 1993, pp. 22–49.

2

A Historical-anthropological Look at Some Sociopolitical Problems of Second and Third World Countries DMITRI M. BONDARENKO AND ANDREY V. KOROTAYEV

Analysis of community and family structures and their influence on the sociopolitical evolution of respective societies appears to be rather relevant for Second and Third World studies.1 First of all, it is important for understanding the prospects of those countries in terms of transition to democracy, i.e. of achieving the declared goal of the majority of regimes supported by the West. Modern democracy is a phenomenon that originated and developed within a particular (European) sociocultural context. Thus many attempts to make non-European societies truly democratic (that is, not merely to implant a democratic political system but to establish a civil society as well) have sooner or later come into conflict with the local social and cultural milieu. The 1979 Islamic revolution in Iran is the most vivid example of this. It therefore seems counterproductive and fruitless to try to estimate the ‘democratisation potential’ of non-Western societies (societies, not merely political systems) without a historical-anthropological look at their sociocultural backgrounds. At the first level of analysis, the variety of evolutionary pathways throughout human history may be reduced to two principally different groups: all societies are based on either ‘hierarchical’/’vertical’ or ‘heterarchical’/’horizontal’ principles. These alternatives were classified as ‘hierarchical’ vs. ‘non–hierarchical’,2 or ‘hierarchical’ vs. ‘heterarchical’.3 In the evolutionary perspective, the genesis and further transformations of complex societies took various pathways that led to their formation as either ‘hierarchical’/’vertical’ or ‘heterarchical’/’horizontal’ polities. In a recent publication on the problem heterarchy is defined as ‘the relation of elements to one another when they are unranked or when they possess the potential for being ranked in a number of different ways’.4 Clearly, the latter definition is the most relevant for the study of complex, modern societies.

Sociopolitical Problems

15

Basically, various evolutionary pathways appeared contemporaneously with human society (and perhaps even prior to it)5 and increased in quantity alongside its sociocultural development.6 Hence societies with essentially similar levels of cultural complexity, economic and sociopolitical development can be organised both hierarchically and heterarchically.7 How can this important fact be accounted for? We assume that the essential differences between hierarchical and non-hierarchical societies (at least those with complex political organisation) are connected, among other factors, with the dominant type of the community.8 Our initial supposition, to be verified in this chapter, is as follows: the extended-family community, in which social ties are kinship-related and markedly vertical (elder–younger), is more characteristic of hierarchical societies. The territorial community (composed of nuclear families), in which social ties are horizontal and perceived as neighbourly (where neighbours are regarded as enjoying equal rights), is essentially characteristic of non-hierarchical societies. Since supra-local sociopolitical structures and institutions arise out of the communal substratum,9 the type of the latter determines to a significant extent the character of a developing complex society and the basic principle of its organisation. In connection with this, according to Whiting and Childe10 dependence training is associated precisely with extended families, where the respective socialisation pattern tends to ensure compliance in carrying out assigned tasks and dependence on the family, rather than reliance on oneself. This means that it tends to produce a personality type compatible with ‘hierarchical’ (rather than democratic ‘non-hierarchical’) sociopolitical systems. Hence we presume that family size and democratic character of a community will be inversely related. To test this hypothesis the largest available worldwide cross-cultural sample has been chosen: the Ethnographic Atlas (AE).11 We started by cross-tabulating all societies about which data were available according to two variables: No. 8 (‘domestic organisation’) and No. 71 (‘succession to the office of local headman’).12 Our general assumption was that more democratically organised communities might be regarded as less hierarchical than their less democratic counterparts. In this case we encountered some difficulties. The EA scale cannot be considered a ‘democracy scale’. Indeed, there do not seem to be any logical grounds to consider matrilineal succession of the headmanship as more democratic than the patrilineal one, and so on. As a result, we followed the lines rather similar to ones mentioned above – we contrasted the least democratic principles of succession (‘patrilineal heir’ + ‘matrilineal heir’ + ‘appointment by higher authority’) with the most democratic ones (‘election or other formal consensus’ + ‘informal consensus’). Finally, the initial hypothesis was tested in the following way: the prediction is that the communities composed of small families will have

16


an elected (formally or informally) leadership significantly more frequently than the ones composed of large extended families. The results of our worldwide cross-cultural comparison are presented in Table 2.1.

TABLE 2.1

FAMILY

( SMALL

VS . LARGE EXTENDED ): COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

( DICHOTOMISED

EXTREMES ) CROSS - TABULATION

( WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership (dichotomised extremes) Family (small vs. large extended)

0 (hereditary/appointed)

1 (elected)

Total

0 (small) 1 (large extended)

128 (65%) 109 (83%)

69 (35%) 23 (17%)

197 (100%) 132 (100%)

Total

237

92

329

Fisher’s Exact Test p < 0.001; Phi = – 0.192

As one can see, the relation between family size and the democratic character of the communal organisation is significant beyond any doubt. Still, the strength of the correlation is somewhat weak and one can question whether family size really affects the democratic character of a community on the following grounds. It is known that a curvilinear relationship exists between family size and cultural complexity: small families are more typical of both the simplest and most complex societies, whereas large, extended families are characteristic of societies of medium complexity.13 It is not at all difficult, however, to replicate this result by another way: the EA contains no direct data on the indexes of cultural complexity of the respective societies. However, it provides data on two variables that are known to be closely correlated with general cultural complexity: the number of levels of political hierarchy above the community (which is cited directly)14 and the size of settlement.15 True, the EA does not include such a variable directly, but it contains ‘mean size of local communities’ (No. 31) which, according to description of its values,16 virtually corresponds to the mean size of the settlements. The correlation between the number of levels of political hierarchy above the community and family size is as shown in Table 2.2. It can be clearly seen that the relationship in this case is patently curvilinear. Indeed, we observe a significant positive correlation (a fast growth of the proportion of large extended families in relation to small ones with the formation of supracommunal levels) for simpler societies (Table 2.3), whereas we find a significant inverse relationship for more complex ones (Table 2.4).


17

TABLE 2.2

( SMALL VS . ( WORLDWIDE )

NUMBER OF SUPRACOMMUNAL LEVELS : FAMILY EXTENDED ) CROSS - TABULATION

LARGE

Family (small vs. large extended) Number of supracommunal levels

0 (small)

1 (large extended)

Total

0 1 2 3 4 or more

199 (70%) 67 (47%) 30 (46%) 20 (61%) 10 (77%)

85 (30%) 77 (53%) 35 (54%) 13 (39%) 3 (23%)

284 (100%) 144 (100%) 65 (100%) 33 (100%) 13 (100%)

Total

326

213

539

Pearson Chi-Square = 29.7; p < 0.001; Cramer’s V = 0.235

TABLE 2.3


( FOR

( SMALL

VS . LARGE

SOCIETIES WITH NOT MORE THAN

ONE SUPRACOMMUNAL LEVEL )


0 (small)

1 (large extended)

Total

0 1

199 (70%) 67 (47%)

85 (30%) 77 (53%)

284 (100%) 144 (100%)

Total

266

162

428

Fisher’s Exact Test p < 0.001; Phi = – 0.23

TABLE 2.4


( FOR

( SMALL

VS . LARGE

SOCIETIES WITH NOT LESS THAN

TWO SUPRACOMMUNAL LEVELS )


0 (small)

1 (large extended)

Total

2 3 4 or more

30 (46%) 20 (61%) 10 (77%)

35 (54%) 13 (39%) 3 (23%)

65 (100%) 33 (100%) 13 (100%)

Total

60

51

Spearman Rho = – 0.21; p = 0.03

111

18


The correlation between the settlement and family size is largely similar (Table 2.5). TABLE 2.5

COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE : FAMILY CROSS - TABULATION

( SMALL VS . LARGE ( WORLDWIDE )

EXTENDED )

Family (small vs. large extended) 0 (small)

Community/settlement size 1 (< 50) 2 (50–99) 3 (100–199) 4 (200–399) 5 (400–1,000) 6 (1,000 without town of >5,000) 7 (towns 5,000–50,000) 8 (cities > 50,000) Total

1 Total (large extended)

61 (90%) 35 (70%) 23 (54%) 16 (42%) 14 (61%) 6 (54%) 9 (56%) 24 (73%)

7 (10%) 15 (30%) 20 (46%) 22 (58%) 9 (39%) 5 (46%) 7 (44%) 9 (27%)

188

94

68 (100%) 50 (100%) 43 (100%) 38 (100%) 23 (100%) 11 (100%) 16 (100%) 33 (100%) 282

Pearson Chi-Square = 32.6; p < 0.001; Cramer’s V = 0.34 Note: The problem of one table cell with expected count less than 5 is easily solved by merging ‘societies with communities of 1,000 or more people’ with or without towns (values 6 and 7) in this case we still get the same Phi of 0.340 (significant at < 0.001 level) with the minimum expected count of 7.7.

In this case we get across a particularly complicated curvilinear relationship which is actually W-shaped. (This is clearly visible in Figure 2.2.) It is not surprising that with such a complicated relationship Spearman rho for Table 2.18 appears insignificant (rho = – 0.151; p = 0.122). In this case, however, exactly as in the case of the number of the supracommunal levels, we observe a significant positive linear correlation (the growth of the proportion of the large extended families in relation to the small ones with the growth of the community/settlement size) for the ‘simplest’ societies, and a significant inverse linear relationship for the most complex ones (Tables 2.6 and 2.7). TABLE 2.6


( FOR

( SMALL

VS . LARGE EXTENDED )

CULTURES WITH COMMUNITIES / SETTLEMENTS

< 400

PEOPLE )

Family (small vs. large extended) Community/settlement size 1 (< 50) 2 (50–99) 3 (100–199) 4 (200–399) Total Spearman Rho = 0.4; p < 0.001

0 (small) 61 (90%) 35 (70%) 23 (54%) 16 (42%) 188

1 Total (large extended) 7 (10%) 15 (30%) 20 (46%) 22 (58%) 94

68 (100%) 50 (100%) 43 (100%) 38 (100%) 282


19

TABLE 2.7


( FOR

( SMALL

VS . LARGE EXTENDED )

LARGE COMMUNITIES / SETTLEMENTS )

Family (small vs. large extended) Community/settlement size

0 (small)

1 (large extended)

4 (200–399) 16 (42%) 5 (400–1,000) 14 (61%) 6 (1,000 without town of >5,000) 6 (54%) 7 (towns 5,000–50,000) 9 (56%) 8 (cities > 50,000) 24 (73%)

22 (58%) 9 (39%) 5 (46%) 7 (44%) 9 (27%)

Total

94

188

Total 38 (100%) 23 (100%) 11 (100%) 16 (100%) 33 (100%) 282

Spearman Rho = – 0.22; p = 0.015

Thus these attributes of cultural complexity (the number of supracommunal levels and the community/settlement size) correlate to the democratic character of a community in a similar way. The correlation between the number of supracommunal levels and the democratic character of a community is as shown in (Table 2.8). TABLE 2.8

NUMBER OF SUPRACOMMUNAL LEVELS : COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

( WORLDWIDE ) Communal leadership Number of supracommunal levels


0 1 2 3 4 or more

201 (70%) 185 (82%) 92 (82%) 32 (64%) 7 (37%)

Total

517

1 (elected) 88 (30%) 40 (18%) 20 (18%) 18 (36%) 12 (63%) 178

Total 289 (100%) 225 (100%) 112 (100%) 50 (100%) 19 (100%) 695

Pearson Chi-Square = 31.2; p < 0.001; Cramer’s V = 0.21

It is clear that this relation is as curvilinear as that of family size. The highest proportions of democratic communities are again to be found at the lowest and highest levels of complexity. Although because of this curvilinear relationship Spearman rho appears insignificant (–0.03; p = 0.43), once again a significant negative correlation (corresponding to the decline of the proportion of democratic communities with the appearance of additional supracommunal levels) is clear in simpler societies, while a significant positive one is to be found within the most complex ones (Tables 2.9 and 2.10).

20

Community, Identity and the State TABLE 2.9


( FOR 0 – 2

LEVELS ; WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Number of supracommunal levels


0 1 2

201 (70%) 185 (82%) 92 (82%)

Total

478

1 (elected) 88 (30%) 40 (18%) 20 (18%) 148

Total 289 (100%) 225 (100%) 112 (100%) 626

Spearman Rho = –0.14; p < 0.001 TABLE 2.10


( FOR 2 – 4

LEVELS ; WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Number of supracommunal levels 2 3 4 or more Total

0 (hereditary/appointed) 92 (82%) 32 (64%) 7 (37%) 131

1 (elected)

Total

20 (18%) 18 (36%) 12 (63%)

112 (100%) 50 (100%) 19 (100%)

50

181

Spearman Rho = 0.31; p < 0.001

The correlation between the size of a community/settlement and its democratic character is shown in Table 2.11. TABLE 2.11

COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE : COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP CROSS - TABULATION

( WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Community/settlement size 1 (< 50) 2 (50–99) 3 (100–199) 4 (200–399) 5 (400–1,000) 6 (1,000 without town of >5,000) 7 (towns 5,000–50,000) 8 (cities > 50,000) Total

0 1 (hereditary/appointed) (elected) 38 (60%) 50 (74%) 47 (73%) 39 (72%) 26 (62%) 6 (75%) 12 (75%) 15 (37%) 233

Pearson Chi-Square = 20.7; p = 0.004; Cramer’s V = 0.24

25 (40%) 18 (26%) 17 (27%) 15 (28%) 16 (38%) 2 (25%) 4 (25%) 9 (63%) 122

Total 63 (100%) 68 (100%) 64 (100%) 54 (100%) 42 (100%) 8 (100%) 16 (100%) 40 (100%) 355


21

It seems remarkable that in this case again (as with the community/ settlement – family size cross-tabulation) we get an almost similar particularly complicated, practically W-shaped curvilinear relationship. As in all the previous cross-tabulations of the cultural complexity correlates, in this case too we observe oppositely directed correlations for the ‘simplest’ societies on the one hand, and the most complex ones on the other: Tables 2.12 and 2.13 display a significant negative linear correlation (the decline of the proportion of democratic communities with the growth of the community/settlement size) for the ‘simplest’ societies, and a significant positive linear correlation for the most complex ones.

TABLE 2.12

COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE

( 2 ND

MODIFICATION ): COMMUNAL

LEADERSHIP CROSS - TABULATION

( WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Community/settlement size 1 (< 50) 2.5 (50–199)

0 1 (hereditary/appointed) (elected) 38 (60%) 97 (74%)

Total

135

Total

25 (40%) 35 (26%)

63 (100%) 132 (100%)

60

195

Fisher’s Exact Test p = 0.046; Phi = – 0.13

TABLE 2.13

COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE

( MODIFIED ): COMMUNAL ( WORLDWIDE )

LEADERSHIP

CROSS - TABULATION

Communal leadership 0 1 (hereditary/appointed) (elected)

Total

6.5 (>1,000 with or without towns of 5,000–50,000) 8 (cities > 50,000)

18 (75%) 15 (37%)

6 (25%) 25 (63%)

24 (100%) 40 (100%)

Total

33

31

64

Community/settlement size

Fisher’s Exact Test p = 0.004; Phi = + 0.36

In view of this, one can question whether family size has any independent effect on the democratic character of a community. A logical assumption would be that both are the effects of cultural complexity. Hence it appears essential to study whether family size affects the democratic character of a community within the same level of cultural complexity.

22


As Tables 2.14 to 2.18 show, family size appears to be significantly correlated with the democratic character of a community for monocommunal societies lacking any supracommunal levels of organisation above them (Table 2.14); for state societies (where, incidentally, the strength of the correlation is substantially higher than average – Table 2.15); for the smallest communities (of fewer than fifty persons – Table 2.16); for medium-size communities (of 200–1,000 persons, where the strength of correlation is the highest [Phi = –0.46] – Table 2.17); and for the most complex societies with towns and cities (Table 2.18). TABLE 2.14

COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE CROSS - TABULATION

( MODIFIED ):

( INDEPENDENT

COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

COMMUNITIES ; WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership 0 (hereditary/appointed)

Family size (small vs. large extended) 0 (nuclear) 1 (large)

63 (58%) 40 (82%)

Total

103

1 (elected)

Total

46 (42%) 9 (18%)

109 (100%) 49 (100%)

55

158

Fisher’s Exact Test p = 0.003; Phi = – 0.23 TABLE 2.15

COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE CROSS - TABULATION

( FOR

( MODIFIED ):

COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

[3–4 LEVELS ]; WORLDWIDE ) STATE SOCIETIES

SUPRACOMMUNAL

Communal leadership Family size (small vs. large extended) 0 (nuclear) 1 (large)

0 (hereditary/appointed) 9 (45%) 8 (80%)

Total

17

1 (elected)

Total

11 (55%) 2 (20%)

20 (100%) 10 (100%)

13

30


FAMILY

( SMALL


CROSS - TABULATION

( SIMPLE

SOCIETIES

[ MEAN

COMMUNITY SIZE

< 50 ];

WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Family size (small vs. large extended)


1 (elected)

0 (nuclear) 1 (large)

16 (50%) 5 (100%)

16 (50%)

32 (100%) 5 (100%)

Total

21

16

37


Total


23

TABLE 2.17

FAMILY

( SMALL


CROSS - TABULATION

( FOR

COMMUNITY SIZE 200 – 1,000 ; WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Family size (small vs. large extended)


1 (elected)

Total

0 (nuclear) 1 (large)

7 (41%) 17 (85%)

10 (59%) 3 (15%)

17 (100%) 20 (100%)

Total

24

13

37


FAMILY

( SMALL


CROSS - TABULATION

( COMPLEX

TOWN / CITY SOCIETIES ; WORLDWIDE )

Communal leadership Family size (small vs. large extended) 0 (nuclear) 1 (large) Total

0 (hereditary/appointed) 8 (40%) 5 (83%) 13

1 (elected)

Total

12 (60%) 1 (17%)

20 (100%) 6 (100%)

13

26


Hence there seem to be certain grounds for maintaining that family size has some independent influence on the democratic character of a community. The correlation between these two variables cannot be explained only by the fact that both have a similar curvilinear relationship with cultural complexity (measured in our case by the number of the supracommunal levels and the community/settlement size). The assumption that family size could have some causal effect on the democratic character of a community seems to be supported by the results obtained by Pasternak, C.R. Ember and M. Ember.17 These show that extended families are likely to develop when work outside home makes it difficult for a mother to care for her children. However, this factor appears to be quite independent from the democratic character of a community. Incidentally, this seems to explain (though only partly, of course) the fact that the supercomplex societies (even pre-industrial ones) have extended families significantly less frequently than those of medium complexity. Indeed, supercomplex pre-industrial societies tend to have significantly more intensive agriculture than those of medium complexity.18 With the intensification of agriculture women tend to work more (and hence to spend more time) at home,19 which should

24


(according to Pasternak, C. Ember and M. Ember)20 lead to a decrease in the family’s size, which, in turn, might (as has been shown above) contribute to the increase in the democratic character of a community. This results in a rather unexpected causal chain, as seen in Figure 2.1. INTENSIFICATION OF AGRICULTURE

RELATIVE DECLINE IN WOMEN’S CONTRIBUTION TO AGRICULTURE

DECREASE OF FAMILY SIZE

INCREASE IN DEMOCRATIC CHARACTER OF A COMMUNITY

Figure 2.1 Causal Chain

Another factor significantly influencing both family size and the democratic character of a community is communal complexity (Tables 2.19 and 2.20). TABLE 2.19

INTEGRATION LEVELS NUMBER WITHIN COMMUNITY: FAMILY

( SMALL

VS .

LARGE EXTENDED ) CROSS - TABULATION

Family size (small vs. large extended) Integration levels number 0 within community (small)

1 (large extended)

Total

0 1 2

200 (97%) 124 (46%) 5 (7%)

6 (3%) 144 (54%) 67 (93%)

206 (100%) 268 (100%) 72 (100%)

Total

329

217

546

Spearman Rho = 0.64; p < 0.001 TABLE 2.20

INTEGRATION LEVELS NUMBER WITHIN COMMUNITY: COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP CROSS - TABULATION

Family size (small vs. large extended) Integration levels number 0 within community (small) 0 1 2

144 (67%) 312 (79%) 63 (70%)

Total

519

1 (large extended) 72 (33%) 82 (21%) 27 (30%) 181

Chi-Square = 12.3; p = 0.002; Phi = Cramer’s V = 0.13

Total 216 (100%) 394 (100%) 90 (100%) 700


25

As could be seen, communal complexity is indeed significantly correlated with both the democratic character of a community and family size. While communal complexity correlates positively and linearly with family size, however, its correlation with the democratic character of a community is curvilinear. This seems sufficient to maintain that the negative correlation between the democratic character of a community and family size is not a result of their correlation with communal complexity. The two above-mentioned correlations also present a problem, however: if the supercomplex communities are significantly more frequently composed of large extended families than those of medium complexity, and if large extended families are correlated with the lack of democratic character of a community, how could the supercomplex communities be significantly more democratic than those of medium complexity? Could this mean that the negative correlation between family size and the democratic character of a community is not valid in the case of supercomplex communities? Surprisingly, the answer is ‘no’. Everything becomes clear as soon as we take into account the small extended families (Table 2.21). TABLE 2.21

FAMILY SIZE

( THREE

( DICHOTOMISED

CATEGORIES ): COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP


( FOR

COMPLEX

COMMUNITIES )

Communal leadership Family size (3 categories)

0 (hereditary)

1 (elected)

Total

1 (independent nuclear + stem families) 2 (small extended families) 3 (large extended families)

1 (50%) 24 (56%) 34 (85%)

1 (50%) 19 (44%) 6 (15%)

2 (100%) 43 (100%) 40 (100%)

Total

59

26

85

Spearman Rho = – 0.32; p = 0.003

Clearly, supercomplex communities are so rarely composed of small families that what matters here is the distinction between small and large extended families. The negative correlation between family size and the democratic character of a community definitely exists in supercomplex communities as well, mainly because those among them composed of small extended families are almost three times as frequently democratic as the ones composed of large extended families. On the other hand, supercomplex communities composed of small extended families turn out to be significantly more frequently democratic than communities of medium complexity composed of families of the same type (Table 2.22).

26


INTEGRATION LEVELS NUMBER WITHIN COMMUNITY: COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP CROSS - TABULATION

( FOR

SMALL EXTENDED FAMILIES ONLY;

1 – 2 LEVELS WITHIN COMMUNITY )

Communal leadership Integration levels number 0 within community (hereditary)

1 (elected)

Total

1 2

106 (79%) 24 (56%)

28 (21%) 19 (44%)

134 (100%) 43 (100%)

Total

130

47

177

Fisher’s Exact Test p = 0.003; Phi = 0.23

Hence it appears that communal complexity and family size affect the democratic character of a community rather independently. If we also take into account the fact that the latter is able to influence the measure of democracy of supracommunal institutions, including those at the state level (see above), the relevance of this set of problems for those Second and Third World countries in which community still exists is evident and may become even crucial. However, there is no doubt that family size is not the only family characteristic correlating with the democratic character of a community. There are also grounds to suppose that the democratic character of a community correlates positively with the democratic organisation of the supracommunal levels of political organisation, and hence to surmise the existence of significant correlations between certain family characteristics and some significant features of the political organisation of macro-society. When we contrasted small families (both monogamous and occasionally polygynous) with large extended ones (dropping the intermediate values) the negative correlation between family size and the democratic character of a community looked significant beyond any doubt (p = 0.0004) though not strong at all (Phi ≈ 0.2). When we included all the intermediate values, however, the correlation, though remaining significant (p = 0.001), dropped to negligible Phi ≈ 0.1 (Table 2.23). On the other hand, when we contrasted the exact extremes of the ‘domestic organisation’ scale (i.e. ‘independent nuclear monogamous families’ [thus dropping also value 2 – ‘independent nuclear families, occasional polygyny’] with ‘large extended families’) the strength of the correlation grew immediately to reasonable – 0.37. Of course, this needs to be explained. To test our initial hypothesis we again chose the largest available worldwide cross-cultural database – the Ethnographic Atlas. The variable


27

TABLE 2.23

DOMESTIC ORGANISATION : COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

( DICHOTOMIZED


Communal leadership (dichotomized extremes) Domestic organisation 1 = Independent nuclear families, monogamous 2 = Independent nuclear families, occasional polygyny 3 = Independent polyandrous families 4 = Polygynous: unusual co-wives pattern 5 = Polygynous: usual co-wife pattern 6 = Minimal (stem) extended families 7 = Small extended families 8 = Large extended families Total

0 1 (hereditary/appointed) (elected)

Total

26 (46%)

30 (54%)

56 (100%)

102 (72%)

39 (28%)

141 (100%)

2 (40%)

3 (60%)

5 (100%)

27 (84%)

5 (16%)

32 (100%)

123 (87%)

39 (13%)

162 (100%)

12 (44%) 142 (74%) 108 (82%)

15 (56%) 49 (26%) 23 (18%)

27 (100%) 191 (100%) 131 (100%)

542 (75%)

203 (25%)

745 (100%)

Spearman Rho = – 0.118; p = 0.001

we used as an indicator of the family size was its parameter No. 8 (‘domestic organisation’), where (at least in its electronic versions)21 the families were ranked according to their apparent size (see Table 2.1, above). On a closer inspection, however, this variable turned out to be much more complex. It became clear that the influence of the ‘domestic organisation’ parameter actually combined the action of two elementary variables: family size and polygyny. The immediate impression was that polygyny, exactly like family size, affected negatively the democratic character of a community. Of course, the decision of the editors of the EAs electronic version to ascribe to the unextended polygamous families ranks among those of the nuclear monogamous and the extended families was quite logical. After all, according to their size, they occupy just such an intermediate position. The result, however, is that a considerable number of societies with comprehensive polygyny were ranked in lower levels on the ‘domestic organisation’ scale (4–5) than a considerable number of societies with monogamous or occasionally polygynous extended families (ranks 6–8). Thus, only 25 per cent of the societies with minimal extended families (rank 6) and 50 per cent of those with small extended families (rank 7) in the EA sample have comprehensive polygyny. As a result, in cross-tabulation 1

28


the polygyny factor acted to a considerable extent in the opposite direction to that of the family size, which resulted in such a low correlation strength. But when we contrasted ranks 1 and 8 of the ‘domestic organisation’, both factors acted in the same direction, producing the highest correlation strength among the whole series of the above-mentioned tests. It remained to test whether polygyny was, indeed, negatively correlated with the democratic character of a community. Fortunately, the EA contains a separate column with information about polygamy/monogamy independent of family size (variable 9 ‘marital composition: monogamy and polygamy’). In general, monogamous societies appear to have democratic communities significantly more frequently than polygynous ones (Table 2.24). TABLE 2.24

MONOGAMY VS . POLYGYNY: COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

( DICHOTOMISED


Communal leadership (dichotomised extremes) Monogamy vs. polygyny


1 (elected)

Total

1 = Monogamy 2 = Occasional polygyny 3 = General polygyny

54 (49%) 193 (73%) 292 (85%)

55 (51%) 71 (27%) 53 (60%)

109 (100%) 264 (100%) 345 (100%)

Total

539 (75%)

179 (25%)

718 (100%)

Spearman Rho = – 0.26; p < 0.001

Like the family size, polygyny also significantly correlates with such indicators of cultural complexity as the number of supracommunal levels and community/settlement size (Tables 2.25 and 2.26). TABLE 2.25

MONOGAMY VS . POLYGYNY: NUMBER OF SUPRACOMMUNAL LEVELS CROSS - TABULATION

Number of supracommunal levels 0 1 level 2 levels 3 levels 4 or more Total

Monogamy vs. polygyny 1 = Monogamy 2 = Occasional 3 = General Total polygyny polygyny 75 (15%) 27 ( 8%) 20 (13%) 22 (28%) 12 (48%)

236 (47%) 108 (32%) 41 (26%) 23 (29%) 10 (40%)

193 (38%) 203 (60%) 96 (61%) 34 (43%) 3 (12%)

504 (100%) 338 (100%) 157 (100%) 79 (100%) 25 (100%)

156 (14%)

418 (38%)

529 (48%)

1103 (100%)

Phi = 0.29; p < 0.000000001


29

TABLE 2.26

MONOGAMY VS . POLYGYNY: COMMUNITY / SETTLEMENT SIZE CROSS - TABULATION

Monogamy vs. polygyny Community/ settlement size 1 ( 5,000) 7 (towns 5,000-50,000) 8 (cities > 50,000) Total

1 = Monogamy 2 = Occasional 3 = General polygyny polygyny

Total

15 (13%) 9 ( 9%) 16 (16%) 10 (13%) 18 (32%)

71 (60%) 53 (52%) 36 (36%) 23 (29%) 13 (23%)

32 (27%) 39 (39%) 48 (48%) 45 (58%) 26 (46%)

118 (100%) 101 (100%) 100 (100%) 78 (100%) 57 (100%)

8 (57%)

3 (21%)

3 (21%)

14 (100%)

8 (26%) 33 (52%)

6 (19%) 22 (35%)

17 (55%) 8 (13%)

31 (100%) 63 (100%)

117 (21%)

227 (40%)

218 (39%)

562 (100%)

Phi = 0.45; p < 0.000000001

We can observe again (as with family size) a curvilinear relationship. Furthermore, the shape of this relationship is almost identical in both cases (see Figures 2.2 and 2.3). As in the case of family size, however, there are grounds to maintain that polygyny is related with the democratic character of a community relatively independently from the cultural complexity. Indeed, the significant negative correlation is well observed for societies with essentially similar indicators of cultural complexity – for independent communities (Spearman Rho = –0.22; p < 0.001), for societies with one supracommunal level (Spearman Rho = –0.17; p = 0.01), for societies with three or more supracommunal levels (Spearman Rho = –0.57; p < 0.001). It seems remarkable that the percentages of ‘democratic’ communities, nuclear families and polygynous societies turn out to be extremely tightly correlated within societies with the same number of the supracommunal levels and the same community size (Figures 2.2 and 2.3). In these diagrams the actual number of ‘cases’ is discouragingly small (five for Figure 2.2 and eight for Figure 2.3), as here we are dealing with groups of societies and not individual societies. Still, the correlations between all the three variables under consideration have turned out so strong22 that they seem significant even with such a small number of cases. What could account for the significant negative correlation between polygyny and the democratic character of a community? The first explanation that comes to mind is to consider the democratic character of a community as an independent variable, whereas polygyny would

30


Figure 2.1 Percentages of ‘Democratic’ Communities, Nuclear Families and Polygynous Societies

Supracommunal levels 1 – lack of supracommunal levels 2 – 1 supracommunal level 3 – 2 supracommunal levels 4 – 3 supracommunal levels 5 – 4 supracommunal levels


Figure 2.2 Nuclear Families, ‘Democratic’ Communities and Polygyny

Community Size 1–8 – Mean size of local communities: 1 = fewer than 50; 2 = 50–99; 3 = 100–199; 4 = 200–399; 5 = 400–1,000; 6 = 1,000 without any town of more than 5,000; 7 = towns of 5,000–50,000 (one or more); 8 = cities of more than 50,000 (one or more)

31

32


appear as a dependent one. It seems natural that the elite members of non-democratic communities would use their monopoly over power resources to maximise the number of their wives; hence polygyny would appear to be just another dimension of non-democracy of these communities. However, some data, first of all from the Mediterranean region, put a question mark over such an interpretation. The Mediterranean could be easily divided into two subregions: the Christian and the Islamic. The point is that the communal elites in the Christian Mediterranean subregion had no option of having more than one wife, since this was most strongly prohibited by the Christian Church.23 Yet the negative correlation between polygyny and the democratic character of a community is in this region as evident as in all the other regions (Table 2.27).

TABLE 2.27

MONOGAMY VS . POLYGYNY: COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP EXTREMES ) CROSS - TABULATION

( DICHOTOMISED ( MEDITERRANEAN ONLY )


0 (hereditary/appointed) 1 (elected)

Total

1 = Monogamy 2 = Occasional polygyny 3 = General polygyny

15 (48%) 10 (63%) 24 (83%)

16 (52%) 6 (37%) 5 (17%)

31 (100%) 16 (100%) 29 (100%)

Total

49 (64%)

27 (36%)

76 (100%)

Spearman Rho = – 0.32; p = 0.005

Hence one would suppose that monogamy could well be one of the possible factors in the development of the democratic character of a community and not merely its result. What could account for the ‘democratising’ influence of monogamy? It seems reasonable to connect it with the difference in the socialisation practices within polygynous vs. monogamous families. The ‘nondemocratising’ influence of polygyny might be connected, among other factors, with the well-known ‘father-absence’ factor.24 Several authors have shown that the boys raised in the environment consisting mainly of women tend to develop personalities inclined towards aggressive domination-oriented behaviour. Rohner25 has further contributed to these studies by showing that the development of the above-mentioned personality strongly correlates with the lack of parental warmth. Such a lack is most typical of polygynous families (especially of the non-sororal type) in which there is a low degree of co-operation among the co-wives.


33

Consequently, the co-wives are too often left to raise their children without any external assistance. Such a situation causes a lack of parental warmth and affection and provokes excessively severe punishment of children,26 which, in turn, tends to produce the aggressive domination-oriented personality specified above. One would expect that the presence of this kind of personality would contribute to the prevalence of non-democratic power structures.27 In this chapter we will restrict ourselves to an illustration only of how polygyny could influence the society’s power structures through certain socialisation practices. From what has been mentioned above, one would expect that in polygynous societies the maternal warmth towards boys would be significantly lower than in their monogamous counterparts. Our test of this hypothesis has produced the results shown in Table 2.28. TABLE 2.28

POLYGYNY: WARMTH AND AFFECTION OF MOTHER – BOY CROSS - TABULATION

Warmth and affection of caretakers – mother–boy Monogamy vs. polygyny

Sometimes Frequently Very Almost frequently always

Total

1 = monogamy 2 = occasional polygyny 3 = polygyny

0

0

0

2 (100%)

2 (100%)

0 1 (20%)

0 2 (40%)

1 (20%) 0

4 (80%) 2 (40%)

5 (100%) 5 (100%)

Total

1

2

1

8

12

Spearman Rho = – 0.55; p = 0.06 Note: Since the EA does not contain data on socialisation we used the Standard Cross-Cultural Sample Database instead. As a source for the data regarding warmth and affection of mother towards boy we used R. P. Rohner, and E.C. Rohner, ‘Parental-Acceptance-Rejection and Parental Control: Cross-Cultural Codes,’ Ethnology, 20 (1982), pp. 245–60. The data on polygyny come from G. P. Murdock and S. F. Wilson, ‘Settlement Patterns and Community Organization: Cross Cultural Codes 3’, Ethnology, 11 (1972), pp. 254—95.

As can be seen, the negative correlation between polygyny and maternal warmth towards boys turns out to be so strong that, the extremely small size of the Rohners’ sample notwithstanding, it appears to be virtually significant. From the above-mentioned one would expect that societies characterised by greater maternal warmth towards boys would tend to be more democratic. The test of this hypothesis is seen in the results in Table 2.29.

34


WARMTH AND AFFECTION OF MOTHER – BOY: DEMOCRACY CROSS - TABULATION

Warmth and affection of caretakers – mother–boy Democracy

Sometimes Frequently Very Almost frequently always

Total

0 = absent 1 = present

1 0

1 0

1 0

2 5

5 5

Total

1

1

1

7

10

Spearman Rho = + 0.64; p = 0.045 Note: As a source for data about the measure of democracy of the political organisation we used A. Tuden and C. Marshall, ‘Political Organization: Cross-Cultural Codes 4’, Ethnology, 11 (1972), pp. 436–64. The variable we have chosen is ‘selection of executive’ which has the following values: 1 = absent; 2 = patrilineal, fa to so; 3 = patrilineal, fa to fabr, then to so; 4 = matrilineal, mobr to siso; 5 = matrilineal, mobr to mobr; 6 = ruling family; 7 = decision by limited power group; 8 = elected by council; 9 = informal recognition; 10 = formal elections; 11 = appointee of alien society; 12 = divination. We have not included societies with value 1, whereas the values 8–9 have been re-coded as 1 (‘democracy present’) and all the other values have been re-coded as 0 (‘democracy absent’).

In this case the correlation (which is in the predicted direction) turns out to be so strong that, even though the extremely small sample has been decreased further, it appears to be unequivocally significant. In general, our overall explanatory model looks as follows. We suggest that the family structure (determined in its turn by a large number of independent factors, both material [e.g. economic] and ideal [e.g. religious]) can significantly affect the overall political evolution of respective societies. We believe that family structures affect primarily the political organisation of the community (and we think we have provided enough substantial support for this point above). As has been shown above, however, the communal political structure could significantly influence the political organisation of the supracommunal levels.28 It remains to test statistically this hypothesis too. The results of the respective test are presented in Table 2.30. As one can see, the correlation between the democracy of the communal organisation and the democracy of the supracommunal political organisation turns out to be strong and significant. Thus we suggest that family structures could influence the communal political organisation through socialisation practices associated with them. In its turn, the communal political organisation appears to influence the political structure of the supracommunal levels. Hence one would expect to find the significant negative correlation not only


35

TABLE 2.30

COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP : DEMOCRACY OF THE SUPRACOMMUNAL ORGANISATION CROSS - TABULATION

Democracy of the supracommunal organisation Democracy at the communal level

0 (absent)

1 (present)

Total

0 = absent

52 90% 7 35%

6 10% 13 65%

58 100% 20 100%

59

19

1 = present Total

78

Fisher’s Exact Test p = 0.000005; Phi = + 0.56 Note: for the source of data for the democracy of the supracommunal organisation see note to the previous table. As a source for the data on the democratic character of a community for the Standard Cross-Cultural Sample we used Murdock and S. F. Wilson, ‘Settlement Patterns and Community Organization: Cross Cultural Codes 3’, Ethnology, 11 (1972), pp. 254—95 (‘local political succession, primary’). The recoding has been done along the same lines as in the previous variable. This table, naturally, does not take into account societies lacking supracommunal levels of political administration.

between polygyny and family size, on the one hand, and the democratic character of a community, on the other, but also with the democracy of the highest level of the political structure. The respective tests have produced the results seen in Tables 2.31 and 2.32. It is not difficult to see that the respective correlations above are stronger than the ones between polygyny and family size, on the one TABLE 2.31

FAMILY SIZE : DEMOCRACY OF THE UPPER LEVEL OF THE POLITICAL ORGANISATION CROSS - TABULATION

Democracy of the upper level of the political organisation Family size

0 (absent)

1 (present)

Total

1 = small (nuclear and stem) 2 = small extended

25 66% 23 79% 13 93%

13 34% 6 21% 1 7%

38 100% 29 100% 14 100%

61

20

3 = large extended Total

Spearman Rho = – 0.23; p = 0.037

81

36


POLYGYNY: DEMOCRACY OF THE LOWER LEVEL OF THE POLITICAL ORGANISATION CROSS - TABULATION

Democracy of the lower level of the political organisation Polygyny

0 (absent)

1 (present)

Total

1 = absent

6 43% 26 72% 28 93%

8 57% 10 28% 2 7%

14 100% 36 100% 30 100%

60

20

2 = occasional 3 = present Total

80

Spearman Rho = – 0.40; p = 0.00025

hand, and the democratic character of a community, on the other. This might be not coincidental at all, and seems to fit our model rather well. Indeed, we suggest that family structures influence the political organisation of the society first of all through the communal political organisation. Within complex multicommunal societies, however, the family structures could influence macro-political organisation directly – since the elites placed outside the normal communal organisation still get their socialisation within families whose structure should affect the modal personality type of the members of these elite groups. Hence within such societies family structure would influence the macro-political organisation in two ways: both indirectly through the community, and directly. The above-mentioned stronger correlation turns out to be easily explicable. We shall finish this chapter with a point that might look marginal, yet seems to help a great deal in understanding some rather important macro-evolutionary processes. We shall begin by drawing the reader’s attention to the fact that the negative correlation between the occasional polygyny vs. monogamy and the democratic character of a community also seems significant (Table 2.33). This fact needs to be explained. On the one hand, it is not that easy to understand how the socialisation of a rather small number of the members of a society in a very restricted number of polygynous families could produce a significant impact on the overall political structure of these societies. On the other hand, it appears reasonable to take into consideration the simple fact that within complex stratified occasionally polygynous societies these are almost invariably the elites who practise polygyny. In addition, it seems reasonable to take into consideration that within such societies such families normally constitute a rather closed


37

TABLE 2.33

MONOGAMY VS . POLYGYNY: COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP CROSS - TABULATION

( WORLDWIDE )


0 (hereditary/appointed) 1 (elected)

Total

1 = monogamy 2 = occasional polygyny

54 (49%) 193 (73%)

109 (100%) 264 (100%)

Total

247

55 (51%) 71 (27%) 126

373

Fisher’s Exact Test: p = 0.00001

circle with their own socialisation practices significantly different from the socialisation practices of the commoners.29 Within the framework of such societies, however, it would be precisely this closed circle of families that would produce persons occupying positions of authority. Hence the polygynous organisation of the respective restricted number of families could well influence the political organisation of the respective societies in general. Here we arrive at the most difficult problem of any cross-cultural research: the problem of the direction of causation. Is it really possible to consider the strict prohibition on polygyny by the Christian Church as one of the causes of the development of modern democracy in Europe? On the one hand, the transition from the general to occasional polygyny among the intensive plough agriculturalists seems to be caused mainly by economic factors that made polygyny impossible for the main part of the intensive agriculturalists.30 This does not appear to explain the total prohibition on polygyny for everybody, however, including the members of the upper strata (who always retained the economic opportunities to support more than one wife). Hence the total absence of polygyny in the Christian part of the Mediterranean region (but not in its Muslim part)31 could hardly be explained by anything other than the strict prohibition imposed by the Christian Church. Although some regulations that established monogamy as the norm had been imposed by the Church already in Roman times, the Church had to struggle severely against rudiments of polygyny among both the elite and common people, for example in France, even in the twelfth century, when marriage was declared a sacrament. The struggle to impose the Christian marital norms on the elite knighthood strata went on well into the thirteenth century.32 Of course, it might be not coincidental either that within the two religions strictly prohibiting polygyny (classical Judaism and Christianity) the respective norms originated in the first millennium BCE within the

38


intensive agriculturalist society of Palestine, mainly through the activities of the independent (non-temple) prophets (coming basically from nonelite strata) who seem to have managed to impose monogamous marriage, already predominant among the commoners, on the elites.33 Naturally, when in the fourth century CE the Christian Church imposed the regulations which made the monogamous nuclear family the predominant family form (i.e. the ones that prohibited close marriages, discouraged adoption, condemned polygyny, concubinage, divorce and remarriage) it in no way tried to contribute to the development of modern democracy in Western Europe. As has been suggested by Goody,34 the Church seems to have striven towards obtaining the property left by couples without legitimate male heirs. The unintended consequence of those actions, however, was the formation of a relatively homogeneous macro-region consisting of nuclear monogamous families.35 We do not believe it to be a coincidence that a few centuries later we find this region consisting predominantly of democratic communities.36 And it could also hardly be a coincidence that it was this very region where the modern suprademocratic character of a community originated.37 Thus there are certain grounds to believe that the transformation of family structures we could observe in the recent decades in some Second38 and Third World countries towards the nuclear monogamous type might facilitate the democratic transition in these societies.

NOTES

1. We include in the Second World all former communist societies, European as well as Asian. 2. D. M Bondarenko, ‘“Homologous Series’ of Social Evolution and Alternatives to the State in World History (An Introduction),’ in N. N. Kradin, A.V. Korotayev, D. M. Bondarenko, V. de Munck and P. K. Wason, eds, Alternatives of Social Evolution, Vladivostok, 2000, pp. 213–19; D. M. Bondarenko and A. V. Korotayev, eds, Civilizational Models of Politogenesis, Moscow, 2000. 3. R. M. Ehrenreich, C. L. Crumley and J. E. Levy, eds, Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies, Washington, DC, 1995. 4. Ibid., p. 3. 5. M. L. Butovskaia and L. A. Feinberg, U istokov chelovecheskogo obshchestva. Povedencheskiie aspekty evoliutsii cheloveka [At the Sources of Human Society. Ethological Aspects of Human Evolution], Moscow, 1993. 6. Iu.V. Pavlenko, Istoriia svitovoi tsivilizatsii. Sotsiokul’turnii rozvitok liudstva [A History of World Civilization. The Sociocultural Evolution of Mankind], Kiiv, 1996. 7. Bondarenko and Korotayev, Civilizational Models, pp. 5–9; D. M. Bondarenko and A. V. Korotayev, ‘Family Size and Community Organization: A Cross-Cultural Comparison’, Cross-Cultural Research, Vol. 34, 2000, pp. 153–7; Kradin et al., Alternatives of Social Evolution, pp. 15–24. 8. D. M. Bondarenko, Teoriii tsivilizatsii i dinamika istoricheskogo protsessa v dokolonial’noi Tropicheskoi Afrike [A Theory of Civilizations and the Dynamics of the Historical Process in Precolonial Tropical Africa], Moscow, 1997, pp. 13–14; D. M. Bondarenko, ‘‘‘Homologous Series” of Social Evolution’, in: M. Butovskaia, A. Korotayev and O. Khristoforova, eds, Sociobiology of Ritual and Group Identity: A Homology of Animal and Human Behaviour. Concepts of Humans and Behaviour Patterns in the Cultures of the East and the West: Interdisciplinary Approach, Moscow, 1998, p. 98; D. M. Bondarenko, ‘Mnogolineinost’ sotsial’noi evoliutsii i al’ternativy gosudarstvu [Multilinearity of Social Evolution and


9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

39

Alternatives to the State]’, Vostok/Oriens, 1998, Vol. 1, pp. 198–9; D. M. Bondarenko and A.V. Korotayev, ‘Politogenez i obshchie problemy teorii sotsial’noi evoliutsii (‘Gomologicheskie riady’ i nelineinost’) [Politogenesis and General Problems of the Social Evolutionary Theory (‘Homologous Series’ and Non-Linearity)]’, in Iu.M. Reznik, ed., Sotsial’naia antropologiia na poroge XXI veka [Social Anthropology on the Threshold of the Twenty-first Century], Moscow, 1998, pp. 134–7. See D. M. Bondarenko, Benin nakanune pervykh kontaktov s evropeitsami: Chelovek. Obshchestvo. Vlast’ [Benin on the Eve of the First Contacts with Europeans: Person. Society. Authority], Moscow, 1995, pp. 183–94, 295 (note 3). J. W. M. Whiting and J. Childe, Child Training and Personality: A Cross-Cultural Study, New Haven, CT, 1953. G. P. Murdock, Ethnographic Atlas: A Summary, Pittsburgh, PA, 1967; G. P. Murdock, Atlas of World Cultures, Pittsburgh, PA, 1981; G. P. Murdock, R. Textor, H. Barry III and D. R. White, ‘Ethnographic Atlas’, in: World Cultures, 2 (4; 1986 – first computer variant); G. P. Murdock, R. Textor, H. Barry III and D. R. White, ‘Ethnographic Atlas’, in World Cultures Vol. 6 (3; 1990 – second computer variant). The electronic version of the Ethnographic Atlas (EA) measures the variable domestic organisation using eight values: 1 = independent nuclear family, monogamous; 2 = independent nuclear family, occasional polygyny; 3 = independent polyandrous families; 4 = polygynous: unusual co-wives pattern; 5 = polygynous: usual co-wife pattern; 6 = minimal (stem) extended families; 7 = small extended families; 8 = large extended families. As we were interested in contrasting large families with small ones, we had problems with values 3–7. We were looking for data on the family size, whereas these values combine information on family size as well as on some other family characteristics. As a result, the treatment of these data as ordinal pertaining to the size of the family in the present form would not make much sense. Indeed, there seem to be no logical grounds to consider ‘polygynous: usual co-wives pattern’ families to be larger than ‘polygynous: unusual co-wives pattern’ ones, etc. On the other hand, if our hypothesis were true, one would expect first of all to have among the entities comprised of small families a higher percentage of non-hierarchically organised societies than among the ones composed of the large extended families. Finally, we decided to unite the first two values (‘independent nuclear family, monogamous’ and ‘independent nuclear family, occasional polygyny’) into one value( ‘small families’) and contrast it with the last one (‘large extended families’). We also had some problems with finding the data pertaining to hierarchical/non-hierarchical social organisation. The closest variable we could select was No. 71, ‘succesion to the office of local headman’, since we assumed that it reflected more or less adequately the principles of the communal social and political organisation. It is measured by the EA using the following eight values: 1 = patrilineal heir; 2 = matrilineal heir; 3 = appointment by higher authority; 4 = seniority or age; 5 = influence, wealth or social status; 6 = election or other formal consensus; 7 = informal consensus; 9 = absence of any such office. M. F. Nimkoff and R. Middleton, ‘Types of Family and Types of Economy’, American Journal of Sociology, Vol. 66, 1960, pp. 215–25; M. W. Osmond, ‘A Cross-Cultural Analysis of Family Organization’, Journal of Marriage and the Family, Vol. 31, 1969, pp. 302–10; R. L. Blumberg and R. F. Winch, ‘Societal Complexity and Familial Complexity: Evidence for the Curvilinear Hypothesis’, American Journal of Sociology, Vol. 77, 1972, pp. 898–920; C. W. McNett, ‘Factor Analysis of a Cross-Cultural Sample’, Behavior Science Notes, Vol. 8, 1973, pp. 233–57; D. Levinson and M. J. Malone, Toward Explaining Human Culture: A Critical Review of the Findings of Worldwide Cross-Cultural Research, New Haven, CT, 1980, pp. 86–7; C. R. Ember and D. Levinson, ‘The Substantive Contributions of Worldwide Cross-Cultural Studies Using Secondary Data’, Behavior Science Research, Vol. 25, 1991, p. 83. M. Ember, ‘The Relationship between Economic and Political Development in Nonindustrialized Societies’, Ethnology, Vol. 2, 1963, pp. 228–4; M. Abrahamson, ‘Correlates of Political Complexity’, American Sociological Review, Vol. 34, 1969, pp. 690–701; K. Q. Hill, ‘Political Institutionalization in Primitive Societies: A Hologeistic Analysis’, Behavior Science Research, Vol. 14, 1979, pp. 277–92; Levinson and Malone, Toward Explaining Human Culture, p. 38; Ember and Levinson, ‘The Substantive Contributions’ pp. 88–9. R. Naroll and W. T. Divale, ‘Natural Selection in Cultural Evolution: Warfare versus Peaceful Diffusion’, American Ethnologist, Vol. 3, 1976, pp. 97–128; Levinson and Malone, Toward Explaining Human Culture, p. 34.

40


16. 1 = fewer than 50; 2 = 50–99; 3 = 100–199; 4 = 200–399; 5 = 400–1,000; 6 = 1,000 without any town of more than 5,000; 7 = towns of 5,000-50,000 (one or more); 8 = cities of more than 50,000 (one or more). 17. B. Pasternak, C. R. Ember and M. Ember, ‘On the Conditions Favoring Extended Family Households’, Journal of Anthropological Research, Vol. 32, 1976, pp. 109–23. 18. E.g. A. V. Korotayev, ‘Nekotorye ekonomicheskie predposylki klassoobrazovaniia i politogeneza [Economic Preconditions of Social Stratification and Political Centralization]’, in A. V. Korotayev and V. V. Chubarov, eds, Arkhaicheskoe obshchestvo: Uzlovye problemy sotsiologii razvitija [The Archaic Society: Main Problems of Sociology of Development], Vol. 1, Moscow, 1991, pp. 136–91. 19. E. Boserup, Women’s Role in Economic Development, New York, 1970; P. R. Sanday, ‘Toward a Theory of the Status of Women’, American Anthropologist, Vol. 75, 1973, pp. 1682–700; C. R. Ember, ‘The Relative Decline in Women’s Contribution to Agriculture with Intensification’, American Anthropologist, Vol. 85, 1983, pp. 285–304; D. R. White, M. L. Burton and M. M. Dow, ‘Sexual Division of Labor in African Agriculture’, American Anthropologist, Vol. 83, 1981, pp. 824–49; M. L. Burton and D. R. White, ‘Sexual Division of Labor in Agriculture’, American Anthropologist, Vol. 86, 1984, pp. 568–83. 20. ‘On the Conditions’. 21. See note 11 above. 22. r = –0.956 for the correlation between the percentages of the polygynous societies and democratic communities within the societies with the given number of supracommunal levels, p = 0.006; r = +0.874 for the correlation between the percentages of the nuclear family societies and democratic communities within the societies with the given number of supracommunal levels, p = 0.026; r = –0.638 for the correlation between the percentages of the polygynous societies and democratic communities within the societies with the given community size, p = 0.044. 23. Note that even in the Islamic world the Christian Church imposed monogamy within the Christian communities in the most rigid way: ‘The Moslems were astonished mainly by the fact that the female slaves in the Christian and Jewish houses were not at the sexual disposal of the houses’ heads … The cause of this was that the Christian regulation in the East considered the liaison of a man with his female slave as lechery which should have been expiated by formal penance … The Caliph Al-Mansur once sent to his physician Georgios three beautiful Greek female slaves and 3,000 gold coins. The physician accepted the money, but returned the girls, saying to the Caliph: “I cannot live with them in one house, because for us, Christians, it is permitted to have one wife only, and I already have a wife”.’ (A. Mez, Musul’manskii renessans [Die Renaissance des Islams], trans. from D. E. Bertel’s German, Moscow, 1996 [(1922), p. 159). In the Islamic world, however, Christians did not constitute anything more than a confessional minority, hence this fact would not affect Murdock’s codes with respect to the Muslim ethnic groups. Of course, within the Christian states the Church had many more opportunities to impose the strictest monogamy among the whole population including the uppermost strata. One could easily recollect at this point an apparently contradicting case of the polygynous Mormons. Note, however, that ‘the Mormon Church officially abandoned polygamy 101 years ago [in 1890] after it was forbidden by Utah law in a deal required by Congress for the territory to become a state. The church now excommunicates members for polygamy’ (D. Johnson, ‘Polygamists Emerge from Secrecy, Seeking not Just Peace but Respect’, in W. A. Havil and R. J. Gordon, eds, Talking about People. Readings in Contemporary Cultural Anthropology, London and Toronto, 1992, p. 129. 24. R. V. Burton and J. W. M. Whiting , ‘The Absent Father and Cross-Sex Identity’, MerrillPalmer Quarterly of Behavior and Development, Vol. 7, 1961, pp. 85–95; M. K. Bacon, I. L. Child and O. Y. Barry, ‘A Cross-Cultural Study of Correlates of Crime’, Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 66 (1963), pp. 291–300; B. B. Whiting, ‘Sex Identity and Physical Violence: A Comparative Study’, American Anthropologist, 67 (1965), pp. 123–40; R. L. Munroe, R. H. Munroe and J. W. M. Whiting, ‘Male Sex-Role Resolutions’, in R. L. Munroe, R. H. Munroe and B. B. Whiting, eds, Handbook of Cross-Cultural Human Development, New York, 1981, pp. 611–32; I. S. Kon, ’Materinstvo i ottsovstvo v istoriko-etnograficheskoi perspektive [Motherhood and Fatherhood in HistoricalEthnographic Perspective]’, Sovetskaia etnografiia, Vol. 6, 1987, pp. 26–37 and others. 25. R. Rohner, They Love Me, They Love Me Not: A Worldwide Study of the Effects of Parental Acceptance and Rejection, New Haven, CT, 1975.


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26. J. W. M. Whiting, ‘Resource Mediation and Learning by Identification’, in I. Iscoe and H. Stevenson, eds, Personality Development in Children, Austin, TX, 1960, pp. 112–26; L. Minturn and W. Lambert, Mothers of Six Cultures. Antecedents of Child Rearing, New York, 1964, pp. 164–75, 343–6; Rohner, They Love Me, They Love Me Not; D. Levinson, ‘Population Density in Cross-Cultural Perspective’, American Ethnologist, Vol. 6, 1979, pp. 742–51. 27. Note that the positive correlation between the presence of polygyny and hierarchical power structures seems to be attested even with respect to the non-human primates (V. A. Shnirel’man, ‘U istokov voiny i mira [At the Roots of War and Peace]’, in A. I. Pershits, Iu. I. Semionov and V.A. Shnirel’man, eds, Voina i mir v rannei istorii chelovechestva [War and Peace in Early Human History], Vol. 1, Moscow, 1994, pp. 63–4. 28. See also D. M. Bondarenko and A. V. Korotayev, ‘Family Size and Community Organization’. 29. E. g. N. A. Butinov Sotsial’naia organizatsiia polineziitsev [The Social Organization of the Polynesians], Moscow, 1985. 30. M. L. Burton and K. Reitz, ‘The Plow, Female Contribution to Agricultural Subsistence and Polygyny: A Long-Linear Analysis’, Behavior Science Research, Vol. 16, 1981, pp. 275–306. 31. It seems remarkable that we find the total absence of polygyny in Christian societies neighbouring Muslim societies living under completely similar economic and ecological conditions and practising (at least occasionally) polygyny, e.g. the Montenegrans. [B. Jelavic, History of Balkans, Vol. 1, Cambridge, 1983, pp. 81–97; J. V. A. Fine, The Late Medieval Balkans. A Critical Survey from the Late Twelfth Century to the Ottoman Conquest, Ann Arbor, MI, 1987, pp. 529–36] vs. the Highland Albanians [J. E. Pisko, ‘Gebrüche bei der Geburt und Behandlung der Neugeborenen bei den Albanesen’, Mitteilungen der Anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien, Vol. 26, 1896, pp. 141–6; M. E. Durham, High Albania, London, 1909; idem, Some Tribal Origins, Laws and Customs of the Balkans, London, 1928; C. S. Coon, ‘The Mountains of Giants: A Racial and Cultural Study of the North Albanian Mountain Ghegs’, Papers of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, Vol. 23, 1950, pp. 1–105; M. Hasluck, The Unwritten Law in Albania, Cambridge, 1954; Jelavic, History of Balkans, Vol. 1, pp. 78–86; Fine, The Late Medieval Balkans, pp. 49–54, 599–604]. 32. Iu. L. Bessmertnyi, ‘K izucheniiu matrimonial’nogo povedeniia vo Frantsii XII–XIII vekov [On Nuptial Behavior in France, the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries]’, Odissei, 1989, pp. 98–113. 33. E. g., I. M. Diakonov, V. D. Neronova and I. S. Sventsitskaia, eds, Istoriia drevnego mira [Ancient History], Vol. 2, Moscow, 1983. It might be not a coincidence either that the Prophet of Islam (whose social status moved during his life from the middle- to upperclass level) retained the legitimacy of polygyny. 34. J. Goody, The Development of the Family and Marriage in Europe, Cambridge, 1983. 35. Of course, the Greeks and Romans were monogamous well before Christianisation. Note, however, that the pre-Christian Germans, Celts and Slavs were polygynous in the pre-Christian period. D. Herlihy, ‘Biologiia i istoriia: k postanovke problemy [Biology and History: Posing the Problem]’, Tsivilizatsii, Vol. 2, 1993, p. 41. Hence the formation of the zone of uninterrupted monogamy in Europe could hardly be attributed to anything but Christianisation. 36. Z.V. Udal’tsova, ed., Istoriia krest’ianstva v Evrope [The History of Peasantry in Europe], Vols 1–3, Moscow, 1985–87. 37. This point seems to be able to clarify the causal direction of the link between the communal and suprademocratic character of a community. In this respect, it appears to be significant that the formation of the democratic character of a community in Europe preceded the development of democracy in the supracommunal political structures. 38. This seems to be relevant for such Second World societies as Kazakhstan or Kyrghyzstan.

3

Informal Structures of Power (Clans) and Administration Models in the Post-Soviet and Post-colonial Worlds VLADIMIR (ZE’EV) KHANIN

The closing decades of the twentieth century witnessed dramatic changes in the structure and identity of many leading political entities in the modern world. One of the most important among them was the breakdown of a number of ‘super-ethnic’ entities (the USSR, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Ethiopia, and so on). Their inheritors readily adopted the concept of the ethnic (and sometimes the civic) nation-state as a major feature of their political identity. At the same time, however, the very idea of such a state – a dominant political and social phenomenon in the world during most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries – was challenged by two contradictory trends. One was globalisation, which became an external feature of the ‘postmodern’ negation of the ‘modern’ nation-state. The other was cultural diversity, both initial (as in the Third World) and as a result of intensive post-Second World War migrations (as in Western Europe). A paradoxical combination of these two – cultural diversity and ‘postmodern’ trends – often creates or strengthens internal ethnic, sub-ethnic or even semiarchaic ‘tribal’ communities, enjoying their own identity, values and institutional structure.1 The post-Soviet space may serve as an indicative example of both the contradiction and the mutual impact of the above-mentioned trends. The series of social, political and economic reforms (perestroika) initiated by Mikhail Gorbachev’s group in the 1980s in the USSR most probably meant the pro-Western ‘modernisation’ of the Soviet economy, society and state. Nevertheless, the results of this modernisation process, the considerable efforts of the local liberal elite and the fact that it became a major ‘strategic project’ of the Atlantic world notwithstanding, remain doubtful. It is quite obvious that only few of the post-Soviet states succeeded in establishing what they declared upon their independence: open,

Informal Structures of Power

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liberal and democratic states and societies. Rather, various authoritarian models, often based on the personal power of the formal and informal political leaders and/or their inner circles, were established in different former Soviet areas shortly after the crises of perestroika and the USSR’s dissolution. Besides, in some of these newly independent states one can see the creation of similar regimes also on the regional level. (Russia, showing a quick trend towards the establishment of personal-’ethnocratic’ power regimes in a number of its autonomous republics, is among the best examples of this). Several explanations have been offered for this phenomenon of the so-called ‘post-Soviet authoritarian revolutions’ of 1991–93. One emphasises the ‘transitional’ character of post-Soviet societies. Another stresses the strong resistance of the local cultural and political environment to the introduction of modern liberal democratic institutions. A third insists that post-Soviet states have their own ‘Eurasian’ form of development, incompatible with Western liberal models.2 Whatever the case, it is clear that the phenomenon of ‘post-Soviet authoritarianism’ should be discussed from the perspective of ‘Oriental’ civilisation, not merely from a post-communist one. All this legitimises and encourages a comparison between the collapse of the ‘communist empire’ and another globally important event that occurred thirty years earlier: the dissolution of the European colonial empires in Africa. Now, as before, both areas are in the grips of a historical challenge, caught in a ‘bordering’ cultural situation and a complicated mixture of ‘modernity’ and ‘tradition’, including the substantial role of the archaic social and political substrata. In both Africa and the former Soviet Union (FSU) Western-oriented modernisation projects have been meeting great difficulties and have often been rejected by mass consciousness.3 This is even more correct in the ‘Oriental’ parts of the FSU, such as Central Asia and the Caucasus. As an observer rightly wrote, in fact, the colonial institutional, economic, ethnic and cultural legacy itself very often contributed critically to post-colonial failings … Post-colonial stagnation or decline has been usually the product of a symbiosis between the colonial legacy and certain pre-colonial local traditions. Together, these have worked to weaken the independent states and to undermine ‘modernisation’. We should not need to wait another 20 years to start noticing and analysing the similarities between this pattern and developments in the former Soviet Union, especially in the Caucasus and Central Asia.4 Indeed, the fast ‘africanisation’ of late Soviet and post-Soviet politics, including the explosion of the ‘ethnic bombs’ and the skyrocketing corruption reaching levels unfamiliar in the USSR, made the African experience relevant for understanding the development prospects of

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post-communist societies.5 On the other hand, some scholars have shown a ‘reverse impact’ of the liberal reforms in the USSR and Eastern Europe on African politics (including the phenomenon of ‘Afrostroika’ in some of the Marxist African states).6 The establishment of ethnic national states in Eastern Europe gave rise to a new wave of ethnocentrism in Africa, too.7 These common features, as well as important differences, have already been dealt with by academic and non-academic analysts. A principal question remains, however, to the best of our knowledge, to be dealt with in depth: are the differences between industrial post-Soviet (including semi-industrial Central Asia) and pre-industrial African societies too cardinal to compare them with each other, or do they reflect a compatibility between the social and political cultures of both groups of societies? In other words, are the above-mentioned similarities only superficial, reflecting the usual difficulties of any economy and society in transition, or do they teach us that civilisation is far more important than obvious socio-economic differences? This chapter aims at answering this question by focusing on the interactions between local political tradition and ‘modernisation’, including the genesis, development and socio-political role of informal structures of power.

AFRICAN AND POST-SOVIET EXPERIENCES: A BASIS FOR COMPARISON

Many observers and analysts have often regarded the dissolution of the USSR in late 1991 as the breakdown of the ‘last colonial empire in the world’. From their point of view, relations between Russia and other Soviet republics within the USSR were classical relations between a ‘metropolitan centre’ and a ‘colonial periphery’. Thus the situation in the newly independent states has been discussed from a post-colonial perspective. Indeed, quite a few similarities can be found between post-colonial and post-Soviet transitions, both in many of their features and in their short-term and long-term consequences. For example, former metropolitan centres in both Western and Eastern Europe find it extremely difficult to overcome their ‘imperial mentality’, while the former colonial and semicolonial periphery faces a strenuous search for an adequate model of nation- and state-building. Also, both post-colonial African and Soviet successor states face the problem of internal instability and ethnic and religious conflicts. The years 1989–93 were characterised by the crises of perestroika’s semi-liberal transformation of the USSR, and the establishment of authoritarian ‘post-democratic’ regimes in the majority of its successor states. This may be compared with the earlier crises of pro-Western


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political liberalism and the establishment of a similar style of authoritarianism (in the forms of either civil quasi-democracy or military rule) in the newly independent black African states. Many of the post-Soviet societies, however, reached the level of socio-political and economic crises comparable (in relative proportions, of course) with those of the late 1980s and 1990s in Africa considerably sooner. These include growing dependence on world financial centres; the dominance of natural resources in the gross national product (GNP) and a considerable drop of other branches of economic production; and a visible decrease in the living standards of the majority of the population. For example, the Ukraine’s gross domestic product (GDP) fell by two-thirds during the country’s first seven years of independence. A UN Human Development Report comparing the achievements of 174 countries along three indices – life expectancy, educational attainment and adjusted real income – rated Ukraine 80th in 1996, 95th in 1997 and 102nd (below Mongolia and above Turkmenistan) in 1998. Russia dropped over the same three years from 57th to 72nd place, and Belarus from 61st to 68th.8 The situation in the Central Asian states was even worse. The average regional per capita income fell from US$3,133 in 1991 to about US$2,000 in 1995.9 Between 1991–97 the domestic production of Kyrgyzstan had been diminishing by approximately 15–20 per cent per annum.10 Only in the past three to four years have the economies of some post-Soviet states started to show signs of recovery. Finally, among the features common to both post-colonial and postSoviet states are also the crises of the neo-colonial/post-Soviet state, the rapid development of non-formal structures of power, the visible criminalisation of the administration and widespread corruption. In the 1990s it had already become clear that the integration of public structures into a system of state regulation in post-colonial countries, so active and widespread in the 1970s and early 1980s, had encountered substantial limits and stopped being the dominant factor in social change. Obviously, the state bureaucratic mechanism of development was both ineffective in solving the basic socio-economic problems facing Africa in the 1990s, and unfit for use by the international financial centres. This was clearly illustrated by the failure of the structural adjustment programmes and other large-scale international aid projects to Africa in the 1990s.11 It is significant that the international community has often adopted the same approach it had used in previous decades in the post-colonial world to understand and influence the situation in the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). Thus the post-Soviet space has become the object of ‘experiments’ in the application of the well-known theories of ‘modernisation’, ‘dependent development’, ‘peripheral capitalism’, ‘transition’, ‘underdevelopment’, ‘structural adjustment’, and so on. Most of these theories tend to ‘absolutise’ the institutions, standards and

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values of Western society as the étalon of political, social and economic development and to overestimate the unifying/standardising impact of the world social systems. Needless to say, many of these theories and the policies based on them were tried in Africa and other post-colonial countries between the 1960s and the 1990s and proved ineffective. This, however, discouraged neither foreign advisers nor local reformers from attempting to implement them in the post-Soviet states as well. Furthermore, while in Africa these concepts and policies were implemented over the span of three decades and more or less consecutively, in the FSU they were all applied almost simultaneously. The normative character of these concepts has often made it difficult to explain such dramatic events in Africa of the 1980s and in the postSoviet states of the 1990s as the collapse of economic modernisation, the financial crises, the failure of democratic experiments, the re-traditionalisation of the political structures, and the explosion of ethnic and confessional conflicts. To these must be added the discernible growing pressure of local societies on the state bureaucratic structures in both Africa and the postSoviet space. State institutions have, for example, been visibly adapted to and absorbed by a sophisticated network of traditional and neotraditional entities. This intersection of government and public structures has more than merely an important impact on the behaviour of the various social groups: it forms a real mechanism of power. Furthermore, since the late 1980s a close interrelationship or symbiosis has developed between the ‘borrowed’ (Western) and the local forms of political organisations implemented in the structures and institutions of the ‘neo-colonial’ (or post-Soviet) state and the neo-traditional society. Very sophisticated and complex social and political systems have developed, which form specific variants of both political pluralism and authoritarian regimes.

NON-FORMAL STRUCTURES OF POWER: DEFINITIONS AND GENERAL FEATURES

In the majority of both post-Soviet and post-colonial countries the formal power system and evident political development are intertwined with a sophisticated system of non-formal relations. Patron–client relations, which can be defined as the system of personal (informal and formalised) ties, are of prime importance among these non-formal relationships. This system of personal ties has been most effectively institutionalised in the political sphere in the form of the non-formal power interest groups – the ‘political clans’ (sometimes called by the media and in academic literature ‘cliques’, or ‘mafia’. Here one would like to avoid such an


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initially negative terminology). In countries following state ownership and centralised distribution of public resources (of various variants and models), clans become a dominant instrument in the struggle over political, material and social capital, and a channel for their redistribution according to personal, family and/or corporate interests. Political clans enjoy different positions in various social and political systems. They may be a subordinate institution of the peripheral political and administrative system. This is the case of the political clans in some of the Mediterranean countries. They may become a key element of the informal political infrastructure of regional, ethnic and sectarian entities. This is the case in the eastern Ukraine, in Central Asia and in most black African states. In some cases a political clan, or a group of clans, is even able to ‘adopt’ the central administrative and socio-political institutions, converting the state into an extension of the clan. The presidential inner circles in Boris Yeltsin’s Russia, Levon Ter-Petrossian’s Armenia and Zaïre under Mobutu Sese Seko are examples of such cases. Whatever their position, political clans usually have a number of common characteristics: one is a close interrelationship with (sometimes even ‘installation’ into) the formal power structures – state bureaucratic apparatus and local government bodies, courts and mass media, parliaments and electoral processes, and so on.12 In the Third World and post-communist states in particular, political parties and movements are the most adequate form of a clan’s institutionalisation in the political sphere. The patterns of clan–party relations might differ from a political clan being a party’s infrastructure, as is most usual in Africa, to parties and movements becoming a ‘political wing’ of the groups of interests, organised by political clans, as is the case in most of post-Soviet and some Mediterranean states.13 Another basic ‘visible’ element of political clans’ activities is corruption. Obviously, corruption has not appeared from nowhere in the newly independent states of Africa and Eurasia, nor is it only a phenomenon related to the transition to independence. Qualitative and especially quantitative changes notwithstanding, corruption has been inherited from the colonial and communist regimes.14 At the same time, its norms and standards are based on the mechanism of reciprocity and redistribution, deeply rooted in local social and political tradition. It is thus an integral part of the informal political clan’s machinery. In fact, corruption is simply a function of the patron–client relations, which effectively adapts their political mechanism and clientele to the official institutions and structures.15 Clientelism is thus the dominant and most universal feature of the political clans. As for the structure of patron–client relations, at least two basic categories can be identified. One may be dubbed ‘functional’ (political and bureaucratic) clientelism. It is often based on so-called ‘transformed personal’ connections: business,

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professional, property, administrative and other similar interests. This category is to be found more often in the Mediterranean countries, the Balkans and the Christian states of the FSU. The other may be called ‘structural clientelism’. It is often based on ‘directly personal’ (friendship, family, ethnic, landsmanshaft) relations and may be regarded as an institutionalised form of relations. This category is more often present among the political clans of black Africa, Central Asia and some other ‘Oriental’ countries in the form of ‘ethnic clientelism’. The top of the pyramid of either type of political clan consists of a small power elite of diverse origins. Leaders and members of clans are usually connected to each other by domination–subordination. The clients are bound by personal loyalty to the patron, reflected in their unconditional support in his struggle for power and resources; in return, the patron provides his clients with political and other protection and controlled access to resources (of both power and property). The ‘civilisation specificity’ of the patron–client relations in and the structure of each political clan is dependent on the variety of local political cultures. ‘Structural’ (especially ethnic) clientelism is usually based on family and tribal solidarity, and thus means an unquestionable personal loyalty to the clan’s patron. This sort of relationship may often disregard the patron’s personal political fortune, as long as he keeps to the code of traditional (or more precisely, neo-traditional) political behaviour. In both post-Soviet Central Asia and post-colonial black Africa the charismatic leadership of a clan head is usually structured along the formula ‘the patron is always right’. In contradiction, ‘functional clientelism’ usually means the client’s loyalty to the patron’s position, rather than to him as a person. The relationship, although formally personalised, is essentially one of ‘business’. This means that a client’s loyalty can be easily forwarded to the person, who replaces the previous ‘boss’. The ‘Dnepropetrovsk Mafia’, an influential political clan in the eastern Ukraine, may serve as a good example. Although it underwent substantial changes in its leadership between the late Soviet period and the late 1990s, they had little impact on either its structure or its positions in both Kiev and the Dnepropetrovsk region.16 In any case, it is a clan leader’s duty to maximise the support of his clients, including the use of their connections and qualifications in order to build up his status in the power structures. In return, the patron provides his clients with the prospect of career advancement (political, professional or administrative appointments) and access to material and social possessions. These usually include social privileges – housing, money, access to prestigious education, travel abroad, guaranteed bank loans, licences, state contracts, participation in the ‘privatisation’ of profitable state assets, exemption from taxes, and so on – as well as guarantees of personal and political safety, including the ‘cover-up’ of the client’s activities, both legal and illegal.17


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An indicative example is the ‘volunteer’ collection of money organised by the Talas oblast (province) administration to the electoral fund of President Askar Akayev on the eve of the 2000 presidential elections in Kyrgyzstan. The governor of the province donated 5,000 soms to the president’s re-election fund, his deputies gave 4,000 soms each, department heads 1,000 soms, and ordinary employees 100 soms each. According to the opposition newspaper Asaba, this campaign engulfed all state agencies in the province.18 No one doubted the fact that Akayev’s appointment of political protégés to key positions was a ‘reward’ to loyal followers.19 Similar examples come from both the Ukraine and Russia. In the former, the then prime minister, Viktor Lazarenko, urged his clients – owners of leading Ukrainian commercial banks – to ‘donate’ money to raise the salaries of the underpaid coalminers in the eastern Ukraine. Subsequently most of these funds mysteriously ‘disappeared’ during the transfer.20 In the other case, leading Russian bankers ‘invested’ in Yeltsin’s 1996 electoral campaign, in return for participation in the privatisation of attractive state assets and in the financing of social and economic development projects in various Russian provinces. The result, to quote the former US deputy secretary of state, Strobe Tellbout, was that a small group of ‘oligarchs’ acquired energy and metalproducing enterprises among the largest in the world for next to nothing.21 On the eve of the 2000 presidential elections the ‘oligarchs’ (business tycoons) sitting in the Ukrainian Parliament rallied round Leonid Kuchma’s bid for a second term. These magnates owned abiding interests in, almost literally, every valuable sector of the Ukraine’s economy: energy, steel, grain, chemicals and the media. Their support, according to local observers, was, therefore, ‘dictated by calculated self-interest: President Kuchma has provided the conditions for the accumulation of their wealth and power; his possible defeat jeopardises their holdings and influence’.22 Thus, according to another commentator, ‘Kuchma’s victory will be pay-off time’.23 In some ethnic, regional or ‘sectarian’ entities members of the immediate (or ‘core’) clan are usually implanted into networks of personal–social links with representatives of various elites and interest groups – administrative, military and law enforcement, information, academic, criminal, traditional, religious and other elites.24 The specific mechanisms of a clan’s clientelistic relations fall into at least two patterns. First, relations of direct administrative command regulation and a bureaucratic favouritism have been – and still are – common among state and party bureaucracies (‘partocracy’) and their relations with ‘sectarian’ elites in countries with a highly centralised economy and a party-centred political structure. Among the examples of political clans based on such a model are the ‘political factions’ in the Socialist Dustur party of Tunisia in the 1950s and 1960s25 and ‘partocratic clans’ in both

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the central and the republican apparatuses of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) in the late Soviet period, such as the Rostov, Dnepropetrovsk and Novosibirsk ‘mafias’ and the Rashidov and Kunaev clans (in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan respectively).26 A good example of such structures in post-colonial black Africa are the ‘historical’ political clans of Senegal, organised by the competing groups of ‘Dianists’ and ‘Dioufists’. Each of these originally urban Christian groups was, in fact, a ‘political machine’ centred on a ‘political boss’ rather than on political principles or a specific programme.27 In all the above cases the informal groups of politicians were connected by extended patron–client networks to various social, economic, regional and criminal elite groups outside the official structure. Second, the ‘technocratic’ model developed in Mediterranean and black Africa in the 1970s and 1980s and in the FSU in the 1990s is characterised by the exercise of public administration and public leadership by informal power groups of ‘business politicians’. The power of this ‘new generation’ of political clans is usually based on the nonformal manipulation of public assets and finances, import and export licences, public opinion and electoral processes, and on brokerage between external and internal economic markets and interests. The basic patterns of such ‘technocratic’ power institutions, as with informal ‘umbrella’ structures, can also be found in industrial countries. In Italy, for instance, such structures are controlled by groups of fassendieres (brokers), who usually serve as clients of influential party politicians. These fassendieres often legalise themselves under the ‘umbrella’ of social clubs, marketing or advertising firms, and so on. These groups are connected to government institutions, private business, the criminal Mafia, and public organisations such as associations, clubs and parties by both ‘legal’ and corrupt networks.28 The ‘technocratic’ clans of black Africa and the post-Soviet space represent a more developed model of such institutions. The ‘business politicians’ who run the networks of these non-formal entities control more extended sections of the national economic, social and political infrastructures through their control of major banks and industrial companies, national media, and political parties and their parliamentary factions. In the Ukraine at the end of the 1990s, for example, such political clans included groups of politicians headed by the ‘top five’ business tycoons in President Kuchma’s ‘court’. Among these were Ihor Bakai, who besides his position as president of the Naftohaz Ukraiiny joint-stock company also controlled the Vidrodzhennia rehioniv (Revival of Regions) parliamentary faction, ICTV television, and the newspaper Segodnia (Today); Aleksandr Volkov, a Member of Parliament and presidential aide, who in addition to control over a few parliamentary factions also controlled Ukrainian Television-1, Studio 1+1 Television, Gravis Television


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and Europa+ Radio; and Hrihorii Surkis, a parliamentary deputy and honorary president of the Dinamo Kyiv Soccer Club, who wields influence through the Social Democratic Party of the Ukraine (United) and its parliamentary faction, as well as through Inter Television and the newspaper Biznes.29 According to the well-known Ukrainian democratic politician Serhii Holovatyi, these and other clans of financiers and industrialists, both in the Ukraine and in Russia, ‘entered into cosy and lucrative relationships with the [state] nomenklatura to divide up the wealth and power of the state [through] privatisation programs in order to cheaply acquire state assets’.30 The ‘Kaduna Mafia’, a group of ‘business politicians’ and intellectuals from northern Nigeria that remains one of the most powerful informal political centres in Nigeria, is an indicative example of informal technocratic political power groups in black African countries. Its origin goes back to the aftermath of the first Nigerian military coup in January 1966, when this group of enterprising state technocrats started to advance themselves by using state aid and personal relations with various traditional and ‘modern’ elites all over Nigeria. In the wake of the public finance crisis and the oil boom of the 1970s the group moved forcefully into politics, as well as into import-export, banking, transport manufacturing, and the media.31 The organisation of the ‘Kaduna Mafia’ was completed by the1980s. Its ‘intellectual faction’ is related to the leading academic centres of the Muslim north of the country – first of all the Kaduna Polytechnic and the School of Administration at the Ahmadu Bello University (ABU) in Zaria. Other core members control leading media assets in English and Hausa – the New Nigerian and Gaskiya Ta Fi Quabo newspapers, Kaduna Radio and TV companies. The financial level of the ‘Kaduna Mafia’ commands important aspects of the Nigerian economy through control over such institutions as the Central Bank of Nigeria, the Bank of the North, the Habib Bank, the Merchant Bank, the Bank of Credit and Commerce. In addition, a leading Nigerian company, the New Nigerian Development Corporation (NNDC), supplies the Mafia members with access to more than 120 enterprises. Thus Muhammad Tukur (known as the ‘secretary of the Mafia’) was the chairman of four and a director in nine companies and two banks, while Habib Zayad, former ABU chancellor, combined political activity with an NNDC executive directorship and a big private business. Muhammad Daura, a former New Nigerian Corporation director, was the owner of the largest furniture factory in West Africa and a director and a shareholder in five big industrial companies and banks.32 After the December 1983 military coup, which brought to power his uncle, MajorGeneral Muhammadu Bukhari, Muhammad Daura also gained huge profits in the petroleum export business. In addition, he was married to a daughter of another Nigerian business and political heavyweight,

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Ibrahim Dasuki, the Sultan of Sokoto (the most influential Muslim traditional ruler in West Africa), who was known to have close ties to the ‘Kaduna Mafia’.33 A similar group in western Nigeria competing with the ‘Kaduna Mafia’ is the so-called ‘Ikemme Mafia’. This group originates in a clan of Yoruba politicians, founded by Chief Abafemi Awolowo in the late 1950s. In the 1970s and 1980s the ‘Ikemme Mafia’ controlled ‘an array of banks, firms, and businesses’, and other assets totalling about US$1 billion, mainly through the Odu’a Investment Company, jointly owned by the state governments of the dissolved western region of Nigeria.34 Similar groups in other sub-Saharan African countries include the Binza Group in Zaire, the GEMA in Kenya, the Ekute Group in Sierra Leone and the Broderbund in South Africa.35

‘EXTENDED’ CLAN STRUCTURES: CLIENTELISTIC MODELS OF SOCIAL MOBILISATION AND CONFLICT

These clientelist relations are not limited to the ‘core clan’ institutions only. Quite often they extend into the mass level, thus creating wide and substantially stable regional, regional–tribal, or ‘sectorial’ patron–client networks. These networks may become institutionalised within the framework of political parties and movements, which project their influence on large segments of the related ethnic, religious and other neo-traditional communities. This is more characteristic of post-colonial Asian and African states. They may, however, exist in the form of more amorphous ‘aggregates’ (to use Anthony Giddens’ terminology).36 This is more characteristic of the post-communist countries of Eastern Europe. Naturally, the character of clientelist connections in one informal political group or another is an important factor of the function of the ‘extended’ patron–client networks and the mechanism of mobilisation of mass support. In all cases, however, the ‘supreme patron’ of clientele networks becomes a symbol of their collective values and interests whether he has obtained an official position, or has remained their informal ‘consensus leader’. The reason for this is that in both the postcolonial and the post-Soviet worlds politics remains a major channel for the redistribution of public resources, whatever the concrete mechanism of the transformation of power into capital. Thus a vertical mobilisation through patron–client relations prevails over ‘horizontal’ (social and class) links. Consequently, clan leaders annex the interests common to both the elites and the masses, while social and economic interest groups become interwoven into a clientelistic mechanism that, in its turn, causes citizens to be interested in ‘better[ing their] life conditions’ within the existing system, rather than in the ‘radical redistribution of incomes and material goods’.37


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The work of this mechanism is perhaps best illustrated by the 1994 great MMM scandal in Moscow. Sergei Mavrodi, the founder of MMM, created a pyramid investment scheme, which promised very quick and high returns to shareholders. It thus attracted tens of thousands of investors. Naturally, a while later the pyramid collapsed and thousands of impoverished Russians lost their life savings. Mavrodi was charged with ‘financial mismanagement’, ‘abuse of public trust’ and tax evasion. The majority of the cheated shareholders, however, did not accuse Mavrodi. Rather, they mobilised in his support against the ‘conspiracy by the Russian Ministry of Finances against an independent entrepreneur’ and ‘another robbery of law-abiding Russian citizens by the state’.38 MMM shareholders’ rallies under the slogan ‘Hands off Mavrodi’ (these included demonstrations in front of the Russian Government buildings and a hunger strike by twenty people) grew into a political movement with the slogan ‘the president of MMM for the president of Russia’.39 Thousands of citizens in the electoral district of Khimki (a suburb of Moscow, where 24 per cent of the electorate owned MMM shares), voted for Mavrodi in the 1994 Russian Duma elections. The electoral campaign slogans of Mavrodi were simple: parliamentary immunity from prosecution for the pyramid swindle and government bail-out for MMM, including the return of profits to investors.40 As can be seen from this example, a corporate identity becomes dominant not only among marginal but also among ‘mainstream’ groups of society, leading them to identify with the interests of their leaders. This is even more the case in countries with an ‘Oriental’ political culture and its consequent ‘structural’ patron–client relations. In such countries the patron–client networks usually cover almost the entire ethnic, communal, regional or religious entities, and transform the political clan leader into an ‘incarnation’ of the communal interests and values. In extreme cases clan leaders formalise their status as political patrons of their ethnic communities by official or semi-official neo-traditional titles. Such was the title ‘leader of the Yoruba’, given to the founder and leader of the dominant political clan in western Nigeria, the late Obafemi Awolowo (known among his followers as ‘Papa Awo’). Another example is the current president of Turkmenistan Saparmurat Niyazov’s official title ‘Türkmenbas¸ ı’ (‘the chief Turkmen’). The above-mentioned principle – ‘the patron is always right’ – which is a key element at the foundations of an ‘Oriental’ ‘core clan’ also operates on the mass level. A recent example of such relations in post-Soviet Central Asia is the violent protest in southern Kyrgyzstan against the central government, which reached its peak in June 2002. The participants in these events demanded ‘a full pardon for the opposition legislator Azimbek Beknazarov’, who had become a symbol of the interests of the ‘southern’ communities, who consider themselves ‘suppressed’ by the authorities, which are controlled by the ‘northern’ tribes and their political

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clans.41 This situation is reminiscent of post-colonial black Africa, where the interests of a political clan leader are identified with the interests of his ethnic community: ‘What is good for Awolowo (or Tarka, or Kenyatta) is good for the Yoruba (or Tiv, or Kikuyu) people.’ As these cases demonstrate, the functioning model of obtaining and redistributing public wealth pushes wide social groups to support their ‘sectarian’ elites in their struggle for power and resources. Under these conditions a class conflict becomes the subject of ethnic, socio-cultural, regional, confessional and communal contradictions. Consequently, ‘money and personal links have been more important in politics than ideology’ in all the post-Soviet and some other post-communist states, such as former Yugoslavia and Albania.42 Even in the modernised Ukraine, it will be a mistake to analyse the 1999 presidential elections in ‘left versus right’ terms, as many observers did. Rather it was a contest between the political clans of the eastern Ukraine and the ‘nationalist’ elites of the western regions of the country.43 Thus, ideology, which may be an important and a meaningful – though rarely a dominant – factor in the political institutionalisation of ‘core’ clan structures, plays little more than a symbolic role in extended clan-centred patron–client networks. This is especially so in many Asian and African states, where the support of an ideology is more a display of personal loyalty to a leader identified with it, and less an independent personal choice. Also in post-Soviet Central Asia, real (first of all, informal) political structures are still controlled by Soviet-era leaders, due to their strong and continuing ties to important sub-national communities. And these ties explain not only the basis for their power but also the nature of the political process there, one in which regional and sub-ethnic linkages are often far more important than national or ideological ones and in which the task of nation building is still very much one for the future.44 For instance, in Tajikistan various local ethnic regional clans are identified with different ideologies. The Leninabad (or Khojand) clan, which was in power in the late Soviet era, is identified with ‘hard-line communism’; the Kulyab clan, in the central region of the country, is regarded as ‘conservative’; the Kurgan-Tyube clan is associated with the major ‘democratic’ opposition parties; and the Garm clan, in the southern Gorno-Badakhshan region, is regarded as the leading stronghold of the militant Islamic movement.45 However, ‘this should not be taken to indicate that this was basically a struggle of ideas. Rather, various ideological movements like communism, democracy and Islamism served as nests or power containers for identity-region politics.’46 Also in Kyrgyzstan, the ‘democrats’ mainly became partners of the modernised,


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urbanised and Russified elite of the ‘northern’ political clans. The ‘southern’ informal political groups, in their turn, rallied around communist symbols.47 In Nigeria too, conflicts between the leading ethnic regional groups had a formal ideological expression: Hausa and Fulani political clans in the Muslim north of the country have historically identified with a ‘right-wing conservative’ ideology. The predominantly Christian Yoruba and Igbo clans (as well as those of the ethnic minorities) opposing them in the south and the middle belt of the country adopted officially ‘social democratic’ and ‘left centrist’ ideologies.48 On the mass level this ideological cleavage was substantially less critical. A poll conducted by a group of Nigerian researchers on the eve of the 1979 elections in the country revealed the following: more than 85 per cent of the Yoruba respondents regarded the National Party of Nigeria (NPN; a ‘political initiative’ of the ‘Kaduna Mafia’ in conjunction with other Hausa-Fulani political clans and their allies) as a ‘party of reach contractors, traders and corrupt persons’. Their own party, the Unity Party of Nigeria (a ‘formalised political wing’ of the Awolowo-led Yoruba politicians’ clan), was defined by them as the ‘commoners’ party’. The majority of Hausa respondents (an ‘extended clientele’ of the northern Muslim clans) applied the same negative social definitions (‘corrupt’, ‘cohesive’, ‘aristocratic’) to the UPN, while their loyalty to ‘their own’ ethnic clan entities was reflected in their definition of the National Party of Nigeria as the ‘party of the common man’.49 The current situation in Nigeria’s ‘Fourth Republic’ (that is, after the 1999 transfer of power from the military to the civilians) is not substantially different from the situation in the 1970s and 1980s. The political arena is occupied by more or less the same parties under new names, which are run by roughly the same informal elite groups.50 Such a crystal-clear reflection of a class approach through ethnic identity, as well as of ethnic stereotypes through social class definitions, tells a lot about the transformed role of ‘borrowed’ norms, institutions and values in the local social and cultural milieu. As can be seen, ideological models, including models of Western origin, have become one of the reproduction elements of the neo-traditional socio-cultural identity and a mobilisation mechanism of ethnic and other corporate solidarity rather than of specific social and class interests. Consequently, political parties and movements that provide a formalised framework for the patron–client networks of ‘extended’ clans usually try to appeal to the whole corporate entity (tribal, ethnic, confessional, ‘sectorial’, and so on) and thus boast a quasi-centrist ideology.51 The ideology-centred parties in the post-colonial and post-communist worlds are usually established by Western-oriented ‘democrats’. Under the prevailing conditions they have rather limited options: they may either remain marginal groups of enthusiasts, or base themselves on one

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of the political clans. As a Kyrgyz government official put it, ‘the ongoing struggle is not between the Kyrgyz government and a democratic opposition. Rather, it is a clash between the ruling clan and oligarchs from disgraced clans who by large sums of money and false promises to promote democratic reforms have bought the support of civil society leaders.’52 To sum up, in almost all post-Soviet and in black African states nonformal power structures use a similar form of political machinery to manipulate extended patron–client networks. Specific forms of these networks might be different, however. They might include, among others, regional and national (centralised) informal power structures.

REGIONAL CLAN STRUCTURES

The origin and growth of regional non-formal political clans in the Westernised and modernised areas of the post-Soviet and post-colonial countries is usually a matter of restructuring the administrative-command (i.e. colonial or socialist) forms of economic and social regulation and their adaptation to new quasi-market conditions. This adaptation is normally reached through the fusion of the ‘official’ and ‘shadow’ administrative and economic relations in the hands of post-colonial and post-communist ‘oligarchs’ following the decentralisation (usually presented as ‘democratisation’) of the state bureaucracy. In Russia and the Ukraine of the 1990s such factors facilitated the forging of strong regional administrative-economic groups (AEG) based on personal connections and allegiances, usually centred on the leadership of provinces and principal towns. Apart from high-ranking politicians these groups usually include key representatives of the local bureaucracy (especially its administrative, tax and licence branches), law enforcement agencies, managers of banks, trade and industrial enterprises and agricultural farms (private and ‘collective’), media, criminal gangs and other bodies.53 Since at least the early 1990s banks and industrial and agricultural enterprises connected to such AEGs have enjoyed favourable business conditions, such as access to cheap budget resources, subsidised energy and raw materials, guaranteed state contracts, export licences, and so on. In return they have to share their profits with the political and bureaucratic bosses. Banks in particular are used to transforming the accumulated power and other resources into legal and illegal financial profits and distributing them among the clan members, each according to his rank in the patron–client networks. Law enforcement agencies controlled by an AEG usually support, or at least help to conceal, economic irregularities. Furthermore, they protect business members of their AEG from competition. Criminal groups are used to ‘neutralising’ and taking over competing economic bodies. Finally, the media and the


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clan-sponsored political parties serve to forge political legalisation and as a channel between the masses and the circles in power.54 An ample example of such structures are the Donetsk and the Dnepropetrovsk clans, the most powerful Ukrainian informal political structures. Both are based in highly industrialised regions with large concentrations of capital and labour. (The two regions together contain roughly 20 per cent of the Ukraine’s population, and provide for about 40 per cent of the country’s economic output.)55 As with their counterparts in other post-Soviet and post-colonial areas, the economic influence of these clans is based on commodity exports (oil, gas, minerals and metals) and tax revenue. The opposite trend – the forging of a political clan by the leadership of an established party – is rarer, though not unheard of. Thus the leader of the Sotsialistychna patrtiia Ukrainy (Ukrainian Socialist Party) – USP Aleksandr Moroz, constructed through personal connections a giant pyramid of subordinates and allies, mostly in the Kharkov, Cherkassy and Zhytomir regions. This personalised patron–client system incorporated various interest groups, such as ‘old nomenklatura, pensioners and the [urban] unemployed … and also businessmen lacking close links with the Kuchma administration, and thus much poorer for it’.56 Extended clan structures based on functional clientelism, however, remain fairly frail, even when fortified by ideology, as in the case of the SPU. Regional ‘Oriental’ clans, on the other hand, have been able to extend their core structure’s formative principle of ‘structural’ clientelism into their entire ethnic-regional entity. The patron–client networks of these relatively new regional political identity units, represented by local political clans, derive their support from family, communal, tribal, ethnic, confessional and other loyalties. The weight of each of the factors in the clan structures differs from one case to another. In Nigeria, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan and Tajikistan, clan solidarity is based on ethnicregional and ethnic-communal loyalties. In this they differ from the political clans of Kazakhstan, which are based on zhuz (lineage and tribal) solidarity,57 and those of Uzbekistan, where ties associated with one’s area of origin play the major role. Nevertheless, in Asian and African countries, where all native citizens are expected to know their lineages several generations back (and are, thus, acquainted with all their relatives of various degrees), kin ties are of fundamental importance. Naturally, the very same traditional connections and institutions, integrated into the extended clan networks, become a crucial factor in political conflicts. One of the deeply rooted forms of conflict is the one between ‘aristocratic’ and ‘common’ sub-ethnic entities. In post-Soviet Central Asia two such conflicts stand out: the relations between the northern and the southern Kyrgyz tribes, in which competition was traditionally determined by ties with one of three general subdivisions of Kyrgyzs, known as ‘wings’: Ong (the right); Sol, or ‘the left’, and the

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Ichkilik, which is neither.58 The other is the relationship between the Kazakh ‘Elder’ (or ‘Greater’) zhuz on the one hand, and Middle and Younger (‘Lesser’) zhuzes. A comparable example in black Africa may be found in Nigeria, where the Hausa-Fulani north has for decades dominated the ethnic communities of the south and the middle belts. The confrontations between ethnic regional elites acquired during the Soviet/colonial and post-Soviet/post-colonial times a ‘modern’ dimension. For example, northern Kyrgyz and middle zhuz Kazakhs have grown more urbanised, Russified and secularised, than their political opponents. In former British colonies in Africa one can also observe a substantial difference and political conflicts between the more Westernised Christian ethnic groups and the less modernised Muslim ones. Thus the regional and local level of neo-traditional politics usually absorbs traditional frictions between tribal and extended family groups. Conflicts between ‘indigenous’ and ‘non-titular’ ethnic groups are an additional element in this system of FSU and Third World politics. In Central Asia such cases centre on, inter alia, the Slavs in Kazakhstan (where they form the fourth ethnic-political force after the three zhuzes);59 the Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan and in Tajikistan and the Tajiks in Uzbekistan. The combination of all these traditional, neo-traditional and modern dimensions of ‘Oriental’ politics is the basis for the formation of the regional elites’ political clans, their political power and impact on the mass level and the direction of the political conflicts. From this perspective several such clans can be identified in Kyrgyzstan. These include the Issyk-Kul’, Chui, Talass, Naryn and Batken clans. In Tajikistan the dominant political identity – mahalgaroi – is an ethnic–territorial one. Accordingly, the country is divided into six regions: Kulyab, Gharm, Gorno-Badakhshan (or Pamir), Kurgan-Tyube, Leninabad and Hissar. During the perestroika and early independence years the major struggle was between two coalitions: the Leninabad, Kulyab and Hissar clans (‘the communists’) against the Gharmis and Gorno-Badakhshanis (‘the opposition’). At the moment the strife is between the Leninabad and the Kulyab clans,60 since the former – once the top clan in the country – has now increasingly become alienated by President Imomali Rahmonov’s Kulyab clan, which controls the state apparatus.61 Also in Uzbekistan the political stage is divided among several territorial clans. The Samarkand clan is considered to be the most powerful due to its direct link to the president – a native of Samarkand – and the following control of key government positions. The other informal political groups are the Surkash clan (which unites the natives of the southern districts of Surkhandaria and Kashkadaria), the Ferghana (valley) clan, and the Horezm clan (from the cities of Khiva and Urgench). These and several smaller groups are ‘engaged in a never-


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ending struggle to consolidate their power and influence, and their main objective is to place as many members as possible in government posts’.62 Almost the same kind of ethnic regional structures represented by ‘extended’ political clans can be found in black Africa. In Sierra Leone, Côte d’Ivoire, Nigeria, Ghana and some other countries there is a visible establishment of prominent and peripheral ethnic political (regional and communal) centres of power, based on interlocking clans of politicians.63

CENTRALISED CLAN STRUCTURES

Nationwide clans, along the regional clan entities, are another basic type of informal political institutions in the modern world. There are several ways in which such structures were formed, although in Asian and African countries – post-Soviet Central Asia included – the usual way was through the creation of ‘macro-clan’ entities. As a rule, the establishment of a ‘macro-clan entity’ happens when the leading political clan monopolises power and gains domination over peripheral clans. In the Kyrgyzstan of the 1990s such a status was eventually gained by the Talas and Issyk-Kul’ clans in the north and the Kypchak clan in the south. In Nigeria a macro-clan entity started to be established in 1970s and 1980s, when the ‘patron clan’ of northern Hausa-Fulani politicians adopted client clans of the ethnic minorities of the south and the middle belt. In Nigeria, however, this process has never been completed, because total suppression of opposition groups has usually advanced the collapse of the civil regime in the country.64 This process seemed to have been completed in a number of African and post-Soviet countries. In Kenya, for example, where the bureaucratic politicians kicked the party politicians out of power, the leading clan of Kikuyu politicians, headed by Jomo Kenyatta, succeeded in uniting a number of opposition ethnic political groups of Luo and coast minorities. Thus a Kikuyu-dominated macro-clan was formed, formalising itself through the state apparatus and the Kenyan African National Union (KANU), which became the only party in the country.65 A similar process evolved in Uzbekistan, where President Islam Karimov succeeded in transforming his Samarkand clan into a collective patron of other regional clans in the country.66 Another common way to create centralised clan structures in the post-Soviet states is the ‘conquest of the centre’ by regional non-formal entities. This is usually the result of an uncompromising behind-thescenes struggle among regional clans to control strategic regional and central economic resources and top posts in the central government. In post-Soviet Russia this struggle involved the Moscow, St Petersburg, Ural, Middle Volga (Samara) and several other regional political clans.

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In the Ukraine the first to turn its economic clout into political power on a national scale was the Donetsk regional elite. The clan secured a foothold in the Kiev establishment by manipulating strikes of the Donetsk miners in 1992–93.67 Among the leading business politicians of Donetsk origin who obtained top positions and control over informal networks in Kiev were the former ‘red director’ and Donetsk mayor Iukhym Zviahilskii, who in 1993 was appointed acting prime minister under President Leonid Kravchuk; Valentin Landyk, the former director of one of the largest factories in Donetsk, who became deputy prime minister; and a young Donetsk businessman, Ihor Markulov, rumoured to be the ‘boss’ of the Donetsk clan, who was appointed as Kravchuk’s economic adviser. The election in 1994 of Leonid Kuchma, the former director of the Yuzhmash missile plant in Dnepropetrovsk and the Ukraine’s prime minister between October 1992 and September 1993, however, almost totally destroyed the Donetsk clan’s power in Kiev. Dozens – according to some estimates as many as 200 – of Dnepropetrovsk clan members and protégés, who had engineered Kuchma’s electoral victory, were rewarded by appointments to top executive positions in Kuchma’s government and administration.68 Among them were Vladimir Horbulin, who became the secretary of the Security and Defence Council; the former prosecutor of the Dnepropetrovsk oblast, Hrihorii Vorsinov, who was now appointed prosecutor general; Serhei Tyhypko, deputy prime minister in charge of the economy and the former governor of the Dnepropetrovsk oblast, and Pavel (Pavlo) Lazarenko, who in May 1996 was appointed prime minister of the Ukraine. By the end of 1996 all of the ministers responsible for industry in the Ukrainian government were either of Dnepropetrovsk origin or came from the allied neighbouring elite of Zaporozhe.69 ‘Sectorial’ political groups are another pattern of the centralised clan structure. A classic example of such networks can be seen in postcommunist Armenia under President Levon Ter-Petrossian. The origin of almost all modern Armenian clan elites is in the Armenian National Movement (AMN), a popular opposition front in the time of perestroika, which became the ruling party in the newly independent Armenia. By the early 1990s the Armenian clans, like their counterparts in other parts of the FSU, had already developed into ‘extensive networks of government officials and business people connected to and protected by a political leader and related institution, [providing] an enormous concentration of resources in the hands of a tightly-knit network of government officials, their relatives, and close associates’.70 In the specific situation of Armenia these clans acquired a ‘branch’ character and were located each in a specific ministry, especially the so-called ‘power ministries’ (Internal Affairs, Defence and so on). Strong informal elite groups controlled also the prime minister’s office, the


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Ministries of Foreign Affairs, Communications, etc., as well as the Office of the Constitutional Adviser, the Civil Aviation Administration and the social welfare services. (The latter have proved to be instrumental in the redistribution of foreign humanitarian aid.) Using a combination of administrative command and informal regulation methods, Armenian ‘branch’ clans effectively divided and controlled among them ‘protection’ profits from small private firms and big industrial enterprises (in which AMN loyalists had been installed in managerial positions regardless of their business capabilities), taxation and customs revenues, as well as profits from the ‘bread’, the energy, the ‘trade’ mafias and other economic domains. Many observers are of the opinion that the struggle among these ‘branch’ clans for economic control has, in fact, been the essence of Armenian politics in the 1990s.71 A similar symbiosis of informal power groups, official bureaucratic authorities and quasi-market economic structures can also be seen in Yasir ‘Arafat’s Palestinian Authority. The power and resources of the territories in the West Bank and the Gaza strip, transferred to the Palestinian Authority’s control, appeared soon to be divided among close associates of ‘Arafat, each of whom was appointed to head one of the numerous security services. This placed leaders such as Muhammad Dakhlan, Marwan Barghuti and ‘Abu-’Ala’ at the crux of a sophisticated system of patron–client relations with khamulla (extended family) elders, Sufi brotherhood leadership, broker traders, commanders of paramilitary units, criminal mafia bosses and other groups and institutions in Arab Palestinian society. This system also supplied the security chiefs with means to transfer their power into profits by establishing a control and/or monopoly over tax collection, agricultural exports, import of fuel, construction materials and other commodities, distribution of Israeli and international financial aid, drugs and arms trafficking and other legal and illegal activities.72 A more developed pattern of ‘sectorial’ clans are the informal groups of business politicians controlling leading energy companies in Russia and the Ukraine, Gazprom and Yedyni enerhytychnu systemu (United Energy Systems, known by its acronym – YES), respectively. As soon as he became prime minister of the Ukraine in 1996, Pavel Lazarenko, the leader of the Denepropetrovsk clan, granted the clan’s major company, YES, a concession covering half of the wholesale natural gas market. This step led it to become the richest private company in the Ukraine.73 The example of YES’s Russian counterpart and partner is even more impressive. With sales of US$20 billion in 2001, Gazprom is the largest company in Russia, and one of the largest energy producers on the planet.74 In both the Russian and the Ukrainian examples the gas, as well as the oil and, to a lesser degree, the coal industries were key elements of the scheme of monopolies. For example, private trading subsidiaries of

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YES each gained monopolies to supply gas to enterprises in a specific region of the Ukraine. This and similar schemes have been the starting point for most barter transactions and transfer pricing, which allowed one to obtain valuable export goods, such as steel, aluminium and chemicals, at cost price and without paying taxes.75 In addition, both business political groups successfully infiltrated the banking, trade, the media, and – through the national political parties – also the national politics of their countries. Several such parties can be mentioned in the Ukraine. Two of them – the Narodno-Democratychna partiia Ukrainy (the Popular Democratic Party of the Ukraine) and Hromada (Community), headed by two former prime ministers, Valery Pustovoitenko and Pavel Lazarenko respectively – represented competing factions within the Dnepropetrovsk clan. The Liberal Democratic Party of the Ukraine in the 1990s and Vidrodzhennia rehioniv (the Revival of the Regions) party after 1999 are usually associated with the Donetsk clan.76 In Russia the political influence of Gazprom was projected via the Nash Dom Rossiia (Russia Our Home; NDR ) party, whose leader, Viacheslav Chernomyrdin, served as prime minister of the Russian Federation between 1993 and 1998. The decline in the late 1990s of the power and political influence of informal political groups such as those behind Gazprom and YES left the scene open for a new type of centralised clan structure – the transregional political oligarchy. An example of this new type is the abovementioned Kiev-based clan of Hrihorii Surkis. According to a political observer, current political events [in the Ukraine] – the scandal concerning the privatisation of regional energy companies, the consolidation, together with Grigorii Surkis’ clan, also competing Kyiv’s business groups, formalised in the Parliament through two business factions – ‘Labour Ukraine’ and ‘Revival of Regions’— have shown that the political oligarchs and holding companies have become the most effective political institutions in the Ukraine’s modern, but still shady, political life.77 Apart from competing for power in the centre, centralised political clans also attempted, successfully, to seize part of the power of regional clans. A Ukrainian example was the war between the two most important political and economic clans in the country: Kuchma’s presidential clan and the Hromada clan led by former prime minister, Pavel Lazarenko. President Kuchma dismissed Lazarenko in mid-1997 without an explanation. According to local experts, ‘Lazarenko’s seizure of the gas supplies at the expense of other clans became an embarrassment to Kuchma. The Dnepropetrovsk clan split in two and open warfare ensued.’78 Both in the Ukraine and in other post-Soviet states this


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struggle usually acquires the form of a confrontation between a ‘progressive’ presidency (normally the stronghold of centralised clans) and ‘conservative’ parliaments (usually the bulwark of regional political cliques).79 The following step in the monopolisation of power comes when the leadership of a macro-clan is being transformed into a group of politicians forming the most dominant centre of power. Being the closest associates of the supreme leader, they become relatively independent of the leadership of the dominant clans. Thus, the president of Kyrgyzstan, Askar Akaev, has succeeded, by the late 1990s, in establishing almost full control over central power, mainly through increasing the number of presidential loyalists in key posts (most of whom, however, still have ties to the northern clans). At the same time, political parties, the bureaucracy, the army and even his Kemin and Talas clans, which had propelled him to power, have become secondary elements in this personalised structure.80 In Zaïre such a political structure around the then president, Mobutu Sese Seko, created a sort of ‘presidential court’ active through both the state apparatus and informal ethnic and political relations.81 Presidential ‘inner circles’ in Russia and the Ukraine represent another model of similar political non-formal institutions. For example, in 1999–2000 Ukrainian president, Leonid Kuchma, made desperate efforts to broaden his base of support. Trying to decrease his dependence on the ‘Dnepropetrovsk Mafia’ and other powerful regional and central clans, he conferred dominant positions in energy upon new power groups.82 This was done through the establishment of the President’s Domestic Policy Co-ordinating Council, by splitting political parties and multiplying their number, and by building up alternative business groups.83 The result was the emergence of Kuchma’s personal inner circle. At various times it included people such as the leader of the ‘most powerful’ political clan in the Ukraine, chief of the presidential administration Volodymyr Litvin; Leonid Derkach, the boss of the SBU (Ukrainian State Security Service) and head of one of the big clans at the court of the country’s president; Andrei Derkach (Leonid’s son and Kuchma’s godson), an official who turned to business, head of Kuchma’s reelection campaign in the big cities.84 The ‘financial faction’ of Kuchma’s ‘court’ includes several ‘oligarchs’: Hrihorii Surkis, boss of the Slavutych trading empire; Igor Bakai, head of the national gas and oil monopoly; Aleksandr Volkov, an ‘oligarch’ and the chief of Kuchma’s re-election campaign; and Viktor Pinchuk, a major player in the commodities market and a close presidential ally through Kuchma’s daughter (he is her boyfriend).85 The presidential ‘inner circles’ appear to be the ultimate stage in the evolution of the national clan structures. This means that most of both formal and informal power is now concentrated in the hands of a

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national leader who exercises his control through the associated regional and central clan institutions. At the same time, such a monopolisation of power in one centre, and the simultaneous marginalisation of opposition groups, may lead to instability, as happened in 2000–01 in the Ukraine and in 2002 in Kyrgystan, or even to the collapse of the entire political system, as in Zaire.

CONCLUSION

Informal groups of politicians – political clans – are still the basis of politics in both the post-Soviet and post-colonial worlds. In these countries they seem to play a much more substantial role than in the West. In fact, the political clans in former communist and Asian and African states are a manifest feature of the local neo-traditional society, which is a product of a complex process of synthesis between the indigenous (traditional) and the ‘borrowed’, or implemented, (‘modern’) norms, standards, and structures. As can be seen, the substantial features of all types of political clans are almost identical. First, these are similar variants of informal leadership and political domination and subordination, Second, all the clans’ infrastructure is based on the various, but systematically identical, clientele relations, either functional or structural; the political institutionalisation of the clans means the extension of these relations into the ‘mass’ level. Third, non-formal power structures have almost everywhere demonstrated close organisational models, both regional and central. Clan-centred institutions of power aggregate important social functions: integration, stabilisation, the modernisation of ethnic societies, their incorporation into wider social structures, the mobilisation and distribution of economic resources, the transformation of power into property, and the integration of ruling elites. Consequently, borders between ethnic, regional and other sectarian entities serve as a factor of political cleavage among elites and influence the direction and character of political conflicts. All these provide a specific form of ‘democratisation’ in the postSoviet and ‘Oriental’ states, which more closely resembles the decentralisation of the local power structures. This process may be regarded as an important external feature of the multi-structural nature of local ‘quasi-modern’ society, which actively ‘adopts’ institutions of civil society and enriches them with the neo-traditional essence.


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NOTES

1. There is a substantial academic literature that discusses the theoretical issues of these phenomena. See, for instance, Nikolas Appleton, ‘The Theory of Cultural Pluralism’, Cultural Pluralism in Education. Theoretical Foundations, New York and London, Longman, 1983, pp. 18–51; Robert Gooding-Williams, ‘Race, Multiculturalism and Democracy’, Constellations: An International Journal of Critical and Democratic Theory, Vol. 5, No. 1, 1998, pp. 18–41; Bhikhu Pareh, ‘The Cultural Plurality and Liberal Democracy’, Political Studies, Vol. 15, 1992, pp. 160–75; and Charles Taylor, ‘The Politics of Recognition’, in C. Taylor, ed., Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of Recognition, (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994, pp. 25–73. 2. For a more detailed discussion of these approaches see Vladimir Khanin, ‘Clientelism, Corruption and Struggle for Power in Central Asia: the Case of Kyrgyzstan’, in M. Gammer, ed., The Caspian Region, London, Frank Cass, 2002. See also V. A. Yadov, ed., Rossiia: transformiruiushcheesia obshchestvo [Russia: A Society in Transformation] Moscow, Kanon-Press-Ts, 2001. 3. Aida Moseiko, ‘Sravnitel’nyi analiz rossiiskoi i afrikanskoi mental’nosti: arkhaika sovremennost [A Comparative Analysis of Russian and African Mentality: Archaism and Modernity]’, in Iu. Vinokurov et al., eds, Afrika: suzhdenia i fakty [Africa: Assumptions and Facts], Moscow, Institute for African Studies, 1997, pp. 3–6. 4. Anatol Lieven, ‘The Caucasus and Central Asia Ten Years After the Soviet Collapse’, Eurasia Insight, 21 August 2001. 5. The side-effect of this phenomenon has been the growing interest in African and Oriental studies, which had in the USSR been considered as marginal sociological subjects as opposed to Soviet or Western studies, and the increasing attempts to apply these findings in analysing the contemporary situation in Russian and the CIS. See, for example: Igor Sledzewsky, ed., Kontseptsia obschestvennogo progressa: tochka zrenia afrikanistov [The Concept of Social Progress: The Africanists’ Viewpoint], Moscow, Inst. for African Studies, 1991; Leonid Vasilev, Istoria Vostoka [History of the Orient], Vol. 2, Moscow, ‘Vyshaya Shkola’, 1994, pp. 298–327; Iuri Irchin, ‘Politicheskie kul’tury Zapada, Vostoka, Rossii I Afriki: sravnitel’nyi analiz’ [The Political Cultures of West, East, Russia, and Africa: A Comparative Analysis]’, in I. Sledzewsky and D. Bondarenko, eds, Afrika: Obschestva, kul’tyry, yazyki [Africa: Societies, Cultures, Languages], Moscow, 1998, pp. 56–78. 6. ‘“Afrostroika”: Social Change and Political Reforms in Tanzania’, in J. A. Weisman, ed., Democracy and Political Change in Sub-Saharan Africa, (London and New York, Routledge, 1995. 7. Benyamin Neuberger, ‘Ethnic Group and the States in Africa’, in Sh. Ben-Ami, Y. Peled and A. Spectorovsky, eds, Ethnic Challenges to the Modern States, Basingstoke, MacMillan, 2000, pp. 294–308. 8. Stefan Korshak, ‘Poor U.N. Rating Irks Ukraine’, Kyiv Post, 8 July 1999. 9. Jim Nichol, Central Asia’s New States: Political Developments and Implications for U.S. Interests, Report No. 93108, Washington, Foreign Affairs and National Defense Division, updated 19 December 1996, p. 15; Lieven, ‘The Caucasus and Central Asia’. 10. Christian Boehm, ‘Democracy in Kyrgyzstan – Reforms, Rethoric and Realities’. Paper presented at the ‘Postkommunisten Antropologi’ conference, University of Copenhagen, 12–14 April 1996, p. 2. 11. The International Monetary Fund, the World Bank for Reconstruction and other international bodies conducted the structural adjustment programme since the late 1990s with the aim to solve social, economic and financial crises in African countries and included a complex of measures for economic liberalisation and social reforms. See Klod Ake, The Political Economy of Africa, Cambridge, 1990 and Garba A. Gender and Musa E. Umar, ‘Adjustment, Empowerment: The Civil Society and Democracy in Nigeria’s Political Transition’, Governance, Vol. 1, No. 1, April 1998, pp. 91–113. 12. For a more detailed discussion of the role of informal political institutions in the power structure of the Third World and post-Soviet states, see Samuel Rose-Ackerman, Corruption and Government. Causes, Consequences and Reform, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999; Khanin, ‘Clientelism’; and Oyenrian Adedidji, ‘The Role of Government in Bureaucratic Corruption: The Case of Politisation of Civil Service’, Quarterly Journal of Administration, Vol. 25, No. 2, 1991, pp. 208–17; J. G. Jabbra, ‘Bureaucratic Corruption in the Third World: Causes and Remedy’, Indian Journal of Public Administration, Vol. 22, October–December 1976, pp. 164–72.

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13. See Vladimir Khanin, ‘Razvitie neformal’nykh struktur vlasti: Institut politicheskikh partii v afrikanskih usloviiakh [The Development of Informal Structures of Power: The Institution of Political Parties in African Conditions]’, in A.Vasilev and I. Sledzevsky, eds, Sovremnnaia Afrika: itogi i perspektivy razvitia. Evolutsia politicheskikh struktur [Contemporary Africa: Records and Prospects of Development. Evolution of Political Structures], Moscow, 1990, pp. 60–73. 14. See S. J. Kpundeh, Politics and Corruption in Africa: A Case Study of Sierra-Leone Lanham, etc., University Press of America, 1995; Konstantin Smis, USSR: Corrupt Society, New York, Columbia University Press, 1982. 15. Donald Bowser, ‘Corruption in Post-Soviet States: A Question of Cultural Identity?’ Paper presented at the 4th ASN Annual Convention, Columbia University, 15–17 April 1999. 16. See Vladimir Socor, ‘Hromada Founders Quit: Loyalists Nominate Lazarenko for President’, Jamestown Foundation Monitor, 3 June 1999. 17. For recent examples of these issues in Asia and Africa, see John Lucas, ‘The Tension Between Despotic and Infrastructural Power: The Military and the Political Class in Nigeria’, Studies in Comparative International Development, Vol. 33, No. 3, Fall 1998, pp. 90–113; William A. Callahan and Duncan McCargo, ‘Vote-Buying in Thailand’s Northeast’, Asian Review, Vol. 36, No. 4, 1996, pp. 376–92; Johanan Feinerman, ‘The Give and Take of Central–Local Relations’, China Business Review, January–February 1998, pp. 16–23. 18. Asaba (Bishkek), 3 October 2000. 19. Alisher Khamidov, ‘Kyrgizstan’s Unrest Linked to Clan Rivalries’, Eurasia Insight, 5 June 2002. 20. Private interview with a senior Ukrainian government executive, Kiev, September 1997. See also Nathan Hodge, ‘On the Road with Lazarenko.’ Kyiv Post, 22 January 1999. 21. Quoted in Argumenty i Fakty (international edition), No. 26, 2002, p. 4. See also Laura Belin, ‘The Yeltsin “Family” Triumph’, Transition Online (TOL), Russia, Annual Report, 1999. 22. Serhiy Holovaty, ‘Ukraine at the Crossroads: Perspectives on Independence, Democracy and Reform’, The Day (Kiev), 20 April 1999. 23. Stefan Korshak, ‘Candidates’ Teams Circle for the Spoils’, Kyiv Post, 28 October 1999. 24. For further discussion of these connections see J. Wilkinson, ‘A Triangle of Corruption – Politicians, Business and Yakuza in the Sagawa Kyubin Scandal’, AMPO Japan-Asia Quarterly Review, Vol. 24, No. 1, 1992, pp. 39–43; A. Wedeman, ‘Looters, Rent-Scrapers, and Dividend-Collectors: Corruption and Growth in Zaire, South Korea and the Philippines’, Journal of Developing Areas, Vol. 31, Summer 1997, pp. 457–78; A. Ades and R. di Tella, ‘The Causes and Consequences of Corruption: Review of Recent Empirical Contributions’, IDS Bulletin, Vol. 27, No. 2, 1996; Vladimir Khanin, ‘Political Clans and Political Conflicts in Contemporary Kyrgyzstan’, in Y. Ro’i, ed., Democracy and Pluralism in the Muslim Areas of the Former Soviet Union, London, Frank Cass, forthcoming. 25. V. Maksimenko, Politicheskie partii v perekhodnom obschestve: Maroko, Alzhir, Tunis [Political Parties in a Transitional Society. Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia], Moscow, 1985, pp. 164–6. 26. Smis, USSR: Corrupt Society, passim. 27. Christian Coulon and Donald B.Cruise O’Brien, ‘Senegal’, in D. B. C. O’Brien et al., eds, Contemporary West African States, Cambridge, 1989, pp. 145–50. 28. Donatella della Porta and Alessandro Pizzorno, ‘The Business Politicians: Reflections from a Study of Political Corruption’, Journal of Law and Society, Vol. 23, No. 1, March 1996, pp. 73–94. 29. Jan Maksymiuk, ‘Who is Pulling the Strings?’, RFE/RL, Poland, Belarus, and Ukraine Report, Vol. 1, No. 2, 1 June 1999. 30. Serhiy Holovaty, ‘Ukraine at the Crossroads: Perspectives on Independence, Democracy, and Reform’, The Day, 20 April 1999. 31. Ike Okonta, ‘Open Letter to Northern Politicians’, This Day (Lagos), 22 March 2002; Prosper Godonoo, ‘Marginalization of Universities in Africa: The Case of Nigeria’, paper presented at the Conference on ‘Education and Social Transition in a Global Society’, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 31 October–2 November 1997. 32. B. J. Takaya and S. G. Tyoden, The Kaduna Mafia, Jos, Jos University Press, 1987, passim. 33. Adebayo O. Olukoshi, ‘Bourgeois Social Movements and the Struggle for Democracy in Nigeria: An Inquiry into the Origins, Growth, Nature and Activities of the Kaduna


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Mafia’, in Mahmood Mamdani and Ernest Wamba-dia-Wamba, eds, African Studies in Social Movements and Democracy, Dakar, 1995. 34. Shehu Othman, ‘Nigeria: Power for Profits – Class, Corporatism, and Factionalism in the Military’, in O’Brien at al, eds, Contemporary West African States, pp. 122, 206 (note 42). 35. Olukoshi, ‘Bourgeois Social Movements’. 36. Anthony Giddens, basing himself on an earlier definition by Irving Hoffman, defines aggregates as ‘social entities, in which members are in non-focused correlation with each other’ – Anthony Giddens, Sociology, Cambridge, Polity Press, 1993, p. 276. 37. Henry Bienen, ‘Income Distribution and Politics’, in I. W. Zartman, ed., The Political Economy of Nigeria. A SAIS Study of Africa, New York, 1983, p. 101. 38. ‘MMM debacle continues’, RFE/RL Newsline, July, August 1994. 39. Interfax, 9, 10, 24 August 1994. 40. Bradford P. Wilson, ‘Russia Today: Not Fit For a Dog?’, February 1995. 41. Res Publica, Bishkek, 14 June 2002. 42. Victor Zablotsky, ‘Center–Regional Relations on the Eve of Presidential Elections: ‘Dances with Wolves’,’ Notes for the Conference on ‘Ukraine: Continuing Challenges of Transition’, State Department/National Intelligence Council, Washington, DC, 30 June 1999. 43. See, for instance, Charles Clover, ‘Unhappily Poised Between East and West’, Financial Times, 29 October 1999, and Katya Gorchinskaya, ‘Voters Split by East–West Divide’, Kyiv Post, 3 April 1998. 44. Paul Goble, ‘Central Asia: Analysis from Washington – Foundations of Power’, RFE/RL, 24 February 1999. 45. ‘Tajikistan: Anti-’Southern’ Protests Spread in the North’, MONITOR: A Daily Briefing on the Post-Soviet States , Vol. 2, Issue 95, 16 May 1996. 46. Iver Neumann and Sergey Solodovnik, ‘Russian and CIS Peace Enforcement in Tajikistan’, in Lena Jonson and Clive Archer, eds, Russian and CIS Peacekeeping, London, 1995. 47. Eugene Huskey, ‘Kyrgyzstan: The Fate of Political Liberalization’, in K. Dawisha and B. Parrot, eds, Conflict, Cleavage and Change in Central Asia and Caucasus, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997, pp. 260–69. 48. Vladimir Khanin, ‘Adaptatsia evropeiskoi modeli k afrikanskim usloviyam: etnicheskii i politicheskii plyuralizm v Nigerii [The Adaptation of a European Model to African Conditions: Ethnic and Political Pluralism in Nigeria]’, in Vasilyev and Sledzevsky, eds, Sovremnnaia Afrika, pp. 194–207; Larry Diamond, ‘Nigeria: Pluralism, Statism and the Struggle for Democracy’, in L. Diamond, ed., Democracy in Developing Countries: Africa, Boulder, CO, 1988). 49. Haron Adamu and Aderian Ogunsanvo, Making of a Presidential System in Nigeria. 1979 General Elections, Kano, 1981, p. 53. 50. See Pini Jason, ‘Obasanjo or Ekwueme?’, New African, February 1999, No. 2, p. 19. 51. In a previous work we defined this sort of centrist as ‘not just a self-sufficient ideology, but much more a result of the balance of different intra-party factions, based on compromised ideological and political attitudes, reached against a common ethnic and/or communal background’ – Vladimir Khanin, ‘The New Russian Jewish Diaspora and ‘Russian’ Party Politics in Israel’, Nationalism & Ethnic Politics, (forthcoming). 52. Quoted in Alisher Khamidov, ‘Cult of Personality May Undermine Kyrgyz Civil Society’, EurasiaNet, 22 April 2002. 53. Aleksandr Turchinov, ‘Ten’evaia ekonomika i ten’evaia politika [Shadow Economy and Shadow Politics]’, in S. Makeev et al., eds, Demony mira i bogi voiny: sotsial’nye konflikty v postkommunisticheskom mire [Demons of Peace and Gods of War: Social Conflicts in the Post-Communist World], Kiev, 1997, pp. 406–8. 54. See Oosterbaan Gwynne, ‘Clan Based Politics in Ukraine and the Implications for Democratization’, in J. S. Mcgiel, ed., Perspectives on Political and Economic Transitions after Communism, New York, 1997, pp. 213–33; Oleg Varfolomeyev, ‘Rival ‘Clans’ Mix Business, Politics, and Murder’, Transition, Vol. 3, No. 6, 4 April 1997. 55. Oleg Varfolomeyev, ‘Ukraine: Regional Clans Attempt the Transition to Party Politics’, PRISM: A Biweekly on the Post-Soviet States, Vol. 4, Issue 5, 6 March 1998. 56. Stefan Korshak, ‘Candidates’ Teams Circle for the Spoils’, Kyiv Post, 28 October 1999. 57. Saulesh Esenova, ‘‘‘Tribalism” and Identity in Contemporary Circumstances: The Case of Kazakhstan’, Central Asian Survey, Vol. 17, No. 3, September 1998, pp. 448–9.

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58. Alisher Khamidov, ‘Kyrgizstan’s Unrest Linked to Clan Rivalries’, Eurasia Insight, 5 June 2002. 59. Nurbulat Massanov, ‘Natsional’no-gosudarstvennoie stroitel’stvo v Kazakhstane: sostoianie i perspektivy [National-State Building in Kazakhstan: the Situation and Prospects]’, Acta Eurasica/Vestnik Evrazii, 1995, No. 1, p. 121. 60. Neumann and Solodovnik, ‘Russian and CIS Peace Enforcement in Tajikistan’. 61. MONITOR: A Daily Briefing on the Post-Soviet States, 30 July and 16 May 1996. 62. Kadir Alimov, ‘Are Central Asian Clans Still Playing a Political Role?’, Central Asian Monitor, No. 4, 1994, pp. 14–17, and Mikhail Degtiar, ‘Clans, Cotton and Currency’, Uzbekistan Weekly News, 12 October 2000. 63. Khanin, ‘Institut politicheskikh partii’; P. Jan Kees van Donge, ‘Kaunda and Dhiluba: Enduring Patterns of Political Culture’, in J. A. Weisman , ed., Democracy and Political Change in Sub-Saharan Africa, New York, Routledge, 1995, pp. 193–219; D. Rothchild, ‘Rowlings and the Engineering of Legitimacy in Ghana’, in I. W. Zartman, ed., Collapsed States, Boulder, CO, and London, Lynne Rienner, 1995, pp. 49–68 64. Richard A. Joseph, Democracy and Prebendal Politics in Nigeria: The Rise and Fall of the Second Republic, Cambridge, 1994, passim. 65. Henry Bienen, Kenya: The Politics of Participation and Control, London, 1974. 66. Kadir Alimov, ‘Are Central Asian Clans’. 67. See A. Wittkowsky, Piatiletka bez plana. Ukraina: 1991–1996. [A Five Year Plan without a Plan. Ukraine, 1991–1996], Kiev, 1998, pp. 197–202. 68. Vladimir Katsman, ‘Chto khorosho dlia ‘Uzhmasha’, to khorosho dlia strany [Whatever is Good for Uzhmash, is Good for the Country]’, Kievskie Vedomosti, 27 July 1994. See also Volodymyr Lytvyn, Politichna arena Ukraini: diiovi osobi ta vikonavtsi [The Political Arena of Ukraine. Actors and Cast], Kiev, Abris, 1995, passim. 69. Oleg Varfolomeyev, ‘Ukraine: Regional Clans Attempt the Transition to Party Politics’, and Jaroslav Koshiw, ‘The Dogs of Ukraine’s Clan Wars’, Kyiv Post, 20 October 1998. 70. Ian Bremmer and Cory Welt, ‘A Break with the Past? State and Economy in PostCommunist Armenia’, Helsinki Monitor, Vol. 8, No. 1, 1997, (on-line version). 71. Ibid. 72. Victor Kocher, ‘Arafat’s Palestine: Closure, Corruption and Poverty’, Swiss Review of World Affairs, September 1997, pp. 4–7. 73. See Paul Starobin and Catherine Belton, ‘Gazprom: Russia’s Enron?’, Business Week, 18 February 2002. 74. Nathan Hodge, ‘On the Road with Lazarenko’. 75. Charles Clover, ‘Swiss Investigate the Profits from Unaccountable Ukrainian Gas Trading’, Financial Times, 9 December 1998. 76. Viktor Luhovyk and Stefan Korshak, ‘Warring Dnyepropetrovsk Clans Seal Suicide Pact’, Kyiv Post, 17 March 1998; A. Wittkowsky, Piatiletka bez plana, pp. 200–1. 77. V. Zablotsky, ‘Center-Regional Relations’. 78. Jaroslav Koshiw, ‘The Dogs of Ukraine’s Clan Wars’, Kyiv Post, 20 October 1998. 79. Vladimir Khanin, ‘Clientelism, Corruption and Struggle for Power’; Aleksandr Turchinov, ‘Ten’evaya ekonomika i ten’evaya politika’, pp. 410–11. 80. Alisher Khamidov, ‘Kulov Verdict Indicates Akayev Moving in Authoritarian Direction’, Eurasia Insight, 29 January 2001. 81. Weiss, H. ‘Zaire: Collapsed Society, Surviving State, Future Polity’, in I. W. Zartman, ed., Collapsed States, Boulder, CO, and London, Lynne Rienner, 1995, pp. 157–70. 82. Tom Warner, ‘From the Editor’s Desk’, Kyiv Post, 25 February 1999. 83. V. Zablotsky, ‘Center–Regional Relations’. 84. ‘Ukraine: Plenty of Plots, not Much Reform’, Economist, 19–25 October 2000; Oleg Varfolomeyev, ‘Ukraine: Kuchma’s Man’, TOL, 22–28 May 2001. 85 Stefan Korshak, ‘Candidates’ Teams Circle for the Spoils’, Kyiv Post, 28 October 1999.

4

Criminal Social Structures and Normative Society in Russia Today: A Growing Interaction IGOR SLEDZEVSKY

A decade of ‘market economy’-oriented reforms seems to have failed to transform Russia into a ‘normal’ capitalist country. Obviously the crucial conditions for the development of civil society are either weak or lacking altogether, since none of its prerequisites – liberal democracy, a state ruled by law, legal private business, secure private property – exists in Russia today. Instead of a civil society a social entity exists that is problematic in its nature and tendencies of development. One of the major problematic spheres is the essential role played by the illegal sector of the economy, criminal communities and corruption in post-Soviet Russia. Criminality and corruption tend, by the logic of their development, to integrate with society. Today, criminal authorities protect business people, settle relations between businessmen and officials, help to secure employment and manage social conflicts. The criminalisation of Russian society is inseparable from the social changes it has been undergoing. The question is how and with what consequences have the criminal communities become involved in the process of market modernisation? So far two explanations have been offered. One alludes to the historical tradition in which power and property, private and public life are closely interconnected. Hence it is regarded as a matter of a backward cultural and historical environment unfavourable to social changes. Such a point of view was expressed by Thomas Graham of the Carnegie Foundation during the hearings on ‘Corruption in Russia and the Future of US Policy’ at the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations on 30 September 1999.1 The other regards illegal activities as part and parcel of the very process of market modernisation in Russia. It refers to a particular kind of interaction between corporate and political oligarchies, the former controlling property and the latter exercising power. This view prevails among Russian political scientists. According to this approach, corruption

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and organised crime in Russia can hardly be perceived as mere consequences of power and property, but are, rather, visualised as organic elements immanent to them. Both explanations are too simplistic. While concentrating on the relationship between power and property in the process of modernisation, for example, they dodge the question of the nature of reproduction of culture and socialisation in post-Soviet Russia. Perhaps one might have agreed to such an approach were the normative legal society and the criminal community separated by a determining barrier of legal, moral and cultural standards. Then, one could talk about criminal and shadow structures forming an asocial marginal bloc and not trespassing on this critical barrier. It is evident, however, that in Russia the barrier in question was crushed long ago. Hence a more complicated model is needed, which would take into account the dynamic relationship between criminal structures and corruption on the one hand, and methods, or ways of socio-cultural self-organisation, on the other. Now, one is bound to consider present-day Russian criminality as a particular social phenomenon. It is evident that social changes are to a considerable extent generated by the criminalised and corrupted environment because they are controlled and regulated by criminal groups. Hence the given specific environment becomes a particular normative and symbolic milieu of change. Criminal hierarchic standards, attitudes towards the state and the authorities, rules of intercourse, models of conduct, all of these penetrate society at large and become legalised as distributive means of social practices. Three main reasons are at the base of these propositions. First, the shadow (black) sector plays a key role in the economy of the country. By some estimates, it generates over 40 per cent of Russia’s GDP (the corresponding share in the West is 5 to 10 per cent). If one-third of the GDP is produced outside the legal space, then legitimate methods and means of social reproduction inevitably give way to illegal, or partially criminal structures. As a result, shadow and criminal activities spread far and wide outside the peripheral sections of society. The aggressive advance of this social periphery gains momentum due to the commercialisation of the state budget and to widely practised political corruption. According to Yuri Boldyrev, the logic of the practice of power in Russia in the last year of Yeltsyn’s regime (1999) consisted […] exclusively of dispensing with one of the remaining ‘lumps’ of public property or another to ‘one’s own people’. […] lately, corruption has been openly acknowledged, if not stimulated, thus being at one and the same time both one of the veiled mechanisms of control and a way to secure one’s own safety and remaining in office.2

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Second, public morals and culture are in decay. Social values, norms and meanings affected by destabilisation are being compensated for by a non-formal milieu of intercourse. Within this milieu the border between legal and illegal, between permitted and unacceptable, is becoming eroded. Social roles and functions characteristic of modern civilised society start to be assessed in terms of the ‘one’s own’ vs. ‘alien’ attitude. Public consciousness and ethics are becoming archaic. The notion of ‘one’s own’ (singular and plural) is linked with notions such as ‘power’, ‘social order’, ‘the state’ and so on. Consequently, the contrast between the public and national style of life and the way of life of local parochial groups uncontrolled by the law has disappeared. Third, there is a strong tendency towards privatisation of the state. Managers of state enterprises have turned them private; officials are privatising functions of power and control. A privatised state does away with the last remaining differences between normative society and criminal communities. So, what type of socialisation and social changes are being introduced by the criminal community into ‘society at large’? The criminal world in Russia had formed its own type of socialisation long ago and has since lived guided by laws of its own. Its traditions go back to the Soviet period and the culture of its prisons and camps. The criminal groupings, which had never disappeared, have continuously interacted with each other, dividing territories and working out principles for settling conflicts. They have also developed a system of intra-group hierarchy and strict laws commanding relations with ‘aliens’ and the authorities in power. The criminal social community in the USSR reached both stability and adaptability to the changing conditions of life. Its spheres of influence expanded, involving both illegal business and legitimate authorities. Bosses of businesses unprotected by the law had to look for protection among criminal authorities. At the same time, the criminal communities developed a dialogue with law-enforcement agencies. A set of unwritten rules of the game and a common mechanism of redistributing profits of the private sector developed within a wide system of social relations. A kind of criminal isomorphism of mass cultural consciousness and everyday language evolved as well. Only the official ideology and the remains of high culture prevented this process from acquiring open legal forms. The Russian historian and specialist on culture studies Igor Yakovenko is right in his belief that the culture of the criminal world in post-Soviet Russia has undergone dramatic changes and that these changes have been facilitated by the fact that an asocial type of relations has gradually been substituted for specific social relations.3 The cult of squandering the spoils of robbery has become a thing of the past. The present-day leaders of the criminal world are striving to capitalise their amassed wealth. The

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former, a norm of non-co-operation with the authorities, whatever the circumstances, has now become obsolete. In previous times this particular norm was a sine qua non for a thief’s status (thieves forming the most esteemed stratum among Soviet criminals). The same applies to the prerequisite that a criminal boss must have no family. Nowadays, the bosses have families, children and accounts in Russian and foreign banks. They are in close contact with the authorities and strive to become involved in politics. The status of a criminal authority has become a property of a kind and can be bought. The obchak – the insurance fund of a criminal grouping – has been transformed into the private property of the managers. The future of the criminal social phenomenon in Russia is an issue of special importance. The process of socialisation and legalisation of the bosses of the criminal communities leads some scholars to come to the conclusion that at least the upper crust of these communities can, within time, become civilised and merge with the business elite. Some also voice the opinion that as the interests of the criminal bosses become increasingly identified with those of particular Russian regions, the more ‘advanced’ members of the criminal world might contribute to the development of ‘their’ areas and thus to the stabilisation of the social situation there. These conclusions are based on a fundamental flaw. The evolution of the criminal world, even under the favourable conditions of contemporary Russia, cannot be separated from the generic peculiarities of the criminal world, which is, after all, a periphery of modern civilisation and contemporary technological society. Criminal communities in Russia, their dynamic changes notwithstanding, are a syncretic social entity. This specific one combines a number of basic elements such as power and property, ideological and cultural (symbolic) functions, social roles and the individual. Typologically, the phenomenon under study is identical to socialisation and mentality of the archaic type. In Russia, this type of relations has a base in the archaic layers of both traditional and contemporary culture. It is further reinforced nowadays by the semi-archaic forms of consciousness and culture generated by conditions of crisis. The criminal world activates archaic mass consciousness and culture, while these provide it with socio-cultural support. The Soviet socio-cultural model was oriented towards obtaining a social syncretism, thus keeping up the forces of cultural inertia. Archaic norms and relations were reproduced on a wide scale in opposing spheres of culture, i.e. official and criminal, or semi-criminal cultures. The collapse of the Soviet model has made both cultures less syncretic, more flexible and open to change. But syncretism is still a long way from disintegration. The above-mentioned changes are rather a reflection of forced adjustment of the given type of culture to the demands of the global market and to the conditions of a deep social crisis. Even if developing,

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the system of relations described above tends to evolve towards feudallike property ownership concentrated in the hands of criminal and bureaucratic oligarchies of the Latin American or African type. Only the consistent modernisation and democratisation of public life under conditions of social and political stability can eliminate this type of relations. Such modernisation and democratisation need to elevate the role of the law and to prevent the pushing to the periphery of public life of a major part of the population. This process, in which the criminal type of socialisation is being integrated into the mass culture, society and power, is blocking the positive civilisational changes in Russia. The archaic substance of social transformation has not disappeared. Rather it has energetically been adapting to the current social changes. One can only hope that this negative process will not push Russia again to the periphery of the civilised world.

NOTES

1. 2. 3.

T. Graham, ‘Korruptsiia v Rossii i politike SShA (vystuplenie na slushaniiakh komiteta po inostrannym delam Senata)’, Politika, 1999, No. 3. Nezavisimaia gazeta, 15 December 1999. I. G. Iakovenko, ‘Tsivilizatsiia i varvarstvo v istorii Rossii [Civilisation and Barbarism in the History of Russia]’, Part 4: ‘Gosudarstvennaia vlast i ‘blatnoi mir’, [the State Authorities and the ‘Criminal World’]’, Obshchestvennye nauki i sovremennost, 1996, No. 4.

5

Peronist Nationalism and the Hispanic Heritage in Argentina RAANAN REIN

This chapter intends briefly to explore Perón’s efforts to refashion Argentina’s national consciousness and the role which the Peronists assigned to Spanish colonialism and Hispanic civilisation in the shaping of the nation’s identity. Throughout the twentieth century most Latin American states were obliged to contend with two challenges: modernisation and development, and the growing hegemony of the United States in the American continent. Each state strove to achieve national integration and to forge a national identity that would help it cope with these challenges and put an end to its economic dependence on Great Britain and the United States. Most of them attempted to instal myths of a shared ethnic origin that would unite all the members of the community in a sort of extended family, joined by blood and a common destiny. Each nation, however, differed in its internal struggle over the actual nature and contents to be integrated in its identity and national consciousness, or over the mythical heritage that was to underpin the attempts to create a unified national entity. Mexico and Peru exemplified one model of that process. Both had the cultural option of turning to a glorious Indian past: the Aztec and Inca empires, respectively. Twentieth-century Mexico and Peru, like many other countries, were in search of a national identity that would reconcile the changes necessitated by the modern age with their traditional representation of the past. The populist nationalism that developed in these countries sought, and found, both an intellectual and a popular basis by extolling the pre-Columbian Indian past.1 Therefore, the remote ethnic past was used by political leaders in these countries in various stages of modernisation. These leaders resorted to the myth of common origin and history in order to legitimise innovations and development processes, and, at the same time, help to accelerate national integration. One of the central stated goals of the Mexican revolution had for decades been the integration of the indigenous population into national

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life. In order to achieve this goal the national history had to be rewritten and the distant pre-colonial past rediscovered. In the hope of bridging the huge gap that separated its glorious past from its much less glorious present, Mexico had, beginning in the 1920s, developed a cultural nationalism. Aztec mythology and its religious pantheon served to encourage archaeology and the re-evaluation of the Amerindian past. An important contribution in this direction was made by local artists, who gave their society an additional insight into Aztec history. Muralists like Diego Rivera, David Alfaro Siqueiros and José Clemente Orozco adopted the style of monumental painting, which had its origins in Mexico prior to the arrival of Hernán Cortés and the Spanish conquistadors. These murals glorified the indigenous population and its traditions as the real heroes of Mexican history, who had hitherto been unjustly relegated to a marginal place. These artistic works gave the masses a new interpretation of the past, creating in this way a visual memory that would help to solidify a new national identity.2 In Peru, the political party that has stood out in the second half of the twentieth century, the Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA), tried to appropriate the pre-Columbian past, especially the communal organisation of indigenous communities (ayllú), in order to confront the modernisation process and create a more just socio-economic structure. The ideology of APRA was shaped in the 1920s under the influences of the Mexican and Russian revolutions. Two prominent figures in this context were José Carlos Mariátegui and Raúl Haya de la Torre. Mariátegui tried to make Marxist and Sorelian ideas relevant to Peruvian social reality. He claimed that Inca civilisation was, in fact, an advanced form of an authentic social order. Therefore, he believed in the socialist potential of the Indians. According to Mariátegui, socialism in modern Peru, with its population largely composed of Indians and mestizos, meant indigenismo: the resurrection of the social institutions of the native population and the search for Peruvian national roots in Indoamérica.3 This nativist revolutionary terminology, however, was feasible only in societies that had arisen from the ruins of a rich indigenous culture, a condition that did not exist in Argentina. There, the parameters of the debate on national identity, dictated by the hegemonic culture of Buenos Aires, were necessarily different. Consequently, the quest for national identity also followed a different model. The Indians in Argentina were the remainders of the sparse native population that had inhabited the Río de la Plata region prior to the arrival of the Spaniards, and had never developed a culture comparable to those of the Aztecs and the Incas. Furthermore, some of the Indians who had survived up to the period of independence were later exterminated by various governments of the republic. To Argentina’s founding fathers, the colonial period, the Indians and the gauchos were all symbols of barbarism and obstacles to the development of a modern civilisation.4 This absence of an indigenous tradition

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led the Argentines to exalt European – especially French and Anglo-Saxon – culture. This effect was reinforced by Argentina’s demographic sparseness, which led to an immigration policy that changed the face of the country.5 These, then, were the basic factors with which Juan Domingo Perón had to contend when he entered the presidential palace in mid-1946.

RETURN TO HISPANIC ROOTS

Perón entered the Casa Rosada with a declared allegiance to three principles, slogans about social justice apart: he promised to consolidate his country’s political sovereignty, to reject any external intervention in Argentina’s domestic affairs, and to launch a campaign to secure the republic’s economic independence, which was the sole guarantee of complete national independence. Indeed, from the very beginning of his presidency, Perón adopted a policy destined to put an end to the semi-colonial character of Argentina’s economy. This was based on a programme of industrialisation, liquidation of foreign control over transportation and public services, development of a merchant marine, and so on. However, the self-christened justicialista (from the word justicia, justice) regime pretended to do more than merely reduce Argentina’s traditional political and economic dependence on Britain and the United States. It also intended to free the country of the London- and Parisoriented cultural attitudes of the intellectual elites and the veteran oligarchy – both hostile to the regime.6 Thus, Perón’s desire to win greater independence for his country was also reflected in his efforts to forge a new national consciousness centred on the Hispanic and the Catholic heritage and local culture. In November 1947 Perón delivered an important speech before a group of Argentinean intellectuals, most of them Catholic and Hispanophiles belonging to the extreme right. In it he stressed that it was up to the government – with the co-operation of intellectuals like those in the audience – to orient the nation’s culture, so that we will not keep implementing in our country things which are contrary to our unique propensity, to our race, to our religion, and to our language, and accordingly we must impose our culture. […] Today it seems that the arts and literature are not state activities and are delegated to whoever feels like doing one thing or another. Accordingly, the state must lend its own orientation to these aspects, set goals and supervise performance to see whether they [the goals] are achieved or not.7


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Thus, in his attempt to free the country of galling neo-colonial ties, Perón was willing to use an already exorcised Spanish colonial past and include the Hispanic legacy in the new Argentinean identity. Turning to the Spanish heritage was not a new phenomenon in the intellectual tradition of Argentina. Calls for a return to the values of Hispanism and Catholicism in order to ensure national integration and the nation’s identity had been heard in Argentina since the beginning of the twentieth century. These had increased in the 1930s, especially among Catholic nationalists of the extreme right.8 But no pre-Second World War Argentinean government had publicly adopted Spain and Hispanidad.9 To be sure, Perón’s strategy intended also to serve immediate political goals. The president conducted, in the later 1940s, an independent foreign policy, which did not ‘bow to the dictates’ of either Washington or Moscow, and forged an alliance with the government of General Francisco Franco. Argentina was thus practically the only state to support Franco’s Spain, which had become isolated and ostracised by the international community, in the post-war period.10 Perón enveloped the economic and political relations with Spain in a great deal of talk about the historical, cultural and spiritual bonds between Argentina and the ‘madre patria’ (motherland). On the face of it, this rhetoric was only an ideological justification for the close ties with the Spanish dictatorship, so unpopular in the American continent in those days. At the same time, one should not discard the possibility that by adopting Hispanidad and praising Spain’s colonisation of and settlement in the American continent Perón was trying to instil in the classic immigration society of Argentina a renewed myth of common descent and to create a kind of ethno-national heritage or identity. According to it, the Argentineans were members of one extended Hispanic family and not an ethnically heterogeneous society. Experience in other places has shown that the creation of such a myth of common descent can be done without its having any base in factual history. Political leaders of different countries and with different ideological convictions have not hesitated to use the myth of shared blood when seeking to mobilise popular support. Peronism adopted, therefore, a certain interpretation of the past in order to legitimise its actions in the present and to secure its future. Perón’s populist regime was a reaction to decades of oligarchic rule. While the latter had under the cover of economic liberalism based the economy on agriculture, cattle-breeding, and complementary trade with Britain, Perón aspired to a modern, urban, industrial society. These measures entailed an explicit declaration of cultural and ideological independence, and the creation of cultural ‘authenticity’.11 The most appropriate occasion to extol the Spanish contribution to Latin American culture came on 12 October, Hispanidad Day (or the Día de la Raza, as it was called in Argentina).12 The Peróns added weight to

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the celebrations of the first Hispanidad Day after Perón’s election (12 October 1947) in the capital by attending several in person. Perón used the opportunity to praise Spain in several speeches, the most important of which he delivered at the Argentine Academy of Arts on the occasion of Hispanidad Day and the four hundredth aniversary of the birth of the Spanish author, Miguel de Cervantes. He extolled the Spanish heritage in America and ‘the spiritual treasury that contains Cervantes’s great work, the passionate, brilliant sum and essence of the immortal genius of Spain’. In his words, ‘history, religion, and language put us on the map of Western and Latin culture, through its Hispanic aspect, in which heroism and nobility, asceticism and spiritualism reach their most sublime proportions’. He went on to explain how important it was to recognise the roots of the past in order to meet the challenges of the future, and warned that if Spanish America forgot the tradition enriching its spirit, if it removed itself from the humanist framework Catholicism had established for it, and denied Spain, then it would immediately be left with neither internal unity nor a deeper spiritual dimension.13 Large portions of the speech were published by both the Spanish and the Argentinean press. The Spanish foreign minister hurried to thank the Argentinean ruler for expressing such fervent ‘Hispanic faith’ and extolling common values. Spain’s consul-general in Buenos Aires, in turn, advised the Madrid government to print the speech in a pamphlet and distribute it throughout the American continent. Within a few weeks some 100,000 copies of the speech had been printed. The Francoist government hoped that disseminating the speech throughout Latin America would help make the climate of opinion on the continent more favourable to Madrid. In any case, Perón had already established himself as Hispanidad’s principal standard-bearer in America.14 A few weeks later, when he received the title of doctor honoris causa from the universities of his country, Perón explained that the centuries of ingratitude and forgetfulness of the Argentinean nation towards Spain had passed: ‘We, your predilect children, have engraved on all our universities the legend: “The sun will never set on our Hispanic culture”.’15 The use of the Hispanic heritage as part of this cultural strategy was evident in the schooling system. One of the heads of the Ministry of Education, Jorge Pedro Arizaga, observed during a visit to Madrid that the history of the pedagogic orientation in Argentina had gone through three phases. The first phase was characterised by the dominance of everything to do with Spain. In the second, positivism swept the Spanish orientation away to make way for ‘miserable, foreign’ influences. The third phase, which Argentina was now entering into under the leadership of Perón, was a process of dropping those ‘mistakes’ and of returning to the core of the Spanish spirit.16


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Peronist textbooks presented everything connected with the colonial period – the European ‘discovery’ of America, America’s conquest and settlement by Spain – in a positive light. A decision adopted by the Academia de la Historia in late 1948 expressed this new ‘phase’. Encouraged by the government, the academy urged historians, researchers, and authors of textbooks who dealt with Latin American and Argentine history not to fall prey to the ‘black legend’ when discussing the period from the sixteenth century to the first quarter of the nineteenth century. This period was no longer to be referred to as ‘the colonial period’, but rather ‘the Hispanic period’.17 The Peronist daily El Líder explained to its readers that the Spanish American countries had never been colonies. Rather, they had been overseas provinces regarded by Spain as an organic and inseparable part of the Spanish kingdom and had enjoyed equal rights to all other provinces.18 Perón used a great variety of ceremonies and symbols in order to create a new historical memory. One of the more striking among them was the decision to bring from Spain for reburial in Buenos Aires the remains of Gregoria Matorras and don Juan de San Martín, the parents of the main hero of Argentine’s independence, General José de San Martín. In this way Perón linked the ties between Spain and its American daughter to the cult of San Martín, a cult he emphasised more than his predecessors had, thus further encouraging the comparison between himself and the Libertador.19 The Argentinean press rallied to impress the meaning of this action upon public opinion and invited the citizens to take part in the ceremonies. Among the more strident was the newspaper Democracia, closely identified with Evita, who had shortly before returned from her triumphant visit to Spain.20 In order to guarantee massive attendance at these events, the regime encouraged various organisations, both in the provinces and in the capital, to send delegates. It was decided that on 25 November work in all public offices was to stop at noon, so that the employees would be able to attend the events in honour of Gregoria Matorras and don Juan de San Martín. A resolution of the Schools General Authority instructed that school representatives also be present at the ceremonies. Thus, when the training ship La Argentina, carrying the caskets of San Martín’s parents, docked in Dársena Norte on 25 November, a large crowd awaited it. It was an event with obvious political overtones. The people of Buenos Aires were treated to an affair of great pomp, which underscored the nationalist, military, religious and popular aspects that symbolised the different dimensions of the essence of the ideological identity of the Peronist regime. A presidential decree ordered that on 24 and 25 November the flag be lowered to half-mast in all army barracks, ships, forts and government buildings. The ship was met by official representatives, headed by the minister of war and president of the reception commission,

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Humberto Sosa Molina, and saluted by guns. Then the coffins were loaded on to a ‘Ñandú’ jeep (which the newspapers stressed had been manufactured completely in Argentina) and the entourage left for Plaza de Mayo, where Perón, Vice President Quijano, the government ministers, Cardinal Copello and high-ranking civil, military and ecclesiastical officials awaited it in the cathedral. As the cortège passed, the bells of the Cabildo and nearby churches rang, military bands played funeral marches and a formation of air-force planes flew overhead. Following the ceremony in the cathedral, which included a ‘patriotic and emotional’ speech by Perón, the public was allowed in to pay homage to the remains of San Martín’s parents. On the following day the ashes were transferred to the mausoleum in Recoleta, where they were covered with a mixture of Argentinean and Spanish soil.21 All the other, above-mentioned motives apart, the commemoration ceremony seems to have had a value of its own. By performing it the authorities seem to have intended to convey the message of the importance of massive rallying around a common cause. Clearly, the affair was meant as a show of solidarity by the Argentinean people and was presented as a plebiscite of a kind: the massive attendance by members of all social classes was presented as though the people, ‘through their attendance’, were voting for Perón’s regime all over again.

REJECTION OF HISPANIDAD

During the early years of Peronism, i.e., the late 1940s, the regime tried to establish an equation, according to which opposition to close ties with Spain meant betraying Argentinean nationalism. This trend changed in 1949, however. That year relations between Peronist Argentina and Francoist Spain started to deteriorate, followed by a gradual trend towards explicit rejection of various elements of Hispanidad. To start with, the attempt to create a myth of a common ethnic origin, a fiction intended to weld Argentinean society together, generated resistance. Argentina was (and is) a society of immigrants, a mosaic of different ethnic groups, and therefore unsuitable ground in which to sow such a myth of a national-ethnic identity. Furthermore, the ideas of Hispanidad were accepted with many reservations in Argentina because it touched upon a general problem in the relations between ex-colonies and the former colonial power. In this particular case, the concept of Hispanidad had always claimed pre-eminence for Spain over the Latin American republics. Even when the Spaniards began, after the Second World War, to talk of a commonwealth of Hispanic nations with equal rights, they were still unable to relinquish the patronising tone characteristic of the ideas of Hispanidad. All they did was to alter the terminology. For instance, the concept of Spain as the ‘elder sister’ in the Hispanic


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family replaced that of Spain as the ‘mother’ who had given birth to the Hispano-American nations. Finally, Hispanidad was identified at the time with Francoist Spain, and the opposition to the Iberian dictatorship in Argentina was widespread.22 As long as strong economic and political ties connected the two countries to each other, official policy quelled the various misgivings inspired by the doctrine of Hispanidad. But once the economic relationship had reached nearly complete paralysis and Spain, in an effort to cultivate closer ties with the United States, no longer needed Argentina, Hispanidad detractors began to speak up. Moreover, the increasingly authoritarian character of the Peronist regime ruled out any partial loyalty to outside centres of power, be they Spain or the Vatican. The Argentineans’ first grievance was the Spaniards’ evident lack of interest in the affairs of Argentina and their disregard for the country’s history and specific characteristics. The year 1950 – the centenary of the death of General José de San Martín – was declared in Argentina Año del Libertador (Year of the Liberator), and the government did its best to surround the events glorifying the national hero with as much fanfare as possible. The almost total failure of the Spanish press to address San Martín’s lifework was a source of great annoyance in Buenos Aires, even though it was perfectly understandable: after all, as the ambassador in Madrid at the time remarked, ‘the Spaniards cannot forget that Don José de San Martín, Emancipator of America, was one of the executive arms of the death sentence passed on Spanish hegemony in the world’.23 Still, it took about a year for the trend towards explicit rejection of the various elements of Hispanidad to begin. In April 1951 the Spanish embassy in Washington published a communication stressing the spiritual significance of the discovery and conquest of America by Spain and Portugal, who had carried the Christian civilisation to the New World. These comments on the ‘Iberian epic on American soil’ and the continuity of Hispanic civilisation in Latin America were published in response to a speech by the French president, Vincent Auriol, during his visit to the United States. Auriol referred to his country’s contribution to the development of the Latin American republics. The Spaniards were offended because he failed to mention the Iberian countries’ historic role in the continent. The statement they issued in response was, in fact, but one of the many similar publications that appeared in Spain in those years, but the Peronist press seized on it as an opportunity for a heavy anti-Spanish offensive. Crítica, Noticias Gráficas, La Epoca and El Laborista censured, in a wellorchestrated unison, what they called an undisguised ambition to tutelage over Latin America. They emphasised that Argentina was a mosaic of different races and cultural influences. ‘We are mature, free, and sovereign,’ they claimed, and ‘not Iberic at all, but rather Latin, very Latin’. By the same token they rejected the terms ‘Hispanic America’ and ‘Iberian

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America’, preferred by the Spaniards, in favour of ‘Latin America’. The Peronist newspapers advised Madrid to concentrate on the recent past – that is, the debt to Argentina for the latter’s food shipments to famished Spain – rather than on the distant history of discovery, conquest and colonisation of America.24 Now it was the Spaniards’ turn to fulminate and return the fire. After all, to the Spaniards, the Washington embassy’s statement reflected a historical reality that could not be denied. In an editorial entitled ‘Nationalistic Hypertrophy in Argentina’, ABC castigated the Argentineans’ unbridled, unjustified, and sterile nationalism. 25 This was the first time that ABC, then the most serious and prestigious Spanish newspaper, directly attacked Argentina and Peronism. In the following years the newspaper printed with increasing frequency critical commentaries on events in the Latin American republic and reports on the social and economic problems there. At the end of 1952, Perón presented his second Five-Year Plan to the Argentine Congress. The cultural section of the programme focused on the creation of a national Argentinean culture, and immediately aroused the ire of the Spaniards, who sensed the implicit threat to Spain’s deeply rooted cultural influence on Argentina. Again it was the turn of ABC to transmit the protest. In a theoretical article that never mentioned Argentina by name but left no doubt as to its target, the newspaper spoke out against cultural nationalism. The article supported its thesis with a series of arguments, some of which made the Franco regime’s cultural efforts look ridiculous as well. It claimed that culture could not be divided like a piece of land, but was like the Olympic torch that was passed on from generation to generation. All cultural chauvinism, the article maintained, implicitly negated the absolute value of culture by confusing it with folklore or an aspiration to cultural monopoly, which was an absurd and – fortunately – impossible mission. Since the modern world was characterised by co-operation and mutual influences, any attempt by nations influenced by Western culture to cut themselves off from that culture would be ‘absurd and infantile’.26 Yet to the Spaniards the most infuriating part of the Five-Year Plan was the clause calling for the development of Argentinean literature through the creation of national language patterns. This endeavour was to be facilitated by the establishment of a national academy of the language, which would compile a national dictionary containing the terms typical of the various regions of Argentina and Latin America.27 The minister for technical affairs, Raúl Mende, who read the Five-Year Plan to the Congress, explained to the deputies that language was the primary means of integrating national culture. There was no intention of creating a separate Argentinean idiom, but rather a desire to be autonomous in the field of language. New words had gained currency in Argentinean society, which did not appear in the official dictionaries


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of the Spanish language. His main example was the term justicialismo, coined by Perón and absent from the dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy.28 Mende explained that this clause in the Five-Year Plan reflected an attempt to give national content and significance to the language of the Argentineans. Just as the central bank supervised the currency of the republic, so an academy of the language was needed to supervise the words used there.29 This issue of language is all the more interesting, since language had not been an element separating the elites of the former colonies of Spain from their imperial metropolis. The attempts to think in terms of creating linguistic particularity in Latin America had been rare indeed.30 One of those was the proposition by Juan María Gutiérrez, one of the intellectuals of the ‘Generation of 1837’ in Argentina, that if we have gained political independence from Spain, and if there is no political independence without cultural independence, and if the vehicle of culture is language, than in order to become really independent we must obviously abandon Spanish, the language of subjugation, and adopt a language of independence.31 The dissociation from Hispanidad reached a peak about a year later in a manual for the Peronist Party members. While in 1948, when relations between Spain and Argentina were at their apex, the Academia Nacional de la Historia urged historians to use the term ‘Hispanic period’ instead of the common ‘colonial period’, now, in 1954, the official manual of the ruling party opened with a description of the violent subjugation of America by the conquistadores, who had brutally oppressed and exploited the indigenous population. These conquistadores, it stated, had come to America to get rich quickly and easily, and wanted to exploit the continent’s lands and inhabitants solely for their own benefit. The Indians led a miserable existence throughout the colonial period; many were so shamefully treated that they lost their lives. The period of Spanish rule witnessed the advent of the exploiting oligarchy, of injustice, the abuse of man by his fellow man, and other ills. Not a word was mentioned about Spain as the mother of nations, who had endowed them with culture, language, religion and glorious traditions.32 This manual reads more like Ezequiel Martínez Estrada’s accusations against Spain and its colonial legacy in his Radiografía de la pampa (1933) than as a publication of a party that, several years earlier, had praised Spain’s contribution to Latin American civilisation. This is definitely an outstanding example of the way national historiography was harnessed for shifting political needs, and of the cynical use of cultural strategies by Perón. He had been quick to adopt a campaign emphasising his country’s Hispanic roots, and with equal speed and capriciousness he jettisoned it out of narrow political considerations.

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LATINIDAD

– AN ALTERNATIVE TO HISPANIDAD

But the final rupture with Hispanidad came in late 1954. During the last months of that year, Perón initiated a campaign against the Catholic Church and instructed the press to launch a full-scale attack on Franco’s Spain. He extolled the concept of Latinidad, i.e., Argentina’s special ties with the Latin countries of Europe – Italy, France and Spain – and almost completely disregarded the Hispanic tradition. The reasons for the deterioration in the relations with both Spain and the Catholic Church are beyond the scope of this article. The outburst of friendship for Italy and the espousal of Latinidad, however, do require an explanation here. In order to answer the question of why Perón chose Latinidad as an alternative to Hispanidad, one has to bear in mind that in view of the cultural repertoire available to him at that historic juncture, he had no alternative strategy for shaping Argentina’s national consciousness. Unlike Peru or Mexico, Indoamerica was not an option for Argentina. Pan-Americanism was similarly a non-choice. Argentina had traditionally opposed the hegemonic aspirations of the United States in the American continent and had always been suspicious of Washington’s intentions to use the Pan-American system to this end. Furthermore, Perón’s relations with Washington were far from harmonious.33 Emphasising ties with Britain was also out of the question, since these had characterised the oligarchic rule Perón was determined to eliminate. Having rejected the exclusive option of Hispanidad, the only alternative left was that of Latinidad. However, this option had its advantages as well: first, like its predecessor it challenged the traditional cultural orientation of Argentina and its dependence on the Anglo-Saxon capitalist system. Second, it could be attractive to wide sectors of Argentine society, since it appealed to the two major ethnic groups – those of Italian and of Spanish origin – and was a wide enough idea not to be associated with a specific regime, unlike Hispanidad, which was allied to the Francoist dictatorship. Third, it promised to generate support from other Latin American countries, where the concepts of Latinidad had often been discussed among local intellectuals searching for national and continental identities. For many, América Latina was a concept with a negative definition: it covered everything that was not Anglo-Saxon, white, Protestant, materialist North America. Adopting Latinidad was a way of confronting the so-called ‘Saxon imperial project’.34 Latinidad, therefore, more than Hispanidad, could very likely aid Argentina’s efforts to play a leading role in the continent. At the end of October 1954, a convention of the Asociación Argentina Amigos de Italia took place in Buenos Aires. Perón attended, accompanied by several ministers, and delivered a rousing speech in praise of Italy. He introduced himself as an Argentinean citizen of Italian descent, and


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as an Argentinean president representing the government and the people. He mentioned the aid his country had given Italy in the second half of the 1940s, and the fact that when Argentina’s economy had foundered, Italy had been ‘the only country in the world that came to our assistance’. He then went on to stress Italy’s heritage and contribution to Argentinean culture. ‘Relinquishing Latinidad in order to replace it with any other label would be like betraying ourselves,’ he said. ‘I will spare no effort so that our unity with Italy will grow stronger and deeper every day, for I know that in this way I am obeying the mandate of history.’35 The Peronist press gave the speech extensive coverage, and added its own comments on ‘the eternal ties of Latinidad’. Perón was portrayed as having been a courageous friend of Italy from the beginning of his presidency; the proofs being the food shipments he had sent to Italy after the Second World War, his efforts to get Italy admitted to the United Nations, and Argentina’s acceptance of large numbers of Italian immigrants. The papers reiterated the claim that in 1951–52, when Argentina had been stricken by drought and economic hardship Italy had been the only country to come to its aid with offers of credit. And, as La Prensa pointed out, it had not been Italy that had received the most from Argentina – an unsubtle allusion to Spain’s ingratitude in not making the slightest effort to help Argentina. Italian workers had come to contribute to the development of Argentine industry, the newspaper wrote, this time hinting at the obstacles the Franco regime had put in the way of the emigration of skilled workers to Argentina. The Spaniards viewed this speech as a double affront. First, it carried a veiled accusation that Spain, unlike Italy, had turned its back on Argentina when the latter was in trouble. Second, and more important, it showed that ‘the champion of Hispanidad in America’ had decided to drop the flag of Hispanidad, destroying any illusions the Spaniards still nourished about regaining Madrid’s leading cultural role in Argentina. Spain viewed any speech Perón made in praise of Italy and Latinidad as hostile to Spain and Hispanidad, even if the latter were not directly mentioned.36 In mid-November, the congress of the Sociedades Italianas en la Republica Argentina (FEDITALIA) was held in Buenos Aires. At the opening ceremony, the president was given a gold plate engraved with a sentence he had uttered two weeks earlier: ‘We have all drunk from that eternal spring that was Rome, and we continue to drink from that eternal spring that is Latinidad.’ This time, Perón delivered his speech in Italian, to the cheers of the crowd. The speech itself was an acclamation to Latinidad as the basic culture of Argentina: ‘The history of Italy’s struggles and suffering is part of our history, since we are intimately bound to her by indestructible ties of race and culture.’37 The following day, La Prensa called upon all the teachers, educators, and shapers of the Argentinean mentality to take Perón’s speech as a guide.

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Enthusiasm for Latinidad in Peronist Argentina was short-lived, however, and after the fall of Perón in September 1955, his ‘Latin adventure’ did not leave its mark on Argentinean society. At the same time, not much was left of Hispanidad either.38 In other words, ten years are not a long enough period for reshaping a nation’s identity, especially when two different projects are involved in such a short time. But, two facts are important in the context of this chapter: Perón was well aware that, in order to ensure the success of his plans for modernisation and industrialisation, he should also endeavour to refashion a new and alternative national identity for his country; and he failed to achieve it.

NOTES

1. On the attempts of various national movements to create myths of shared ethnic origin see, for example, Anthony Smith, ‘Nacionalismo e indigenismo: la búsqueda de un pasado auténtico’, Estudios lnterdisciplinarios de América Latina y el Caribe (hereafter EIAL), Vol. l, No. 2, 1990, pp. 5–17; idem, ‘National Identity and Myths of Ethnic Descent’, Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, No. 7, 1984, pp. 95–130; Walker Connor, ‘Ethnonationalism’, in M. Weiner and S. Huntington, eds, Understanding Political Development, Boston, MA, 1987, pp. 196–220. 2. G. Masur, Nationalism in Latin America, New York, 1967, p. 81. On the muralists see, among others, Desmond Rochfort, Mexican Muralists: Orozco, Rivera, Siqueiros, San Francisco, CA, 1998; Carlos Pellicer and Rafael Carrillo Azpeilia, La pintura de la revolución mexicana, Mexico City, 1989; Antonio Rodríguez, A History of Mural Painting, New York, 1969. 3. On APRA, its ideology and leadership, see F. Bourricaud, Power and Society in Contemporary Peru, New York, 1967, Part II; Peter F. Klarén, Modernization, Dislocation, and Aprismo: Origins of the Peruvian Aprista Party, 1870–1932, Austin, TX, 1973; Steve Stein, Populism in Peru: The Emergence of the Masses and the Politics of Social Control, Madison, WI, 1980; Frederick B. Pike, The Politics of the Miraculous in Peru: Haya de la Torre and the Spiritualist Tradition, Lincoln, 1986. For an insightful study of Mariátegui, see Gerardo Leibner, El mito del socialismo indígena en Mariátegui, Lima, 1999. 4. A clear expression of such a view can be seen in Domingo Faustino Sarmiento’s classic Facundo, better known as Civilización y barbarie, first published in 1845. Sarmiento was president of Argentina between 1868–74. 5. For details on the magnitude of immigration to Argentina from the mid-nineteenth century, see A. P. Whitaker, Argentina, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1964, pp. 53–5; Carl Solberg, Immigration and Nationalism: Argentina and Chile, 1890–1914, Austin, TX, 1970; Gino Germani, ‘Mass Immigration and Modernization in Argentina’, in Irving L. Horowitz, ed., Masses in Latin America, New York, 1970, pp. 306–27. 6. ‘If English was the language for business, French was the language of the soul and of pleasure …’ wrote Arturo Jauretche in his El medio pelo en la sociedad argentina, Buenos Aires, 1966, p. 77. The Spanish ambassador urged his country to start a cultural campaign in order to combat the dominant French influence on cultural life in Argentina – Spain, Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Madrid; hereafter: AMAE, R. 2418/1, Bulnes to MAE, 22 March 1946. 7. On Perón’s meeting with the intellectuals and the president’s speech, see US National Archives, Department of State, Record Group 59, College Park, MD, (hereafter: NA), 835.42/11-1847, Buenos Aires embassy to State Department, 18 November 1947. 8. David Rock, Authoritarian Argentina: The Nationalist Movement, Its History and Its Impact, Berkeley, CA, 1993; Marysa Navarro Gerassi, Los nacionalistas, Buenos Aires, 1968, ch. 7. 9. See Marisa González de Oleaga, ‘Panamericanismo e hispanidad en la política exterior argentina de la Segunda Guerra Mundial: la confrontación política en la creación de identidades colectivas’, EIAL, Vol. 5, No. 1, 1994, pp. 59–82. Hispanidad is defined in this article as traditional Hispanism in the more energetic, authoritarian and Catholicoriented version, as adopted by the Francoist dictatorship.


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10. On the relations between Argentina and Spain during Perón’s presidency, see Raanan Rein, The Franco–Perón Alliance: Relations between Spain and Argentina, 1946–1955, Pittsburgh, PA, 1993; Beatriz J. Figallo, El protocolo Perón-Franco, Buenos Aires, 1992; Mónica Quijada, ‘El comercio hispano-argentino y el protocolo Franco-Perón, 1939–1949. Origen, continuidad y Iímites de una relación hipertrofiada’, Ciclos, Vol. I, No. 1, 1991, pp. 5–40. 11. On populist movements in Latin America and their efforts to rehabilitate various aspects of popular culture and folklore, previously viewed with contempt by the European-oriented elites, see Michael L. Conniff, ed., Latin American Populism in Comparative Perspective, Albuquerque, NM, 1982, and idem, ed., Populism in Latin America, Tuscaloosa, AL, 1999. 12. The Día de la Raza (which was not racist in nature, but cultural) was instituted in Argentina by a decree published in October 1917 by President Hipólito Yrigoyen (1916–22). The text of the decree can be found in Embajada Argentina en España, España en el pensamiento de dos conductores argentinos: Perón e Yrigoyen, Madrid and Buenos Aires, 1974, p. 7. 13. La Nación, Buenos Aires, 13 October 1947; ABC, Madrid, 14 October 1947. 14. Spain, Archivo de Alberto Martín Artajo (Madrid) Suñer to Artajo, 14 October 1947; AMAE, R. 1453/1, Artajo to Areilza, 17 November 1947. During his exile in Madrid, Perón told the historian Félix Luna: ‘See, the men of government of this country follow two basic historical lines: the Hispanic line and the Anglo-Saxon line. All those who have presided over the country in the name of the Anglo-Saxon line, beginning with Posadas (1814–1815), have been Freemasons. […] Only three were not Masons: Juan Manuel de Rosas (1824–32, 1835–52), Hipólito Yrigoyen, and Juan Perón. […] In other words, the Hispanic line […] is the national line – for the other is the colonial line. […]’ – Félix Luna, El 45, Buenos Aires, 1969, p. 195, n. 18. 15. J. D. Perón, Cultura y universidad, Buenos Aires, 1974; NA, 852.42700/11-2147, Madrid Embassy to State Department, 21 November 1947. 16. ABC, 18 November 1948. On Argentinean schools and education under Perón, see Mónica Esti Rein, Politics and Education in Argentina, 1946–1962, Armonk, NY, 1998, chs 1–4; Mariano Plotkin, Mañana es San Perón: Propaganda, rituales políticos y educación en el régimen peronista, Buenos Aires, 1993; Carlos Escudé, El fracaso del proyecto argentino. Educación e ideología, Buenos Aires, 1990; Alberto Ciria, Política y cultura popular: la Argentina peronista, 1946–1955, Buenos Aires, 1983; Jorge Bernetti and Adriana Puiggrós, Peronismo: Cultura política y educación, Buenos Aires, 1993. 17. AMAE, R.2439138, Memoria anual de la Embajada en Bs. As. 1949; Archivo del Instituto de Cultura Hispánica, Madrid; hereafter ICH, 133/1735, Areilza to MAE, 3 January 1949; La Prensa, Buenos Aires, 22 December 1948; El Mundo, Buenos Aires, 23 December 1948. For an example of the way school textbooks referred to Spain, see ‘España civilizadora’, in: Auras Argentinas (Libro de leclura para tercer grado), Buenos Aires, 1954, p. 162. 18. ‘We were never a colony, we were always a city’ (editorial), El Líder, Buenos Aires, 13 October 1949. 19. AMAE, R.145311, Areilza to MAE, 25 November 1947; UK, Public Record Office, London; hereafter PRO, Foreign Office Papers FO 371/61163, Leeper to FO, 26 November 1947. On the efforts to portray Perón as a second San Martín, the economic Libertador of Argentina, see Ciria, Política y cultura popular, pp. 282–4. On the political and social role of state funerals, both as a unifying event and as a dividing one destined to marginalise certain groups, see Raanan Rein, ‘Música, exilio y memoria: la lucha por los restos de Manuel de Falla’, Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies, Vol. 2, No. 2, December 1996, pp. 22–39; Avner Ben-Amos, ‘‘Aux Grands Hommes, La Patrie Reconnaissante’: The French Revolution and the Emergence of Republican State Funerals’, Tel Aviver Jahrbuch für Deutsche Geschichte, Vol. 18, 1989, pp. 305–24; idem, ‘The Other World of Memory: State Funerals of the French III Republic as Rites of Commemoration’, History & Memory, Vol. 1, No. 1, 1989, pp. 85–108. 20. See, for example, Democracia, where the event was prominently displayed on the front page of various editions: 23 November, p. 3; 24 November, p. 1; 25 November, pp. 1–3; 26 November 1947, pp. 1–3. 21. About the ceremonies, see also AMAE, R.1453/1, Areilza to MAE, 25 November 1947. A cynical report can be found in PRO, FO371/61163, Leeper to FO, 26 November 1947. With regard to the cult of San Martín, it must be noted that, four years later, Perón also presided over the ceremonies on board the Pueyrredón upon the repatriation of the

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22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38.

Community, Identity and the State remains of the descendants of the ‘Gran Capitán’ (his daughter, his son-in-law and his granddaughter) – see El Mundo, 12 December 1951. On the Spanish dictatorship’s efforts to promote the militant, authoritarian and Catholic version of Hispanidad in Spanish America, see Lorenzo Delgado GómezEscalonilla, Imperio de papel: Acción cultural y política exterior durante el primer franquismo, Madrid, 1992. See Archivo del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores y Culto, Buenos Aires, División Política, Instituto Nacional Sanmartiniano, 34/28, 2do, ‘Memoria del año 1950 por el gral. Silva’, 20 July 1951 and Jordan to MREC, 30 August 1950. At the end of 1950, the Spaniards attempted to correct the distortion with a number of articles in the periodical Mundo Hispánico – ICH, 133/1735, Sánchez Bella to Navasqués, 5 December 1950. It should be mentioned that a satirical report in Time in December 1947 about the return of the remains of San Martín’s parents caused tension between Argentina and the USA – James Bruce, Those Perplexing Argentines, London, 1954, p. 25. See Crítica, Noticias Gráficas, and La Epoca, 2 April, and El Laborista, 3 April 1951 (all published in Buenos Aires). ABC, 11 April 1951; NA, 635.52/4-1351, Anderson to State Department, 13 April 1951. ABC, 11 January 1953. Presidencia de la Nación, Subsecretaría de Informaciones, Segundo Plan Quinquenal, Buenos Aires, n.d., pp. 72–3; Manual Práctico del Segundo Plan Quinquenal, Buenos Aires 1953, p. 86. AMAE, R.3576/29, Aznar to MAE, 5 December 1952. ABC, 30 December 1952, 11 January 1953. The first signs of the trend towards creating an Argentinian language had already been noticeable two years earlier – AMAE, R. 2973/20, Navasqués to MAE, 5 October 1950. At the Argentines’ urging, in 1950, the Academia Real de la Lengua (Royal Academy of Language) approved the terms Argentinidad and Sanmartiniano. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities, London, 1991, p. 47. Cited in Noé Jitrik, ‘Entre el ser y el siendo: identidad, latinidad y discurso’, in La latinidad y su sentido en América Latina, Mexico, D.F., 1986, pp. 89–96. On the Generation of 1837, see William H. Katra, The Argentine Generation of 1837, London, 1996. Manual del peronista, Buenos Aires, 1954, pp. 3–5. On Argentina–USA relations during the Peronist regime, see Joseph S. Tulchin, Argentina and the United States: A Conflicted Relationship, Boston, MA, 1990, ch. 7. Already at the Pan-American Conference of 1890, when explaining his opposition to an all-American customs union plan, Roque Sáenz Peña (the future president) said: ‘I cannot forget that in Europe are Spain, our mother; Italy, our friend; and France, our elder sister.’ Cited in Whitaker, Argentina, p. 63. Crítica, 31 October 1954; La Prensa and Democracia, Buenos Aires, 1 November 1954; AMAE, R.3585/22, Aznar to MAE, 6 November 1954. See, for example, AMAE, R.3585/22, ‘Notas sintéticas y confidenciales sobre la situación en la Argentina’, n.d. AMAE, R.3585/22, Aznar to MAE, 12 November 1954; La Prensa and Democracia, 12 November 1954. NA, 635.52/7-1656, O’Connor to State Department, 16 July 1956.

6

National and State Identity in Syria EYAL ZISSER

For many years, Syria’s late president, Hafiz al-Asad, used to start his meetings with Western guests with a long, and mostly boring, review of the modern history of the Middle East.1 The central, recurring motif in these reviews was ‘the guilt, or the sin of the West’. Asad claimed that the Western powers had for the preceding two centuries tried to prevent the Arab nation from taking its rightful place on the stage of history as a proud and prosperous, independent and unified nation. They had, thus, done everything in their power to keep the Arab nation backward, divided and devoid of any national, political or social consciousness, so that it remained under Western hegemony. Prime examples of this Western guilt, according to Asad, were the Sykes–Picot Agreement2 and the Balfour Declaration.3 The Balfour Declaration, which recognised the right of the Jews to establish their homeland in Palestine, that is in the southern part of the Syrian lands (Bilad al-Sham), and even more so the Sykes–Picot Agreement, were designed, in Asad’s view, to shatter the unity of the Arab world, first and foremost the unity of the Syrian lands, while ignoring the desire of its population for unity and independence. If the Sykes–Picot Agreement was the original sin, however, the new regional order established in the Middle East in the early 1920s should also be considered as such. After all, it was based on an Anglo-French understanding inspired by this agreement, and established territorial states in the Middle East such as Lebanon, Jordan as well as Iraq and, of course, Syria. Indeed, in the 1920s, most Syrians rejected the idea of the Syrian territorial state as established by France. They regarded it as yet another attempt by the West to fashion a new regional order that would ensure Western hegemony, completely ignoring the will of the population of the Syrian lands (most of whom tended at that time towards Arab unity or the idea of the unity of the Syrian lands). The Syrians thus questioned the legitimacy of their country and were sceptical of its ability to exist. The price of these doubts was paid by the Syrian regimes after the country had gained its independence in April 1946, mainly in the 1950s

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and 1960s. These regimes were unable to maintain stability for long periods of time and accordingly failed in their efforts to promote their state’s interests over pan-Arab interests.4 In view of this legitimacy problem it is evident why Syrian regimes over the years, and especially the regime of Hafiz al-Asad, have made every effort to anchor Syria’s existence in ‘Arabism’ and more precisely in the Arab-Islamic past of the Syrian lands. Indeed, it was in the early Islamic period that the term Bilad al-Sha′m (or Bar al-Sha′m) began to be widely used by the local population. This term had a geographic connotation containing within it present-day Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and Palestine/Israel. The term had clear Arab roots in the division of the pre-Islamic Arab world into three regions: Bilad al-Sham, Bilad al-‘Iraq (the Iraqi lands) and Bilad al-Yaman (the Arabian peninsula).5 Nevertheless, although the term Bilad al-Sham had mainly a geographic connotation, a series of events over thirteen centuries of Arab and Muslim history made Bilad al-Sham as distinct in its own right, at least in the collective memory and consciousness of its denizens. First, the Arab Umayyad dynasty, which ruled the Muslim Empire between c. 650 and 750, made Damascus its capital. It was only later that their heirs, the Abbasids, moved the seat of the caliphate to Iraq and, later still, made Baghdad their capital. Second, Bilad al-Sham was the site of two momentous battles in Arab and Islamic history: the rout of the Crusaders in 1187 at Horns of Hittin by Salah al-Din al-Ayyubi (1169–93), which augured the end of the Crusader presence in the region6 and the battle of ′Ayn Jalut in 1260, in which the future Mamluk Sultan Baibars (1260–77) defeated a Mongolian army and thus halted its invasion into the heart of the Arab and Islamic world. Third, at the turn of the twentieth century, the Arab national movement sprouted from Syrian soil, with Damascus at the centre.7 Still, until the establishment by the French of the present state of Syria, there had never existed a Syrian political entity in any of the territory known as Bilad al-Sham or – since the nineteenth century, owing clearly to Western influence – as Syria (geographical Syria). Furthermore, both before and during the Ottoman rule (1516–1918), the name Bilad al-Sham was a geographical term having no political significance. For a short time between 1864 and 1918 the term had administrative significance as well: that year some parts of the vilayet (province) of Aleppo were annexed to the vilayet of Damascus and it was renamed the vilayet of Syria.8 But the Syrian lands had also a pre-Islamic, and even a pre-Arab past. This past served as a source of inspiration to Western (mainly French) as well as some Syrian intellectuals who preached the establishment of a Syrian entity anchored in the historical and cultural heritage of the Syrian lands,9 prior to the arrival of the Arabs and Islam. Several of these

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thinkers went as far as to assert the existence of a Syrian civilisation – and even nation – which was the fusion of all the cultures and entities that had existed in this region for thousands of years. This nation, they argued, could with Western aid, and even sponsorship, renew its past within the framework of the Syrian state. The result – albeit indirect – of the writing and the intellectual activities of these thinkers was the establishment of the Syrian state by the French in the 1920s. The French, in order to promote their interests in the region and later to gain legitimacy for their presence there, promoted the idea of a Syrian nation and state. An example of the French way of thinking can be found in the writings of Henry Lammens (1862–1937), a Jesuit priest born in Belgium and residing in Beirut, who eventually became known as one of those preaching the establishment of a Syrian state. In 1921, at the request of the first French High Commissioner to the Levant, Henri Gourau, Lammens published his book on the history of Syria – La Syrie, Précis Historique – designed to lay the ideological foundation for the French presence in the Levant, under whose aegis the Syrian nation and state were to regain their former glory. The book offers a review of the history of the Syrian lands, joining these separated chapters of history to a dense historical narrative. It claims that Syria had always been a defined territorial unit with natural borders within which the Syrian nation was formed. Thus, this nation is neither Arab nor Muslim – and incidentally, not Christian either – but Syrian. In other words it constitutes the total of all the ancient civilisations that had existed in the Syrian lands throughout history.10 A similar concept, albeit of different background and having totally different objectives, was adopted by Antoun Sa′ada (1904–49), a Greek Orthodox born in Mount Lebanon who founded the Syrian National Party (PPS) in 1932. Sa′ada, who was influenced by the success of fascism and Nazism, believed in the existence of a Syrian nation, neither Arab nor Muslim, and preached the revival of this nation and the establishment of a Great Syrian State that would serve as its homeland. While continuing the concept of his predecessors, Sa′ada was one of the first to translate it into an ideology with a concrete political meaning. In 1938 he published a book called Nashu′ al-Umam (The Growth of Nations), which expressed his concept regarding the formation of the Syrian nation. In this book, and in a document known as ‘Eight Basic Principles of the Party’, Sa′ada described the Syrian nation as an organic entity separate from its surroundings with unique and lofty characteristics. This entity, according to Sa′ada, was created by the fusion of the territorial region of the ‘Syrian Fertile Crescent’ (al-Hilal al-Khasib al-Suri, which included Iraq and Cyprus as well) and the Syrian people – a collective created by the integration of ethnic groups that lived in the region such as Canaanites, Phoenicians, Acadians, Amorites, Hittites, Assyrians and Babylonians.11 In 1949, Sa′ada was executed by the Lebanese authorities for attempting

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to mount a military coup, but his party continued to enjoy a certain influence in Lebanon and even in Syria in the following years. Several Syrian leaders were connected with the party either as sympathisers or members. Thus ‘Arabism’ and ‘Syrianism’ were not only two sources from which Syrian consciousness or identity had been drawn. It would seem that they also signified the two extremes between which the Syrian public swung throughout the twentieth century: pan-Arabism, i.e. total commitment to the idea of Arab unity to the extent of the negation of a separate or independent Syrian entity on the one hand, and pan-Syrianism, i.e. total commitment to a separate Syrian identity and a great Syrian state within Syria’s natural geographic borders while negating, or at least ignoring or repressing the Arab and Islamic elements in this identity, on the other. Indeed, during the 1940s and 1950s, a struggle developed within the Syrian public between the supporters of ‘Arabism’ and the supporters of ‘Syrianism’ (the followers of Antoun Sa′ada). The latter enjoyed considerable support among the Syrian public, mainly among the minority communities. In 1955, however, at the height of the ‘struggle for Syria’ within the country’s political system, Sa′ada’s party was outlawed. Its members were persecuted and several of them even executed.12 In retrospect it appears that Sa′ada had waged a losing battle from the start. After all, since the collapse of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the First World War, the Syrian public had been intrigued by, and increasingly followed, pan-Arabism. However, it transpires that throughout Syria’s modern history, neither of these two concepts – pan-Arabism and pan-Syrianism – has been sufficient to shape a unique Syrian identity and to legitimise the territorial Syrian state. The use of the pre-Islamic, pre-Arab, past was not effective because for most of Syria’s population it was irrelevant. The attempt to establish the Syrian state as the heir to Bilad al-Sham was also rejected by the Syrian public because it had been created by the French; its area did not conform to the territory of the Syrian lands as conceptualised by its population for over a millennium of Arab and Islamic history; and for the first decades of its existence the Syrian state had been weak and unstable, and thus far from inspiring identification with and commitment to it. Furthermore, it also appears that its leaders’ attempts to tie it to its Arab-Muslim past only helped to blur the Syrian state’s uniqueness, thus increasing doubts as to its right to exist or, at least, its ability to continue to exist as an independent entity within its present borders. It is no wonder, therefore, that most Syrian leaders tended to search for a middle course integrating both ‘Arabism’ and ‘Syrianism’. Some of them can be characterised as Arab-Syrians since they granted priority and preference to the Arab identity and thus to the vision of Arab unity (although for lack of choice they were ready to come to terms with the


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existence of a separate Syrian state on condition that it be painted in Arab colours). The others – essentially the majority – could be characterised as Syrian-Arabs, since they granted priority and preference to the Syrian identity or the Syrian state, while (out of political convenience and, perhaps because of an authentic emotional commitment) enveloping it in the cloak of ‘Arabism’. In any event, during the first two or three decades of Syria’s independence its leaders had to manoeuvre between Arabism and Syrianism. But they did so at the price of an almost total obfuscation of any unique Syrian identity, since underscoring the affinity of the Syrian state to the Syrian lands – as well as the fact that Syria was an inseparable part of the Arab world surrounding it – emphasised its being part of a whole, which in no case stood by itself. Because of the state’s weakness, the Syrian population started to look for alternative sources of identity: either an initial, or basic identity, i.e. the family, then the tribal, ethnic or regional one, or conversely a supraidentity, that is pan-Arab, or even pan-Syrian, communist and Islamic. The attraction of these alternative identities, however, had diminished over the years. Pan-Arabism grew less important in the 1960s, while local identity weakened with the integration of the ethnic community into the life of the modern territorial Middle Eastern state that followed the development of its institutions. Thus, a three-tier identity has developed, which is forming and fashioning the personality of the Syrian citizen: family, tribe or ethnic community; state; and Arab identity, which is like an outer cover of the body. (Here is the place to note that at present Islam does not constitute an alternative framework of identification for most of the population in Syria. While it is true that there are wide circles, such as those Islamic groups that at one time revolted against the Syrian regime, that define themselves first and foremost as Muslims, for the members of the minority communities which comprise about 40 per cent of the Syrian population, as well as many of the members of the Sunni community, the Islamic identity has no relevance at all.) It would indeed appear that the accumulation of experiences during the eighty years of existence – and fifty of independence – of the state, assisted in forming and fashioning a unique, albeit weak and fragile Syrian-state identity with a structure of its own, even if the roots of this identity are anchored in the Arab-Islamic and even pre-Islamic past of the Syrian lands. After all, the residue of these years – the accumulation of eighty years long formative experiences and memories, personal as well as collective – contributed to the creation of a common denominator that is the basis for that feeling of loyalty and commitment to the Syrian state, and thus the basis for the initial budding of a Syrian state identity. During the Hafiz al-Asad era (1970–2000), this structure of a Syrian state identity or consciousness grew into a magnificent palace. The dramatic turnabout in Syria’s status under Asad – from a weak and unstable state to a regional power setting its sights on influence and

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hegemony over the countries surrounding it – lent considerable weight to the attempts to portray it as the heir to Bilad al-Sham, even if some of the parts of those lands were not yet under Damascus’s direct rule. It was this turnabout that allowed the regime to return to the golden ages in the past – Arab-Islamic and even pre-Islamic and pre-Arab – and subsequently to make it into a solid foundation for the Syrian state structure. After all, there are not that many Arab states that can brag about their past – even if it has been rewritten, or more correctly improved upon and ‘recruited’ – and claim to be the cradle of both world civilisation and ‘Arabism’. The past frustration and disappointment, one might say even impotence and despair, of the Syrian public with the Syrian state have been, thus, replaced by pride in both the accomplishments of the modern Syrian state and its past – improved upon and ‘recruited’ as it is. To this one must add the appearance of a sense of belonging, rooted in the increasingly central role played by the state, especially over the last thirty years, in the life of the individual – first and foremost in dayto-day living in everything that has to do with the socio-economic sphere, but also in everything that has to do with consciousness and historical memory – both the personal and the collective.

THE COMPONENTS OF THE SYRIAN STATE IDENTITY

What are the strata of the national-state identity of the Syrians? As outlined above, this identity reflects commitment, identification and even a sense of loyalty to the Syrian state, which germinated over the years, thanks to no small extent to the efforts by the Syrian regime by means of its sub-agents – the media, the educational system and even the state and party institutions – to shape a state consciousness or even identity in a place where no such consciousness or identity had ever existed.

Arab Syria Even today, Syria makes a point of portraying itself as an Arab state, which has grown out of ‘Arabism’ and has been inexorably attached to it, since without ‘Arabism’ Syria has no existence. Thus the Syrians take care to call their state ‘the Syrian Arab Region’ (al-Qutr al-‘Arabi al-Suri) i.e. a region (qutr) that is part of the whole – ‘the Arab Homeland’ (Al-Watan al-‘Arabi). The sources of ‘Arabism’, or more precisely Syrian ‘Arabism’, which nourish the Syrian state are listed below: First, the Umayyad period, in the course of which the Arab-Islamic empire was ruled from Damascus. It was in this period that Syria’s central position in the region around it, and in effect in the entire Arab world, was determined. Moreover, it would appear that there is someone


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in Damascus who wishes to present this period as the beginning of the Syrian political entity. When the Syrian defence minister, Mustafa Talas, was asked who was the historical figure most admired by President Asad, he answered that it was Mu′awiyya bin Sufyan, the first Umayyad Caliph who ruled in Damascus (661–80). Mu′awiyya thus comes before Jamal ′Abd-al Nasir or even Salah al-Din, because in Talas’ words, he ‘was the founder of the first Syrian state’.13 Second, the struggle waged by the Arabs against the Crusaders and the central role of the Syrian lands in it. Here the emphasis is on Salah al-Din (who is buried in Damascus) and on the fact that it was at the Horns of Hittin that he won his historic victory marking the beginning of the end of the Crusader presence in the region. Third, the emergence of Arab nationalism and the fact that the Syrian lands served as the greenhouse for Arab nationalism both as a worldview and as an ideological-political movement. In 1978 Talas published a book entitled Al-Thawra al-′Arabiyya al-Kubra (The Great Arab Revolt), in which he attempted to determine the central role played by the Syrian lands in the emergence of the Arab national movement. Thus he tried to present the uprising of Sharif Husayn as a pan-Arab revolt the focus and core of which, and certainly its source of inspiration, were to be found in the Syrian lands. Furthermore, he also endeavoured to draw a contiguous line from the revolt and the Arab movement behind it to Syria under Ba′th leadership.14

The History of the Modern Syrian State Alongside its efforts to anchor itself in ‘Arabism’, the Syrian regime has also been trying to strengthen a Syrian identity attached to Syria’s existence as a modern state – both before and mainly after independence. It would appear that there is nothing like the Syrian calendar to demonstrate the regime’s efforts to make use of modern Syrian history to entrench and reinforce the state’s standing. Moreover, a glance at the calendar shows that national consciousness and even the unique state identity have grown and developed not only through recalling events of the distant past but, as is the case in many other countries, also in the face of the challenges of the recent past and even the present. A look at the Syrian calendar reveals no fewer than ten holidays and other notable dates: 22 February – Arab National Unity Day 8 March – Ba′th Revolution Day 7 April – the establishment of the Ba′th Party Day 17 April – Independence Day 6 May – Memorial Day 29 May – the Internal Security Forces Day 20 July – the Maysalun Battle Day

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Community, Identity and the State 1 August – Army Day 6 October – October War Anniversary 16 November – the day of Asad’s rise to power

This list shows that the creation of national consciousness and even identity has amalgamated a series of major experiences, which fashioned its present form. The Arab–Ottoman Conflict, Subsequently the Syrian–Turkish Conflict This conflict finds expression in the Memorial Day commemorating the hanging, on 6 May 1916, of Arab nationalists by Jamal Pasha, the Ottoman Governor of Syria. Moreover, it is clear that the Turkish–Syrian conflict is one of the challenges, or possibly the experiences, that have shaped the modern Syrian state. This list of experiences starts with the loss of the District of Alexandretta (Iskanderun) – ceded by France to Turkey in 1939 and to this day viewed as occupied Syrian territory by the Syrians – and ends in an open conflict that broke out between Syria and Turkey in the early 1980s. Ankara accused Syria of assisting the PKK, the Kurdish underground movement behind a number of terrorist attacks against Turkish targets. Damascus blamed Turkey for damming the Euphrates river and preventing its water from reaching Syria. The closer alliance between Turkey and Israel since the early 1990s contributed its share to the increasingly bitter conflict between the two countries. In 1998 the Turko–Syrian conflict reached the brink of war, which was prevented at the last moment when Syria gave in to a Turkish ultimatum and stopped – at least as far as could be observed – all assistance to the PKK.15 Faysal’s Arab State This state began in October 1918 when the Arab army conquered Damascus, or more correctly entered it after the city had already been captured by an Australian unit. It ended on 20 July 1920 at the battle of Maysalun where the French defeated Faysal’s Arab-Syrian army. A considerable number of Syrian researchers claim that Faysal’s short-lived state should be viewed as one of the sources of the modern Syrian state.16 While this claim cannot be dismissed out of hand, since Faysal’s state did at least provide the Syrian state with its borders – i.e. the fact of its separation from Lebanon and Palestine – there are very few continuities at best between Faysal’s period and all the following ones. According to James L. Gelvin, the Faysal era in Syria bore witness to Syria’s early territorial identity focusing on Bilad al-Sham, i.e. Syria’s territories within its natural borders. He claims that the population of the Syrian lands viewed the territory in which they lived as a historic entity with the right to exist. To them the idea of Arab unity, i.e. of a great Arab state, seemed artificial and even lacking in legitimacy. Thus the contribution of the Faysal era was in causing many Syrians to adopt ‘Syrianism’, and not


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necessarily ‘pan-Arabism’, as a framework of national identity. (Exactly the same happened forty years later during the period of the United Arab Republic.)17 The Struggle for Independence from France Each year on ′Id al-Jala (the Syrian Independence Day, literally: ‘Day of Expulsion’) the Syrians commemorate the evacuation of the last French troops from Syrian soil on 17 April 1946. Indeed, there can be no doubt that the struggle against the French Mandate is a significant component in the formation of the Syrian state identity. In addition to the battle of Maysalun, the Syrians include in this struggle a series of uprisings against France’s occupation and rule. Foremost among these were the Syrian revolt of 1925–27 and the uprising against the French in 1945. Yawm Qiwa al-Amn al-Dakhili (Internal Security Forces Day), celebrated on 29 May, commemorates the French–Syrian conflict of 29–30 May 1945, in the course of which Damascus and other Syrian cities were bombed by the French. On the other hand the Army Day, celebrated on 1 August, commemorates the transfer of command over the Syrian army from the French to the Syrian government on that date in 1945.18 The United Arab Republic (UAR) ′Id al-Wahda (‘[Arab] Unity Day’), celebrated on 22 February commemorates the establishment of the UAR. On that day in 1958, a referendum was held in Syria in which 98 per cent of the voters supported merger with Egypt and Jamal ′Abd al-Nasir’s candidacy for President of the Union. The celebration of this day is a double reminder of Syria’s commitment to the idea of pan-Arab unity, but it is also a traumatic experience in Syrian consciousness – the destruction and swallowing up of the Syrian state by its Arab ‘elder sister’, Egypt.19 The Struggle Against Israel and the Palestinian Question The struggle against Israel is most prominently commemorated on 6 October, the anniversary of Harb Tishrin al-Tahririyya (‘the October [1973] War of Liberation’). It thus commemorates a unique Syrian experience, which incorporates, at least in part, the feeling of pride in an accomplishment, as expressed by Patrick Seale: The Syrian Army had fought its way forward and now as stubbornly fought its way back. But instead of being able to threaten Israel, Syria found its own capital coming within the range of Israeli artillery. Nevertheless it was not like 1967. There was no shame in what had happened. Nothing to conceal from the public or to lie about. The army was neither broken nor defeated. Israel had not destroyed it as a fighting force … The Syrians had been a match for the Israelis whose losses had also been enormous …20

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Syria’s position on the Israeli–Arab conflict, especially since the 1980s, has also become an instrument in the hands of the regime in its efforts to legitimise both its rule and the existence of the independent Syrian state. It also served to underscore Syria’s uniqueness and bring it into sharper focus, since in recent decades Syria has been considered in the Arab world to be the only Arab state that still raised the banner of the struggle against Israel, and in any case the banner of commitment to the Palestinian question. The Ba′th Experience Alongside these pages of history, which are bound together in creating a state consciousness or identity, the Syrians mark three other significant events. First, the anniversary of the Ba′th Party founded on 7 April 1947. This party was founded by Syrian politicians on Syrian soil and in answer to concrete Syrian needs. Indeed, the party’s aims – at least its political aims – its human composition, and mainly its path to the leadership, were all anchored in Syrian realities in the 1950s and 1960s. At first the Ba′th reflected the urban middle class in Damascus and its efforts to gain a leading position in Syrian political life. Subsequently it provided a path to social mobility for the rural population and members of the minority communities.21 Second, the anniversary of the Ba′th revolution on 8 March 1963. The Ba′th revolution changed the face of Syria and led it on to a new path. Behind this revolution stood a coalition of social forces, which until that time had been on the fringes of the political and socio-economic system in Syria. Among these were members of the minority sects, mainly the ′Alawis, as well as Sunnis from the rural areas and the periphery. The revolution propelled them into the political hub and the country’s leadership and they made Syria into a state of all its communities, and in effect all of its population. This is in contrast to the past, when it was a state of the notables, a state that served a limited elite of notable families, or later an elite of army officers and urban politicians. Finally, the anniversary of al-Haraka al-Tas′hihiyya (‘the Corrective Movement’) of 16 November 1970, i.e. the day on which Hafiz al-Asad rose officially to power. Asad’s rule gave Syria unprecedented stability, and made it more than merely a ‘normal’ state: it transformed it into a state that projects strength and vitality and is considered by some to enjoy influence and standing and to have ambitions to gain hegemony over the region around it.22 Do these commemorative days presented by the Syrian calendar, and in essence the formative experiences, of which they are designed to remind us, really merge as a collective memory, consciousness or even national-state identity? In any case they do undoubtedly present a frame of reference for the population of Syria, more than two-thirds of whom


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were born after Asad rose to power. The Syrian realities these events wish to present and reflect are the only realities with which this population is familiar, unique realities peculiar to this state and the people in it.

The Distant Past As repeatedly mentioned above, the pre-Islamic and pre-Arab heritage served as sources of the national-state identity or even consciousness, and inspired the French to establish and maintain a modern Syrian state. The victory of Arabism in Syria ostensibly motivated it to sweep this past under the carpet. Nevertheless, despite the past Ba′th regime’s discomfort in doing so, it seems that dealing with this heritage cannot be easily avoided. This is especially so in view of the plethora of archaeological sites scattered all over Syria, assessed at over 3,500. Some of these sites were excavated in the course of the second half of the twentieth century, uncovering finds that left the scientific community all over the world gaping with admiration. These discoveries can, of course, serve as fine clay in the hands of someone attempting to create for Syria a territorial identity that draws its inspiration from the glory of its past. Patrick Seale has pointed at this, remarking that, in addition to the accomplishments of Asad’s regime in the Syrian state’s social and economic development and in creating the basis for its regional and international standing, archaeological finds at Ebla, south of Aleppo, capital of a trading and military state 2,500 years BC, and at Mari on the Euphrates, seat of a Sumerian kingdom of the same millennium, gave a great boost to Syrian national pride. The 15,000 tablets of the Ebla royal archive discovered in 1974–75 were found to be written in a Semitic tongue which Syrian scholars claimed located the origins of the Arabic language and monotheism itself in their country. Together with the 25,000 tablets of the Mari archive and the 300-room palace of that city, with its heated bathrooms, plumbing and kitchen utensils, the Ebla finds provided Syrians with evidence of their ancient superiority over the Hebrews to the south and their equality with the great civilisations of Egypt and Mesopotamia.23 [emphasis added – EZ] It would indeed appear that the Syrian regime is not as afraid as it has hitherto been of using its more distant past as a means of strengthening national or state pride in Syria, and unhesitatingly includes this past in the story of the history of the Syrian lands. ‘Syria’s space is and has always been limited, but its reputation has spread far and its influence is world-wide’ claims a textbook dealing with Syrian history, published by the Ba′th Party’s Office of Culture and Training, and adds:

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Community, Identity and the State Many studies, including archaeological research, teach us that even before the Common Era, Syria enjoyed importance and standing. It was on its soil that man ground flour, worked iron and copper and invented the alphabet … The discovery of the Atlantic Ocean by the Phoenicians is a prominent example of the significant contribution made by Syrian civilisation to human progress. Syria is one of the earliest places inhabited by man on earth.24

The history of the modern Middle East, or more precisely of all the Arab states, is full of repeated attempts to use the ancient past to build unique state, or even national, identification. Among these one can mention the use of the Phoenicians in Lebanon, of the pharaonic past in Egypt, of the Canaanites among the Palestinians (and, incidentally, the Jews, especially in the period prior to the establishment of the State of Israel), the Shah’s attempts to present himself as the heir to Cyrus, Saddam Hussein’s attempts to portray himself as the heir to Hammurabi and Nebuchadnezzar, and the claims by the Turkish republic that the Turks were the heirs of the Hittites. The majority of these cases were doomed to failure because the population were for the most part Arab or Muslim – and in any case they found it difficult to identify with the pre-Arab or pre-Islamic past. This past aroused reservations, since it granted the territorial state a uniqueness that was too tough for the digestive system of the population inhabiting it. Nevertheless, the Egyptian experience demonstrates that, in the end, the glory of the past – even if it is pre-Arab and pre-Islamic – can find its place as a stratum in the state or even national identity of the population in the territorial state in the Middle East. It is quite possible that something similar will occur in the future, or may already be happening in Syria as well.

CONCLUSION

The birth of the Syrian state was ostensibly in ‘Arabism’, i.e. in the ArabMuslim past of the Syrian lands, and thus in the Arab national idea that grew up in this region in the early twentieth century. The belief in the existence of a civilisation or nation anchored in the ancient past of the Syrian lands led French officials to establish the Syrian state. Thus, Syria – the state, as well as the public – found itself swinging between ‘Syrianism’ and ‘Arabism’. Throughout the years, however, these two springs from which Syria had emerged proved to be insufficient in forming and stabilising a unique Syrian identity, and thus in legitimising the territorial Syrian state, first and foremost in the eyes of its own population. Only under Hafiz al-Asad and his son, now that Syria has achieved political stability, and begun to project vigour and puissance, has it become possible to return to Syria’s roots and to put them to use, with


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all the wisdom of hindsight, as multipliers of power and sources of state strength. Thus, the Asad regime has created a formula of its own, relating the sources of the Syrian state, and therefore its identity, to the identity of the people living in it. This formula puts the Syrian state at the basis of the new state identity that is the accumulation, the residue, of the eighty years of its existence as a political entity. These were eighty years fraught with moulding experiences, which included a series of achievements and of challenges, some of them existential, and, of course, failures as well. The Syrian regime added ‘Arabism’ to this basis as well as the pre-Arab and pre-Islamic past of the Syrian lands. Have these formulating experiences been enough to instal the new identity? A resident of Damascus told Christa Salamandra: I have noticed over the past five years that I have become proud of being Damascene. I see this also with my father, who was one of the founders of the Ba′th party. The Ba′thists used to think Syrians were all simply Syrian. Now many of them regret this. Now they feel that they are distinct from all the villagers, but especially from the ′Alawis. They think: ‘The ′Alawis may have the money, they may have the power, but we have the tradition.’25 Asked by Patrick Seale to name the leading tribes and families of his town, the mayor of Qurdaha (the hometown of the Asad family), replied: ‘We have no tribes or families here. We are all members of the Ba′th family under the leadership of Hafiz al-Asad.’ Only then, after some coaxing, did he mention ‘the Kalbiya clans, which trace their lineage back hundreds of years’.26 Thus it seems that the Syrian state identity has not yet replaced either identity – the basic one as well as the super, i.e. Arab one (the latter being nourished in the era of increasingly more developed mass media). The Syrian state identity coexists with these identities, which remained as strong as ever. This delicate coexistence seems to be conditional on the Syrian territorial state’s projection of its stability and ability to survive. It is, thus, a reversible process still in its early stages and only the future will show how well the state identity of the territorial Syrian state has entrenched itself and in what form it will survive and develop. NOTES

1. See Patrick Seale, Asad of Syria. The Struggle for the Middle East, London, 1988, pp. 226–34; Henry Kissinger, Years of Upheaval, Boston, 1982, p. 779. 2. An understanding reached in 1916 between Mark Sykes and François Georges Picot on the partition of the Arab regions of the Ottoman Empire between England, France and Russia. This understanding was the basis for the establishment of the new regional order in the Middle East after the First World War. 3. In which the British government expressed (2 November 1917) its support for the establishment of a homeland for the Jewish people in Palestine.

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4. For further details, see Patrick Seale, The Struggle for Syria. Oxford, 1965; Itamar Rabinovich, Syria Under the Ba′th, 1963–66. The Army-Party Symbiosis, Jerusalem, 1972. 5. After that last term began to be used as a reference to the southern parts of the Arabian Peninsula and to Yemen, the Arabian peninsula became known as Jazirat al-′Arab. 6. Salah al-Din himself hailed from Tikrit, in Iraq, but spent most of his adult life in Syria as founder of the Ayyubid dynasty, which ruled Syria and Egypt. 7. See, for example, Daniel Pipes, Greater Syria, Oxford, 1990, pp. 57–101. 8. For details, see Kamal Salibi, A House of Many Mansions, London, 1988, pp. 57–71. 9. From the middle of the nineteenth century, the concept of the Syrian lands as a selfcontained geographical unit provided fertile soil for the activities of thinkers and intellectuals within the local population who wanted to underscore and emphasise its uniqueness and unity. These intellectuals, mainly Christians, were influenced by what they had learned in the schools at which they had studied, most of which had been established by Western missionaries throughout the nineteenth century, at first on Mount Lebanon and in Beirut and later in Damascus, Aleppo and other Syrian cities. These thinkers wanted to exploit the opportunity that had presented itself following the introduction of reforms in the Ottoman Empire (1839–76), reforms the aim of which was to convert this empire, which was basically a medieval institution, into a modern state. As part of these reforms, known as tanzimat, for the first time equal rights were granted to the empire’s non-Muslim population – most of whom were Christians. Until that time, they had held the status of a protected population (ahl al-dhimma) i.e. the status of subjects entitled to the protection of the Sultan, but without status equal with their Muslim neighbours. The attempt to confer equal rights on the Christians, however, met with severe opposition from the Muslim population, especially that in the Syrian lands. In many places clashes erupted between Christians and Muslim against a religious background. In the 1860s, in foci of tension such as Damascus and Aleppo, tens of thousands of Christians were slaughtered. The animosity that the Muslims demonstrated against their Christian neighbours presented the latter with the dilemma of ensuring their status and even promoting it in the complicated and even threatening realities. Many of the Christians chose to emigrate abroad, others chose to join separatist identity frameworks clearly differentiating them from the Muslim population in whose midst they lived. The members of the Maronite community on Mount Lebanon, for example, adopted a Lebanese-Maronite national identity, and on that basis began demanding the separation of Mount Lebanon from the Syrian lands and independence for the Maronite population there – Walid Phares, Lebanese Christian Nationalism. The Rise and Fall of an Ethnic Resistance, London, 1995; see also Salibi, A House of Many Mansions, pp. 72–181. Among other thinkers, however, mainly the Greek Orthodox Christians scattered throughout the Fertile Crescent who, unlike the Maronites, were not concentrated in one geographical region, there were many who nevertheless sought to find a bridge to their Muslim neighbours, which would ensure their continued existence and even improve their socio-economic, and even political, standing. Of course this bridge could not have been built on a religious basis, but rather on ethnic and even cultural and historical foundations. It is therefore no wonder that many within the Greek Orthodox community, but also among other Christian communities and – quite surprisingly – a few Maronites as well, began viewing ‘Arabism’, and alternatively the unity or uniqueness of the Syrian lands, as a sort of path to the hearts of their Muslim neighbours – Leila Tarazi Fawaz, An Occasion for War, Civil Conflict in Lebanon and Damascus in 1860, London, 1994; Butrus Abu-Manneh, ‘The Christians Between Ottomanism and Syrian Nationalism: The Ideas of Butrus alBustani’, Middle Eastern Studies, Vol. 11, 1980, pp. 287–304. One of the most prominent among these thinkers was Butrus al-Bustani (1819–93), a Maronite who converted to Protestantism. Bustani underscored the territorial uniqueness of the Syrian lands. Bustani, however, did not assert the existence of a Syrian nation. Thus his writings are not an expression of nationalist sentiments but of local patriotism at most. Bustani cloaked his Syrian identity – such as it was – in a more comprehensive concept of identification with Arab civilisation and with the Ottoman Empire. In his view ‘Syrianism’ was to serve as a framework of belonging to, and identification with, local patriotism (wataniyya); Arabism was to serve as a framework of ethnic-cultural identification; and ‘Ottomanism’ was to serve as a framework for comprehensive political belonging and identification – Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798–1939, Cambridge, 1983, pp. 95–102.


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10. Henry Lammens, La Syrie: Précis Historique, Beirut, 1921. See also Kamal Salibi, ‘Islam and Syria in the Writing of Henry Lammens’, in B. Lewis and P. M. Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, Oxford, 1962, pp. 235–40. And see Nafir Suriyya, Damascus, 29 September 1860. 11. See Antun Sa′ada, Nushu′ al-Umam, Beirut, 1938; Al-Hizb al-Suri al-Qawmi al-Ijtima′i, A-Mabadi′ al-Asasiyya, Beirut, 1977. 12. For Sa′ada’s party, see Zuwiyya Labib Yamak, The Syrian Social Nationalist Party. An Ideological Analysis, Cambridge, MA, 1966. 13. Al-Thawra, 10 August 1999. 14. Mustafa Talas, Al-Thawra al-′Arabiyya al-Kubra, Beirut, 1979. 15. For further details, see Robert Olson, Turkey’s Relations with Iran, Syria, Israel, and Russia, 1991–2000, Costa Mesa, CA, 2001, pp. 105–124. 16. Khayriyya Qasimiyya, A-Hukuma al-′Arabiyya fi Dimashq, 1918–1920 [The Arab Government of Damascus, 1918–1920], Beirut, 1983. 17. James L. Gelvin, Divided Loyalties. Nationalism and Mass Politics in Syria at the Close of Empire, Berkeley, CA, 1998. 18. See, for example, Tishrin, 29 May 1998, 17 April 1999. For further details, see Philip Khuri, Syria and the French Mandate, Princeton, NJ, 1988. 19. Al-Ba′th, 22 February 1998; al-Thawra, 22 February 1999; and cf Elie Podeh, The Decline of Arab Unity, Brighton, 1999, pp. 159–73. 20. Seale, Asad of Syria, p. 211. See also Tishrin, 6 October 2000. 21. Tishrin, 7 April 2001. For details, see Kamal Abu Jaber, The Arab Ba′th Socialist Party. History, Ideology and Organization, New York, 1966. 22. Al-Ba′th, 8 March 2000, 16 November 2001. For further details, see Eyal Zisser, Asad’s Legacy. Syria in Transition, New York, 2000, pp. 12–16, 207–16. 23. Seale, Asad of Syria, p. 460. 24. Hizb al-Ba′th al-′Arabi al-Ishtiraki, al-Qiyada al-′Amma, Maktab al-Thaqafa wal-I′dad al-Hizbi, Al-Qutr al-′Arabi al-Suri, Dirasa ′Amma [The Syrian Arab Region – a General Study], Dimashq, 1984, p. 5. 25. Christa Salamandra, ‘Consuming Damascus: Public Culture and the Construction of Social Identity’, in Walter Armbrust, ed., Mass Mediations, Berkeley, CA, 2000, p. 191. 26. Seale, Asad of Syria, p. 9.

7

Traditional Monarchy and the Emergence of Modern Nationalism: The Moroccan Experience DANIEL ZISENWINE

In recent years, monarchies in the Middle East and North Africa have been the focus of increased scholarly attention. This form of government has not always resonated in the academic community as a progressive institution worthy of serious inquiry, and was largely overlooked by earlier studies. Many scholars preferred to focus on emerging social classes and new forms of government considered viable and modern, rather than on what appeared to be stagnant and anachronistic monarchies, inept and ill equipped to confront the challenges of rapidly changing societies. The difficulties and constraints, which have affected Arab revolutionary ideologies and regimes in the latter part of the twentieth century, have led to a renewed scholarly interest in the region’s surviving monarchies. Emphasis has been placed on their resilience, agility and longevity, as well as the institutional flexibility and inclusiveness they have demonstrated over the years. These contrast the fluctuations and upheavals that have plagued other forms of government in the Arab world. Scholars have, thus, started to question the sources and nature of monarchical legitimacy; to investigate the role of a monarchy in state development and to analyse the forms of social control exercised by monarchical rulers. Overall, monarchies have come to be increasingly viewed as an alternative effort at defining and redefining political and cultural identities in the Middle East and North Africa.1 Another question worthy of exploration and not sufficiently studied is the role of a monarchy in forging national identity. As Arab states gained their independence, a number of royal families were removed from power by (often younger) nationalist and revolutionary elements. These groups accused their sovereigns of collaborating with former colonial rulers and vilified them as inept and unfit to govern the newly independent states. Once removed, they sank into historical oblivion. Such was the fate of the Tunisian monarchy, which was overthrown

Monarchy and Nationalism: Moroccan Experience

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shortly after Tunisia gained independence in 1956. Egypt’s military coup in 1952, which altered the nature of government from a monarchy to a republic, was also viewed as a defining moment in the country’s history.2 Other monarchs, however, remained in power and oversaw the tedious and often tumultuous process of state-building, which their countries underwent during the second half of the twentieth century. The kings of Jordan and Morocco emerge as good examples of this process. They were able to consolidate the monarchy’s position within the political system, the former by using his political acumen to help rally his subjects around the newly created state and its institutions, and the latter by drawing on his religious and political prestige. Their efforts to bolster national pride and identity often resulted in a weakened political system, which was overshadowed by the royal palace. A closer scrutiny of monarchical actions related to forging identity reveals – at least in the Moroccan case – a far more elusive and complex process than what might have previously been considered. The Moroccan Sultan, Sidi Muhammad bin Yusuf (known as King Muhammad V after Morocco gained its independence in 1956), is widely viewed as a monarch who managed to appropriate nationalist rhetoric and emerge as a leader who embodied his nation’s aspirations and desire for membership in the modern, post-colonial world.3 His position as a nationalist symbol is unique among Arab independence movements and adds a special dimension to the development of Moroccan nationalism. The monarch’s role in the country’s nationalist struggle is lionised in many Moroccan works describing the period. His endeavours are also highlighted in the memoirs of prominent figures in Morocco’s nationalist movement. In addition to his position as the supreme religious and spiritual commander of Moroccan Muslims, he is depicted as an unassailable political figure. Moreover, these works emphasise that the Sultan’s support of the nationalists’ cause aided the struggle for independence, prestige and acceptance by the Moroccan political class and helped promote that cause both internally and abroad. How deep his internal transformation actually was, however, remains an open question. Can one consider Muhammad V a ‘nationalist leader’ who identified with the symbols embraced by the Moroccan nationalists and the political culture they were interested in promoting? Did the Sultan’s support of the nationalist cause change its goals and organisation? How does one relate to Moroccan nationalism, which coveted the monarchy’s endorsement? This chapter aims to explore the relationship between the monarchy and an emerging nationalist movement in Morocco. A closer study of the relations between the king and the nationalists may also have a more general impact on some of the existing theoretical insights about modern nationalism.

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THE CHANGING ROLE OF THE SULTAN DURING THE COLONIAL PERIOD

The development of Morocco’s Sultan into a national political symbol is presented in many studies as one of the more remarkable developments of the colonial era. Colonialism reached Morocco at a relatively late stage, in comparison to other countries in North Africa. France took control over a significant portion of Morocco (a smaller area in the northern part of the country was placed under Spanish tutelage) in 1912 and completed the ‘pacification’ of the kingdom, that is, crushing the last tribal elements that opposed the colonial army, in 1934. Under the agreement that established the French protectorate over the country, Morocco’s military and foreign relations were relinquished to the French. Morocco officially retained its sovereignty, with the Sultan as the head of state and his ministers at his side. But in reality the country’s affairs were run by a French colonial administration, which needed the Sultan’s official approval for the policies and programmes they devised but viewed him as nothing more than a rubber stamp. The monarchy’s status at the outset of Morocco’s colonial era has been presented as ‘exhausted and close to expiration, torn apart by internecine struggles and [successive] European incursions’.4 The Sultan was seen, above all, as a religious figure in whose name official prayers were recited. His political authority was often not felt in large parts of the country. Still, the Moroccan monarchy possessed two sources of strength which the French wanted to use in constructing their colonial administration and which ultimately helped the Sultan in becoming the spokesman of his country’s quest for independence. First, his religious, or perhaps spiritual supremacy among his subjects – the Moroccan Sultan was considered to be a descendant of the Prophet and has been traditionally viewed as Amir al-Mu′minin (‘Commander of the Faithful’), a title which combines the temporal and spiritual aspects of his rule.5 Second, the Moroccan monarchy’s historical longevity – the ruling ′Alawite dynasty emerged during the seventeenth century and has remained in power ever since. Thus the French colonial rulers preserved and ultimately resuscitated the monarchy. A strong, well-regarded royal family, which would officially continue to rule over Morocco but function merely as a rubber stamp of approval for French colonial policies, was a cornerstone of their colonial administration in Morocco. Architects of French colonial policy in Morocco were keen on emphasising the Sultan’s standing within the newly created protectorate. Accordingly, they invented or revived traditions that associated the Sultan with his country’s past and symbolised his leadership. His subjects became better acquainted with the Sultan, who in the past had rarely appeared in public and became far more visible during the colonial era. He toured the country, dedicated new public buildings,


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and, embodying his role as the country’s supreme spiritual leader, led prayers at central mosques. Furthermore, the monarchy exercised unprecedented official control over the country following the French take-over of the peripheral areas, which had historically been mutinous regions. In spite of these efforts to promote the Sultan’s prestige, the French had very little interest in promoting the Sultan’s political authority, and sought to minimise his impact on ongoing political life. Their vision of the ideal Sultan was that of a highly visible yet docile and obedient monarch. The first Sultan who fitted this profile during the protectorate years was Moulay Youssef (1912–27), who was frequently viewed by French government officials at the time as an ‘ideal Sultan’, well suited to France’s colonial aspirations in the Sharifian kingdom. He was succeeded in November 1927 by his younger son, Sidi Muhammad, after a brief struggle between the late Sultan’s offspring.6 Sidi Muhammad was preferred both by the royal court’s senior advisers and by the French colonial administration as someone who would be easier to influence, being considered an ‘obedient […] enthusiastic and intelligent’ young man, although ‘arrogant and hypocritical’ as well as ‘lacking political maturity’. (One French official prophesied, though, that ‘this fellow will cause us much embarrassment’.)7 Seventeen years of age when ascending to the throne, the new monarch was virtually unknown then to his subjects, and there was little to suggest at the time that he would later become a national hero. Sidi Muhammad had received practically no formal training while growing up to prepare him for his future tasks. One thing that the young Sultan learned quickly, however, was his complete dependence on the French colonial administration. Thus, during the early years of his reign, he distanced himself from politics8 and new ideologies, and preferred to benefit from the fruits of Morocco’s ‘pacification’ rather than publicly identify with a nationalist ideology that was embraced at the time only by what the French considered ‘an insignificant intellectual minority’.9

THE EMERGENCE OF THE MOROCCAN NATIONALISTS

Sidi Muhammad’s ascent to the throne coincided with the initial and early manifestations of Moroccan nationalism and the opposition to French colonialism. This was hardly surprising. Although France had ostensibly committed its colonial enterprise in Morocco to modernising the kingdom’s dilapidated government apparatus and preparing Morocco’s economy and society to cope effectively with the challenges of the twentieth century, very little was done in these areas. On the contrary, the protectorate’s economic and social policies were tailored to fit the needs and interests of the growing European settler community,

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and did little to ameliorate the lives of the Muslim majority. After three decades of colonial rule, there seemed to be very little hope that France would ultimately rid itself of ‘protecting’ Morocco, and offer the country a chance to regain its independence, as the protectorate treaty had envisioned. According to a Moroccan historian, the rise of Moroccan nationalism underscored the emergence of a new, younger generation that came of age during the protectorate period. These young people, of upper-middle-class families, were already products of the colonial era. Many of them had been educated in French schools and were familiar with modern ideologies, including commonly used nationalist ideas and rhetoric, which did not openly embrace the concept of a monarchy. They were deeply affected by various schools of modern political thought (including variations of socialism) that opposed the concept of a monarchy. Accordingly, and in light of what they considered the monarchy’s collaboration with colonial rule, many of them displayed an early lack of interest in pursuing co-operation with the royal palace. Their plans at the time revolved around calls for reforms and changes within the colonial administration, in an attempt to offer educated Muslim Moroccans greater chances of participation and employment in the colonial government, which had little to do with the Sultan. On the other hand, they did not promote a revolutionary ideology that challenged the monarchy’s very existence. Moreover, internal schisms within the nationalists’ ranks in 1937 resulted in the strengthening of the more traditional faction within the nationalist movement. This socially conservative group embraced a historical vision of Moroccan society, which saw the monarchy as the primary force of Morocco’s politics and society. It did not advocate any need to reconceptualise the monarchy’s role and for the most part was very much in line with popular sentiments at the time.10 Any policy that included a negative view of the Sultan would have been extremely counterproductive to their cause, considering the popular reverence the Sultan commanded. Indeed, most nationalists, along with the majority of Muslim Moroccans, would have found such tactics largely unacceptable.11 Therefore, as the nationalist movement sought to solidify its base of popular support, the Sultan was recognised as a symbol of national unity. Interest in the monarchy as a potential source of support intensified as the nationalists changed their demand from reforming the colonial apparatus to abolishing it altogether and regaining Moroccan political independence. The nationalists – including those who had earlier reservations about the monarchy – realised that they needed royal sponsorship to attract popular support and to attain these goals. They thus departed further from their earlier, more indifferent, attitude towards the Sultan and his entourage.


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Towards a Nationalist Alliance with the Monarchy It is difficult to find any trace of that early reluctance, or ambivalence, of Moroccan nationalists towards the monarchy today in their published memoirs and testimonies of the early years of their political activity. The same goes for what one might call ‘official’ Moroccan historiography, which lionises Muhammad V as a national hero.12 As for the Sultan’s attitude to the nationalists, there is an additional difficulty in any attempt to study the policies, motives, and interests of a specific Moroccan monarch: what one might call the Moroccan monarchy’s traditionally opaque character.13 The inner dynamics and relationships within the monarchical institution in Morocco remain to this very day an enigma to foreign scholars as well as to Moroccan citizens. The royal family was – and is – anything but flamboyant, and outsiders know very little about the private lives of its members, their thoughts and personalities. Much to the historian’s chagrin, there are practically no open records of the Sultan’s statements, thoughts or ideas. His close staff and advisers have also refrained from publicly exposing their memories and experiences. Tracing developments and motives that spurred royal policy-making during the colonial era and after is, therefore, a formidable task where one must rely on observations and testimonies of foreigners and local outsiders who were too often only in minimal contact with the royal family. Accordingly, their insights do not necessarily constitute a complete account. Still, it is difficult to say that the Sultan was part of the nationalist movement from its birth. The Sultan was mostly mistrustful and suspicious of the nationalists in their early years. The nationalists’ political activism was a novelty within the Moroccan political system. Throughout Morocco’s history, political activity was carried on in a more modest and subdued manner, often behind closed doors. Under such circumstances, the public political spectacles staged by the evolving nationalist movement were undoubtedly an unsettling sight to the young Sultan and his veteran advisers. Sidi Muhammad was apparently concerned that the nationalists’ ultimate goal was to undermine his position and rid Morocco of both the French and the ′Alawites. The French, for their part, did not miss any opportunity further to distance the Sultan from the nationalists, and whenever possible, passed on to Sidi Muhammad allegations about the nationalists, their motives and goals (as seen, of course, by the French) in an attempt to discredit them. The French recognised the destructive potential (from their point of view) that a possible alliance between the Sultan and the nationalists would have. Accordingly, they emphasised the nationalists’ negative position towards the monarchy after the widespread protests against the Berber dahir (decree) in 1930;14 during riots in Meknes in 193715 and again in 1944, following the establishment of the Istiqlal party and its unequivocal call for independence.16

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Those three events were important milestones in the development of Moroccan nationalism. They were no less significant landmarks in the Sultan’s relations with the nationalists. One interpretation of that relationship contended at the time that the Sultan was so shocked at the violent and hostile reactions to the Berber dahir that he henceforth gradually changed his attitude towards the French and gravitated towards the nationalists.17 French sources provided, in the 1940s, another explanation – that Sidi Muhammad moved closer to the nationalists out of sheer opportunism and a selfish quest to bolster his position in a changing political climate: as long as only an insignificant intellectual minority embraced Moroccan nationalism, the Sultan had little to gain from his association with its activists and remained distant from them. He embraced them only when he realised that he could gain politically and enhance his stature among his subjects.18 The main difficulty with both versions is that they keep the nationalists out of the picture, and disregard their ongoing efforts, beginning in the 1930s, to cultivate the Sultan’s support and promote him as a national symbol and embodiment of their aspirations. The nationalist embrace of the monarchy was more than tactical. It was based on the nationalists’ conviction that the Sultan’s role as the country’s leader was the foundation of political life in Morocco and had to remain so in a future postcolonial era. Most young nationalists – and again, one must emphasise that only a few hundred activists constituted the movement in the early 1930s – did indeed believe in the monarchy and its ability to lead Morocco into a new, independent and modern era. They pursued the Sultan’s support in recognition of his position as a religious and popular symbol. (Of course, on a practical and immediate level they expected that the Sultan’s endorsement of their cause would help them gain popularity among the masses, who had little understanding of their ideology and calls for government reform and later for independence.) Thus the nationalists embraced the Sultan as a symbol embodying Morocco’s national aspirations. In 1934 they started to commemorate the anniversary of the Sultan’s ascent to the throne in a popular celebration that became known as ‘Throne Day’. This celebration served as an invented tradition of sorts, which nevertheless resonated among most Moroccans. These festivities strengthened the Sultan’s position among the public and his ties to the nationalist cause.19 The stated goal of the nationalists throughout the 1930s was ‘to defend the Sultan’s sovereignty’. This campaign provided the nationalists with a political agenda that the French would not find objectionable. The Sultan’s role as Morocco’s sovereign was after all a cornerstone of French colonial policy. At the same time, the nationalists were careful not to cause the Sultan any embarrassment by raising demands which contradicted the monarchy’s own priorities. The Sultan, for example, did not wish openly to challenge French rule, and was extremely cautious in his actions.20


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The Sultan’s public conduct in the 1930s, as much as one can discern, reflected the role in which he was cast by the nationalists. He became far more involved in domestic political developments, often to the chagrin of French officials who preferred to see him merely as a symbolic figure, who was uninterested in political life. The Sultan was increasingly considered by many Moroccans as a political leader, in addition to his traditional role as the country’s spiritual authority. Actual contact between the Sultan and the nationalists, however, remained limited. More personal ties between the two sides, as recorded in memoirs by veteran Moroccan nationalist leaders, were established only in the 1940s.

THE BIRTH OF A NATIONAL LEADER

The Sultan’s status during the Second World War remained intact and even improved somewhat, due to the uncertain position of France following its defeat by Germany. French colonial officials were eager to retain the Sultan’s support and anxious about possible uprisings against them, which would take advantage of their exposed military weakness. Accordingly, they offered him greater opportunities to participate in the nomination of local government representatives. The nationalists, on the other hand, had largely receded from public life after being suppressed by the French in the late 1930s. This allowed the Sultan to remain in the spotlight, without having to ‘compete’ with other political personalities or ideologies. In the aftermath of the war the Sultan sought to emphasise that he was an independent player and Morocco’s authentic political leader, not a pawn operated and manipulated by the French. Moroccan society had also been transformed. It was now more urban and less attached to traditional social networks, which had previously been the dominant force in regulating social and political life. Morocco’s post-war society was yearning for national leadership that would serve as a cohesive and unifying force. The Sultan quickly filled this void, spurred by his own interests in bolstering his political position. Nationalist circles, for their part, endorsed the monarchy with increasing vigour. They had begun already in the 1930s to refer to the sultan as a ‘king’, emphasising what they considered the symbolic difference between a modern title that underscored the monarch’s temporal powers and the traditional, oldfashioned term that lacked such connotations. The occasion for closer ties between the Sultan and the nationalists was the monarch’s support of educational reforms, which were actively advocated by the nationalists as well. The Sultan sponsored the establishment of modern schools, which combined traditional Quranic education and modern sciences and languages. He also supported allowing greater educational opportunities for girls, who had traditionally received little

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schooling and were largely illiterate. These measures were viewed by the monarchy as important steps in modernising Morocco and preparing the country’s young generation for the challenges of the twentieth century. Senior officials, known to be close to the monarch, became involved in nationalist affairs and internal strife. For example, they supported the more traditional elements, which constituted the nationalist movement of Moroccan Muslim society and were considered less radical in their political and social outlook. This tacit support helped it in promoting itself within the movement’s ranks. The Sultan cautiously began to hold secret nocturnal meetings with nationalist leaders in remote corners of the royal palace in Rabat. The details of these meetings are still unclear and shrouded in mystery. According to one source, the nationalists exchanged ideas and advice with the Sultan. Nationalist sources mention one specific nocturnal palace meeting in May 1943, in which the nationalists pledged to refrain from any future political activity without prior co-ordination with the Sultan. Sidi Muhammad, for his part, promised to consult with nationalist leaders before embarking on any new political initiatives.21 Whether the Sultan indeed consulted nationalist leaders over political positions and policy – a matter which has remained unclear – this account underscores the growing co-operation between the nationalists and the monarchy as well as the Sultan’s interest in the nationalist movement. American commentators noted at the time that the Sultan would be unlikely to have listened to the nationalists had he not been a supporter of their cause. After all, Morocco lacked a democratic tradition where the monarch consulted with his subjects.22 Other accounts report the Sultan’s direct involvement in submitting the Istiqlal party’s manifesto in 1944, which contained the first unequivocal call for Moroccan independence. Several testimonies claim that the entire document was initially submitted to the Sultan for his approval. In their meetings with foreign officials, Istiqlal leaders hinted that they had received the Sultan’s endorsement. The Istiqlal had hoped that his sanction would assist them in obtaining international support for their cause.23 But the events of 1944 raise doubts about the Sultan’s support. The riots that erupted in several Moroccan cities shortly after the Istiqlal party had been established and submitted its call for independence apparently chilled the Sultan’s sympathy towards the newly rekindled nationalist group. Perhaps Sidi Muhammad was taken aback by the unsettling violent scenes, and was concerned that the country could become politically unstable. At any rate, the Sultan avoided confronting the colonial power and accepted the French repression of the Istiqlal. He even instructed his ministers to refrain from uttering the word ‘independence’. But with slogans like ‘Down with the protectorate, long live the Sultan’ appearing across Morocco by the mid-1940s, on top of his religious


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prestige and visible position, the Sultan’s place as a national leader had been secured. In hindsight, the ingredients for the Sultan’s role as a national symbol made this result almost inevitable. But the combination of colonial circumstances and the Sultan’s personality brought this to fruition. As the French imprisoned and exiled most of Morocco’s nationalist leaders, Sidi Muhammad easily filled the political vacuum and emerged as his country’s most prominent advocate of the nationalist cause, outdoing the nationalists themselves in their demand of independence. The French, in an ill-fated and clumsy move, exiled the Sultan in 1951, to replace him with an obedient puppet regime. Sidi Muhammad’s triumphal return to Morocco in 1955 and his public promises to end the French protectorate and begin an era of full independence are proof of his transformation from a remote monarch to a popularly supported political leader.

CONCLUSION

The ties between the monarchy and the emerging nationalist movement in Morocco had, naturally, their unique peculiarities. These deserve a more detailed and nuanced study. Such a study might shed additional light on the Sultan’s role in the advent of Moroccan nationalism. But even a preliminary study, such as the present one, underscores the Moroccan monarchy’s prominent role in the country’s modern political history and in defining its national identity. Furthermore, it adds another dimension to the theoretical concepts of nationalism. The debate as to whether nationalism is a truly modern phenomenon, or a reformulation of earlier concepts of identity and ethnicity, has been the extensive focus of important theoretical works. Anderson refers to an ‘imagination’ process in which members of a national group live the image of their communion although they never meet. A nation, as Anderson defines it, is imagined also because it is conceived as a deep, horizontal comradeship. The process of ‘imagining’ the nation began when several fundamental cultural connections lost their axiomatic grip, including the belief that society was naturally organised around and under high centres such as monarchs. Anderson does leave room for the participation of monarchs in the formation of a modern national identity, though. He refers to ‘official nationalism’, which can be best understood as a means for combining naturalisation with retention of dynastic power, or ‘stretching the tight skin of the nation over the gigantic body of the empire’.24 Gellner has contended that nationalism is part of the modernisation process in general,25 while Kedourie notes how nationalism becomes a sort of new civic religion for modernised urban elites.26 Smith, on the other hand, has emphasised the role of ethnicity in nationalist ideologies and shown in his writings how nationalism may

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often enter into alliances with traditional elements, utilising some of their motifs for its own ends.27 The Moroccan case offers a new framework in which elements that appear in each of the above-cited theories create a mutually complementing confluence. The Moroccan case demonstrates, for example, that political alliances initiated by nationalist groups with traditional elements are not necessarily shallow or opportunistic steps taken by nationalists, but rather reflect their genuine confidence and faith in those elements. It also shows that ‘Official Nationalism’ can also be of the ‘bottom-up’ type, that is initiated by the nationalists themselves, not by the monarchy. This endorsement of the monarchy by the nationalists ultimately weakened the Moroccan political system, as the monarchy came to dominate public life. The Moroccan example offers us a better understanding of the role a monarchy can play in political life.

NOTES

1. Lisa Anderson, ‘Dynasts and Monarchists: Why Monarchies Survive’, in Middle East Monarchies: The Challenge of Modernity, Joseph Kostiner, ed., Boulder, CO, 2000, p. 56. 2. See Bruce Maddy-Weitzman, ‘Why Did Arab Monarchies Fall? An Analysis of Old and New Explanations’, in Middle East Monarchies: The Challenge of Modernity, Joseph Kostiner, ed., Boulder, CO, 2000, pp. 37–52. 3. See for example John Waterbury, The Commander of the Faithful: The Moroccan Political Elite. A Study in Regimented Politics. (London: 1970), pp. 144–158; Remy Levaux, Le fellah marocain: défenseur du trône (Paris, 1985. 2nd reviewed and augmented edition), pp. 7–93. 4. Susan Gilson Miller and Rahma Bourquia, ‘An Introduction to the Discussion’, in Rahma Bourqia and Susan Gilson Miller, eds, In the Shadow of the Sultan: Culture, Power, and Politics in Morocco, Cambridge, MA, 1999, p. 11. 5. Edmund Burke, III, Prelude to Protectorate in Morocco: Precolonial Protest and Resistance, 1860–1912, Chicago, IL, 1976, pp. 1–18. 6. C. R. Pennell, Morocco Since 1830: A History, London, 2000, pp. 158–63. 7. France, Archives Nationales (Paris), F/60/885, Memorandum (anon.), February 1944; Ministère des Affaires Étrangères (MAE), Archives Diplomatiques (Nantes), Maroc CDRG 213, ‘Le Nationalisme Sultanien’, Puaux to Bidault, 3 April 1945. 8. The French, for their part, made scant efforts to involve the Sultan in political affairs. Most of France’s senior colonial officials had little interest in fostering meaningful relations with the Sultan, and sought him out only to receive his official approval for their proposed policies. 9. Sources as in note 7, above. 10. Abdallah Laroui, Esquisses Historiques, Casablanca, 1993, pp. 125–45. 11. E. G. H. Joffe, ‘The Moroccan Nationalist Movement: Istiqlal, the Sultan, and the Country’, Journal of African History, Vol. 26, No. 4, 1985, pp. 289–307. 12. See for example ′Abd al-Karim Ghalab, Tarikh al-Haraqa al-Wataniya bi al-Maghrib min Nihaya al-Harb al-Rifiya hata Istirja al-Sahra [A History of the Nationalist Movement in Morocco from the Rif War to the Reclamation of the Sahara], Vol. 1, Al-Dar al-Baida, 2000, and Abu Bakr al-Qadiri, Mudhdhakirati fi al-Haraka al-Wataniya bi al-Maghrib min 1941 ila 1945 [My Memoirs in the Moroccan Nationalist Movement], Vol. 2, Al-Dar al-Baida, 1997. 13. The ′Alawites are a far cry not only from the highly publicised British royal family, for example, but from Middle Eastern royal households as well. Other Arab monarchies during the twentieth century were at times far more visible than the Moroccan ′Alawites and their court. The Moroccan royal court’s character throughout the


14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

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century was very much that of a Middle East and North African court of yesteryear (similar perhaps to the Ottoman court), where very little of its inner dynamics meet the naked eye. The Berber dahir, promulgated in May 1930, sought to secure the legal system used by Berber tribes. The Berbers were identified as Morocco’s indigenous population, which lived in Morocco prior to the Muslim conquest in the eighth and ninth centuries CE. Although they had embraced Islam and were loyal to the Moroccan dynasty, the French considered them as potential allies and sought to separate them from the rest of the country’s Muslim population. After the protectorate’s establishment, France allowed the Berbers to retain their customary tribal judiciary system, which remained separate from the Muslim courts. The 1930 decree was designed to cement the existing system by placing the Berber courts under French supervision. In reality, the decree distanced the Berbers from the Muslim establishment, and was met with intense opposition. Special prayer protests and demonstrations – viewed as Morocco’s first nationalist protest – led the French to modify their plan and its implementation. See David M. Hart, ‘The Berber Dahir of 1930 in Colonial Morocco: Then and Now (1930–1996)’, Journal of North African Studies, Vol. 2, No. 2, Autumn, 1997, pp. 11–33. Riots erupted in the Moroccan city of Meknes and spread to other Moroccan cities in September 1937, against a plan to provide additional water to colonial farmers at the expense of Muslim city-dwellers. The Istiqlal (‘Independence’) party was established by prominent nationalists in December 1943, and was the first political party to demand the abolition of the French protectorate and Morocco’s independence. The party became Morocco’s leading nationalist organisation, and along with the Sultan played a pivotal role in the struggle for independence, achieved in 1956. MAE, Archives Diplomatiques (Nantes), Maroc CDRG 213, ‘Le Nationalisme Sultanien’, Puaux to Bidault, 3 April 1945. Ibid. Pennell, Morocco Since 1830, p. 231. US National Archives (Washington), Department of State Records, RG 59/881.00/ 1-2946, Pasquet (Casablanca) to Secretary of State, 29 January 1946. ‘Abd’ayn al-Ramin Ghalab, Ta’rikh al-Kharaka al-Wataniyya bi’l Maghrib min Niikayat alHarb al-Rifiyya hata Istirja’ al-Satira (History of the National Movement in Morocco from the Beginning of the Rif War to the Return of the Sahara) (Al-Dar al-Bayda (Casablanca), 2000), pp. 252–254. National Archives, RG 59/881.00/2729, Mayer (Rabat) to Secretary of State, 5 January 1944. See, for example, National Archives (Washington), Department of State Records, RG 59/881.00/2739, Mayer (Rabat) to Secretary of State, 8 January 1944 . Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London and New York, 1991, revised and extended edition, p. 86. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, Oxford, 1983, pp. 39–52. Elie Kedourie, Nationalism, London, 1960, pp. 99–102. Anthony D. Smith, National Identity, London, 1991.

8

′Ulama and National Movements in the Middle East: Between Harmony and Dissent MEIR HATINA

INTRODUCTION

The literature on the emerging national discourse in the Middle East in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries has focused mainly on the perceptions of the new intelligentsia of government officials, army officers and writers. This sector, whose ideological outlook was formed during a period of accelerated modernisation, state-building and expanded literacy, displayed openness to Western culture and advocated religious reform, national independence and constitutionalism. Little attention was paid to the establishment ′ulama (religious scholars), who were also present at the birth of the national movements in the period cited. This inattention to the ′ulama, especially in the Sunni world, is not surprising. The ′ulama have generally been identified in the literature as adherents of the traditional order embodying the community of believers and the institution of the caliphate, and not as intellectual innovators. Widely perceived as submissive to state authority, they have been considered unimportant participants in the national discourse in the Middle East in comparison to the Westernised elites and the modernist intellectuals.1 This chapter aims to re-evaluate the position of the ′ulama in the context of the emerging national discourse in the Middle East by exploring their role in the national liberation movements of the time and the extent of their contribution, or opposition to the agenda of these movements. It will focus on three historic episodes: the ′Urabi revolt of 1881–82 in Egypt, the constitutional revolution in Iran of 1905–11, and Arab nationalism in the Fertile Crescent on the eve of the First World War. While each of these events is different in terms of specific cultural and geopolitical attributes, they share much in common: they reveal a multi-faceted picture of religious culture at a crossroads, at the moment before the change of guard in the Middle East following the collapse of the Islamic order and the formation of nation-states.

′Ulama and National Movements in the Middle East

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THE ′URABI REVOLT IN EGYPT (1881–82)

The ′Urabi movement started as a military rebellion by embittered Egyptian army officers headed by Ahmad ′Urabi. Gradually, however, it evolved into a protonational liberation movement against both the Turko-Circassian elite, who controlled the country’s military and administration, and the European states, whose growing influence in the internal affairs of Egypt left the Khedive Tawfiq powerless.2 The ′Urabi episode placed al-Azhar, the bastion of religious learning in Egypt, at the centre of events. It became one of the main foci of the struggle between the supporters of ′Urabi and the followers of the Khedive to win public sympathy and the support of the Ottoman Sultan. The centrality of al-Azhar in the conflict reflected the institution’s sustained significance in shaping the Egyptian collective consciousness, even though the ′ulama had been transformed into ‘theological technocrats’ during Egypt’s modernisation and political centralisation under Muhammad ′Ali’s dynasty in the nineteenth century.3 Most high-ranking ′ulama remained loyal to the Khedive. Their voices were overwhelmed, however, by the roar of religious fervour by a minority group of ′ulama. This minority mobilised the power of tradition as a symbol of solidarity and cohesion and turned it into the language of opposition to the Khedive’s rule and to the foreign presence. Thus, the essentially military ′Urabi movement was provided with moral depth and popular backing. The moral resources included religious sermons and declarations sanctifying jihad and self-sacrifice. The communal assets of the ′Urabist ′ulama included a wide network of mosques, madrasas (theological colleges) and charitable associations both in Cairo and in the distant provinces in Upper Egypt. Most of the ′ulama held religious positions as muftis, qaddis, imams and ashraf (heads of prestigious religious families) and were leaders and members of Sufi orders. The link to Sufism – a widespread phenomenon in the religious landscape of the Nile Valley – provided easy access to the population at large.4 The association with both al-Azhar and Sufism enhanced the popular prestige of the ′ulama who supported ′Urabi. It also provided them with a mantle as spokesmen for the grass roots and thereby with a lever for involvement in national politics. Thus, the ′ulama were not merely a religious rubber stamp for political moves; they were key players in shaping public discourse, the ′Urabist agenda included. The ′Urabist ′ulama, headed by Muhammad ′Illaysh and Hasan al-′Idwi, both prominent lecturers at al-Azhar and heads of Sufi orders, led in late 1881 to the successful campaign to replace the Rector of al-Azhar, the Grand Mufti of Egypt and Khedive loyalist Muhammad al-′Abbasi al-Mahdi, by the more accommodating (for the ′Urabists) Muhammad al-Inbabi.5 They also tried to enlist the Sultan’s support for ′Urabi and met the heads of the two Ottoman delegations that came to Egypt in October

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1881 and June 1882 to observe the situation at first hand.6 Moreover, they promoted the idea of replacing Tawfiq by his cousin and rival, Prince Muhammad ′Abd al-Halim, who resided in Istanbul at the time.7 The ′Urabist ′ulama countered the accommodating version of statesponsored Islam promoted by their pro-Khedive rivals, with a dissident model of Islam. This model rejected the Khedive’s authority and demanded social justice, an entrenched aspect of the Islamic ethos. In fatwas (legal opinions) introduced at two large assemblies of the ′Urabist camp in July 1882, Shaykhs ′Illaysh, al-′Idwi and Muhammad al-Khilfawi (a prominent qadi) called for jihad against the British and sanctified the deposition of Tawfiq, who, they claimed, had ‘deviated from Islam’ and had become subordinate to the infidels.8 Equally important, the cultural milieu of the ′Urabist ′ulama was all-inclusive, embracing high and low culture alike, as well as both indigenous Egyptian and Islamic-Ottoman identities.9 The statements and writings of the ′ulama express their rationale for joining the ′Urabi revolt as the will to defend both religion and the homeland. The defence of religion from an infidel aggressor sustained the raison d’être of Islam as the ultimate and most perfect godly revelation, while the defence of the homeland provided local identification and applied to all subjects, regardless of religious or linguistic differences.10 Allegiance to one’s native polity was not unusual in Islamic discourse in view of the pluralistic geographic reality and the existence of many political centres in the Muslim world, especially following the decline of the caliphate in the tenth century. This reality was reinforced under the Ottoman Empire, which allowed for a large measure of local administrative autonomy in return for the maintenance of public order and the sending of taxes to Istanbul. As Sami Zubaida has pointed out, the ‘Asiatic’ or ‘Oriental’ model of political unity and centralised government portrayed by Western scholars is inconsistent with historical reality. Rather, the political structure in the Muslim Middle East was segmented. The direct control of the ruling dynasty extended no further than the capital and adjacent areas. Beyond these areas, political influence was exercised through networks of patronage and alliances with local power bases, guided by a divide-and-rule strategy.11 In essence, Islamic imperial rule remained external to the communal and social structures of the provinces. This was especially true of Egypt, which was moulded politically and culturally by the Mamluks and had become an autonomous entity under Muhammad ′Ali. Many of al-Azhar’s ′ulama in the nineteenth century had been born into this autonomous polity and perceived it as both natural and legitimate. Their allegiance to it was reinforced in the face of the disruptive political and economic reality into which Egypt was plunged towards the end of the century, exacerbated by the growing threat of foreign occupation. The ′ulama’s strong affinity with the Nile Valley was not surprising, observed Shaykh Muhammad al-Qayati (d. 1902), who headed a Sufi order which played


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an active role in the uprising: ‘Self-defence is the duty of every nation that is forced into war by another nation. Indeed, defence of the motherland is the first and the last thing that must be done, and is a duty imposed on all honourable persons, without regard to differences of religion, language, faith or customs.’12 If the political milieu of the ′Urabist ′ulama was bound by their native polity, their cultural milieu, by contrast, was vastly broader. Transcending political borders, it centred on Islam’s universal ethical values. Loyalty to this corpus of values dictated a stricter approach to society. This was reflected, for example, in a restrictive attitude towards the use of human reasoning (ijtihad) in matters of faith, in opposition to the integration of women in male society, and in resistance to any improvement in the civil status of religious minorities.13 These views also signified the dividing line between the conservative ′ulama and other ideological elements who supported the ′Urabi movement, such as the Westernised intellectuals or the Islamic reformists. The latter were led by Shaykh Muhammad ′Abduh, a prolific writer, and ′Abdallah al-Nadim, a journalist who became known as the orator of the ′Urabi insurrection. These groups sought to promote both theological rectification, encompassing al-Azhar and the Sufi orders, and social liberalisation based on greater inclusion of women and minorities. The gap between them and the conservative ′Urabist ′ulama was illuminated most explicitly by the issue of the status of the Christian Copts. The conservative ′ulama, in treatises and fatwas, reaffirmed the inferior legal status of non-Muslims as dhimmis (protected subjects). They maintained that Muslims were required to preserve this status in order to maintain the moral superiority of Islam. In their assertive stance they demanded the full implementation of the traditional legal restrictions on dhimmis, which had been disregarded by Muslim rulers over time. In an undated fatwa, ‘Illaysh ruled that dhimmis should not be allowed to display their faith, be seen in public during their holidays and funerals, or even walk in the middle of the street. Anyone who deviates from these restrictions, ‘Illaysh argued, is considered to be ‘a violator of a contract, giving the Muslim ruler the right to choose between death and imprisonment as punishment. It is the duty of the ruler to avoid things that would enhance the social status of dhimmis’.14 The conservative ′ulama were thus expressing their disdain for the social and cultural modernisation that Egypt, and the Ottoman Empire in general, had undergone during the nineteenth century. Moreover, in declaring a religious war against the British as Christians, these ′ulama ignored the sensitivities of the Coptic representatives in the ′Urabi camp. In contrast, Islamic reformists and Westernised intellectuals advocated a more humanistic attitude towards religious minorities and attempted to divest the term jihad of its religious content by portraying the revolt as

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a patriotic campaign encompassing all Egyptians.15 This ideological position, however, was in the minority, reflecting the marginal influence of modernist discourse at that time. ′Urabi himself promised the Copts legal and political equality with Muslims and assiduously maintained close relations with their notables. Significantly, the National Party, which constituted the base of the resistance movement, defined itself as a political rather than a religious party, open to all. Nevertheless, ′Urabi and his colleagues, aware of the effectiveness of employing Islamic rhetoric and of declaring jihad in order to mobilise the masses in the campaign against the British, sanctioned these means.16 The acute situation on the eve of the British occupation prompted the ideologically divided camps of the resistance to unite, but the differences remained. Moreover, the opposition to efforts to revamp Egyptian society and culture along modernist lines was a cause espoused by the anti′Urabist ′ulama as well. Contrary to their pro-′Urabist colleagues, they sanctioned obedience to the Muslim ruler as a guarantee against bloodshed (fitna) and acknowledged the Khedive as the Sultan’s legal representative in Egypt. Yet they, too, tended to be religiously rigid in matters relating to the public space and the shaping of society’s values and collective memory. The most prominent anti-′Urabist, Shaykh Muhammad al-′Abbasi al-Mahdi, stood firmly by the Khedive’s side, yet consistently opposed Western modernisation in Egypt. He censored the charging of interest, the opening of entertainment venues, or the relaxing of social boundaries between Muslims and non-Muslims. The latter, Mahdi argued, must be prevented from doing or acquiring anything that causes damage or inconvenience to Muslims, since they belong to a category of people that is contemptible (ahl al-sughar). He also prohibited the legal practice of takhayyur, i. e., any deviation from the official Hanafi School in favour of more flexible rulings by other religious legal schools.17 Azhari ′ulama thus held various positions regarding the ′Urabi revolt, but were united in their restrictive approach to social and cultural issues. The ′Urabi episode was an important milestone in the consolidation of Egyptian nationalism. Its suppression by the British in September 1882, however, brought about a long occupation of the Nile Valley. Moreover, the suppression of the revolt signified a further erosion of the political power of the religious establishment, and its subordination to state authority was now unquestioned. Its role in the struggle for the self-image of Egyptian society, however, continued into the twentieth century, albeit in a changed context with the collapse of the Ottoman Islamic order and the emergence of new forces in the religious spectrum, headed by the Muslim Brethren.


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THE CONSTITUTIONAL REVOLUTION IN IRAN (1905–11)

In contrast to their Sunni colleagues, the Shi′ite ′ulama of Iran had been key players in national politics and enjoyed their own economic power bases ever since Shi′ism became the state religion under the Safavids in the early sixteenth century. The status of the Shi′ite ′ulama was reinforced in the eighteenth century with the victory of the Usulis, or mujtahids – who stressed the use of reason as a source of law – over the Akhbaris, or followers of the traditions transmitted by the infallible imams (whose line began with ′Ali, the Prophet’s cousin and son in law). The mujtahids were given considerable legal authority in interpreting the law, and the population was now obliged to obey their rulings unquestioningly. This development posited the ′ulama as the de facto agents of the Twelfth (Hidden) Imam during his occultation in regulating the affairs of the community.18 With regard to politics, however, the notion that the mujtahids hold the office of rulership in the absence of the Imam was shared only by some ′ulama. Others advocated more of a dual rulership involving both the religious and the state authorites. In practice, many ′ulama sought accommodation with the Shah, recognizing the need of the coercive power of the state to defend the country from infidel invasion, and the Shi′a rite from deviant sects, such as the Sufis and the Babis. Nevertheless, the perception in Shi′ite political doctrine of the status of the mujtahids as equal to, or even superior to that of the state resulted in a growing confrontation between the two sides.19 As a prominent component of the Iranian political landscape, the Shi′ite ′ulama became the authentic spokesmen of the population during political and economic upheavals. The ′ulama also enhanced the harmony between indigenous and religious identities. The permanent conflict with Sunni neighbours, such as the Ottoman Empire and Afghanistan, turned the Shi′ite faith into a facilitating factor in enhancing the unique ethnic-territorial nature of the Iranian polity. The dual role of the ′ulama as spiritual-cum-national leaders of the community was particularly pronounced in the protest movements against both encroaching foreign exploitation and the authoritarian tendencies of the Qajar dynasty in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In 1891–92 the ′ulama, under pressure from the merchants, led the ‘Tobacco Revolt’ against the monopoly over the production, sale and export of tobacco throughout Iran granted by the state to a Briton. In their joint action, the ′ulama provided the moral and communal underpinning while the merchants provided the economic infrastructure. A third, although smaller, element in this coalition were the Westernised liberals.20 The revolt spread throughout large parts of the country and resulted in the revocation of the contentious licence. This path-breaking display of political power was to serve as a prologue to the constitutional revolution of 1905–11.

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Government steps to restrain the political power of the clerical estate in Iran were the main cause for the outbreak of the revolution. Popular demands for a constitution deteriorated into a violent confrontation between the regime and the tripartite coalition of ′ulama, merchants and liberals. The temporary coalition that had formed over the Tobacco Revolt, and especially the alliance between the ′ulama and the liberals, coalesced even further around the common cause of a constitution.21 The liberals’ agenda, however, was the establishment of a representative government based on Western principles. The ′ulama, by contrast, aimed at defending the faith, implementing the shari′a and achieving social justice by restraining the tyrannical power of the monarchy. The ′ulama had no desire to reshape the traditional social and political order. All they were interested in was improving its moral attributes.22 The differences in the emphases of these two camps were blurred, however, by the liberals. Anxious to secure the continued support of the ′ulama, the liberals couched the frame of the proposed constitutional government in ambiguous terms.23 This ambiguity was best reflected in the words of Sayyid Muhammad Tabataba′i, one of two leading mujtahids of Tehran: ‘We [the ′ulama] had no direct experience of constitutionalism. But we heard from those who had seen countries with constitutional regimes that constitutionalism conduces to the security and prosperity of a country. So we conceived an enthusiastic interest and made arrangements for establishing a constitution in this country.’24 The establishment of the new representative assembly (majles) by an official decree of the Shah in 1906 marked the pinnacle of the constitutional movement’s achievement. At the same time it also signalled its demise. Once the members of the assembly began to formulate the various articles of the constitution and to define parliamentarism more precisely, the deep ideological and political differences between the liberals and the ′ulama surfaced. A controversy developed over terminology: the liberals advocated the use of the term majles-e shura-ye melli (national assembly), while the ′ulama preferred majles-e shura-ye eslami (Islamic consultative assembly). Many of the ′ulama shifted from support to opposition regarding the entire issue of constitutional reform. To them, Islam was the sole point of reference to the principles of liberty, equality and justice championed by the revolution. Accordingly, any Western-oriented constitution was perceived as an expression of anarchism and cultural imperialism.25 In treatises written at the time, prominent ′ulama such as Sayyid Fazlallah Nuri, Muhammad Husayn Tabrizi and ′Abd al-Husayn Lari reaffirmed not only the superiority of Islamic law as ‘the most complete of all laws’, but also the superiority of the mujtahids as its sole authorised interpreters. Accordingly, human legislation was defied as ‘infidelity’, and parliament as ‘a house of corruption’.26 Theological considerations apart, the emphasis on the immutable linkage between the shari′a and its


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authentic interpreters aimed also at safeguarding ′ulama supervision over the political process. Only a few ′ulama supported the adoption of Western concepts as a means for neutralising the tyrannical rule of the Shah and promoting social justice. According to Sayyid Muhammad Isma′il Mahallati, a middle-ranking Persian cleric who resided in the Shi′i city of Najaf in Iraq, human welfare was a universal goal unrelated to a specific religion. Therefore, the approval of a constitution did not mean surrendering to the West. Others went a step further and warned that collaborating with the Shah against the elected parliament is tantamount to obeying Yazid ibn Mu′awiyya, the Umayyad Caliph responsible for the massacre of the Prophet’s grandson Husayn and his family in Karbala in southern Iraq (680). Furthemore, young clerics, who also supported the constitutional cause, shifted their emphasis from the political to the religious sphere, calling for reform in Shi′ite educational institutions, which were seen as conservative and unsuited to modern times.27 Such views, although marginal in the ′ulama community, attested to the diversity of Shi′ite political thought. The anti-constitutional campaign by influential ′ulama played into the hands of the Shah. Loath to relinquish even a fraction of his authority, the Shah sought to co-opt the ′ulama as allies by delegitimising the new political system as incompatible with the shari′a. Subsequently, the ′ulama denounced the liberal constitutionalists as murtaddun (renouncers of Islam) for their willingness to grant equal civil rights to women and to minorities, and demanded that parliamentary legislation be subject to the right of veto by a forum of five senior mujtahids.28 The acceptance of this demand, and its incorporation into the constitution29 did not, however, end the political crisis. Rather, it exacerbated domestic anarchy and ultimately facilitated the British and Russian invasion of 1911 in which the two powers divided Iran into zones of influence. The constitutional revolution revealed the ′ulama’s strong commitment to promoting a national agenda that would resist foreign encroachment and restrain the powers of the Shah. Yet it also exposed their unequivocal dissent when this same agenda began to drift towards a secular Western course. They perceived such a development as a threat to the religious underpinning of society. Notably, the ideological raison d’être of Islamic politics was the establishment of an ethical society based on the Qur′anic imperative to ‘enjoin good and forbid evil’ (Q3:104). This principle placed the ′ulama as guardians of the faith and largely dictated their political conduct during the constitutional revolution.

ARAB NATIONALISM IN THE FERTILE CRESCENT IN THE LATE OTTOMAN ERA

If the Shi′ite ′ulama in Iran represented the most intensive religious involvement in national politics during the struggle over modernisation

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in the Middle East, that of the Sunni ′ulama in the Fertile Crescent was considerably less, although still important in that struggle. The ′ulama in the Fertile Crescent were an organic part of both the local elite and the provincial Ottoman administration. They controlled a wide range of religious, legal and educational institutions, as well as the economically influential awqaf (religious endowments). Some of the ′ulama were members of wealthy families with assets in commerce and land.30 Involved in what Albert Hourani called the ‘politics of notables’, the ′ulama became key players in shaping communal priorities during the nineteenth century. This was especially so in Syria and Palestine.31 Istanbul’s reforms in the Fertile Crescent during the nineteenth century reached a peak with the progressive legislation known as the Tanzimat (1839–76). The ′ulama gave their blessing to most of the administrative and military reforms, and in some cases – such as compulsory military service and broader taxation – actively promoted them.32 They rejected reforms which they viewed as undermining the religious ethos, however, such as the granting of equal rights to non-Muslims. The ′ulama took steps to counteract the legalised rights of Christians and Jews by perpetuating discrimination against them in Muslim and civil courts of law or by excluding them from participation in local councils. In some cases, the ′ulama instigated organised attacks against Christians, such as in Aleppo and Damascus in 1850 and 1860, respectively.33 The ′ulama also took an assertive stand against their ideological adversaries in the Islamic milieu, first and foremost the Salafiyya movement. Assimilating the reformist ideas of Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, and, even more so, of Muhammad ′Abduh,34 the Salafiyya aimed at a more flexible and adaptive Islam, thereby resolving the dilemma of how to be both Muslim and modern. It criticised the ′ulama for their acceptance of taqlid (following established interpretations) and their entrenchment of the normative status of the madhahib (legal schools), codified in the tenth century.35 Salafi criticism was also directed at Sufi shaykhs for endorsing such rituals as the cult of saints, which were seen as distorting the spirit and morality of Islam.36 The Salafiyya movement became the intellectual link to Arabism, which arose as a social and political force in the early twentieth century Taking on the task of theological reform, Salafiyya positioned itself as a scholastic elite that challenged the traditional one. Among the Salafis were such reformist scholars as Tahir al-Jazahiri, ′Abd al-Razzaq al-Bitar, Salim al-Qasimi, ′Abd al-Rahman al-Kawakibi, Rashid Rida and ′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi.37 The fact that these scholars were newcomers to the ′ulama community and held lower-level positions in it coloured their reformist appeal with social criticism aimed at the privileged status of the highly placed ′ulama. While the specifics of the ideological and social struggle between the two camps varied from place to place, the traditionalist ′ulama had the upper hand and eventually marginalised


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the Salafis.38 They managed to do so by mobilising their community assets and their intimate ties with the Ottoman authorities. The fact that many ′ulama had acquired their religious education in al-Azhar, the bastion of Islamic learning in Egypt, and maintained close contacts with its scholars, also reinforced their stance against the Salafiyya.39 Sultan ′Abdulhamid II (1876–1908) in stressing the empire’s panIslamic character and supporting the country’s religious establishment, subjected Salafiyya spokesmen, including ′ulama, to harassment and arrest. Some Salafis were even forced to leave the country. The Young Turks, who adopted the ideal of progress and overthrew ′Abdulhamid in 1908, withdrew the government’s support for the anti-Salafiyya campaign, but it continued nevertheless, especially in the press.40 The other dimension of the Salafist platform, namely, the cultivation of a distinct Arab identity, was also largely rejected by the traditionalist ′ulama. The pan-Arab idea began gaining momentum in the Fertile Crescent in the early twentieth century against the background of the continuing decline of the Ottoman Empire and, more particularly, under the centralised rule of the Young Turks. This policy of centralisation was manifested inter alia in the marginalisation of Arabic in favour of Turkish in the realms of education and administration.41 With the emergence of secret societies during 1908–14, Arabism gained a political presence. Two leading Salafis, Rida and Zaharawi, played key roles in this development. Both held influential positions in Arab politics and were among the spokesmen promoting Arab demands to the government in Istanbul. These demands shifted from a call for Arab autonomy in the late nineteenth century to the more focused goal of a single Arab state with a representative government and the protection of minority rights on the eve of the First World War.42 The leadership of the Arab secret societies, however, included few ′ulama apart from Rida and Zahrawi.43 One reason for this was the fact that Arabism posed a political and social challenge to the traditional notables, with whom the ‘ulama were intertwined. Another lay in the sustained loyalty of many ′ulama to the Ottoman Empire – the embodiment of the traditional Islamic order. The primary reason for the low representation of ′ulama in Arab politics, however, was the cultural agenda of Arabism, which embraced a Western political model and promoted unity and fraternity between Muslims and non-Muslims as full and equal partners in the enterprise of the Arab awakening.44 Indeed, interaction between the ′ulama and the national Arab movement in the Fertile Crescent on the eve of the First World War was minimal. In contrast to their Sunni colleagues in Egypt, who played an important role in the ′Urabi revolt, not to mention their Shi′ite counterparts in Iran, who were in the forefront of the constitutional revolution, the ′ulama in the Fertile Crescent remained disengaged from the emerging Arab movement. Furthermore, they attempted to delegitimise its spokesmen

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from both the Salafi wing and the secular intelligentsia. In contrast to their Egyptian and Iranian colleagues, their rejection of Arabism did not focus on opposition to its Westernised cultural aspects only. They opposed pan-Arabism’s territorial implications as well. This stemmed from the geopolitical attributes of the Fertile Crescent, namely geographic and sectarian diversity, along with the absence of a colonial presence. The lack of these two features in Egypt and in Iran facilitated more harmonious interaction between religious and national identities in those countries. A glance at developments in the period following the First World War reveals similar patterns of ′ulama involvement in local politics and interaction with national movements. One example is the anti-British revolt in Iraq in 1920. The Shi′ite ′ulama in the south were a driving force in this revolt, their goal being the establishment of Islamic rule in Iraq. Their political alliance with the Sunni Arabs in Baghdad, however, deteriorated into antagonism following the suppression of the revolt and the subsequent establishment of a Western-oriented Sunni monarchy under British patronage. Moreover, the entire Shi′ite population found itself marginalised in national politics despite its majority demographically.45 In Palestine, the ′ulama played a leading role in promoting a national agenda to counter both the Zionist movement and the British Mandate within the Supreme Muslim Council founded in 1922. In this agenda, which sanctified the territorial boundaries of Palestine, Islam was ‘the medium rather than the message’, to use the words of Musa Budeiri.46 The fact that the Palestinian liberation movement was led by ′ulama members of the council ensured considerable harmony between religious and national identities, yet only with regard to the political and territorial dimensions. In social and cultural matters, the council discouraged modernist or reformist tendencies. It took a firm stand against Western missionary activity and punctiliously enforced the traditional religious moral code, including the wearing of the veil and censorship of theatres and other places of entertainment.47

CONCLUSION

Religion can, and does, function as a facilitating factor in defining national identity and its territorial boundaries. Suffice to note the deep linkage between Judaism and Jewish national identity, or between Shi′ism and Iranian national identity. This linkage is also manifest in Sunni Islam, and has been reflected in Egyptian nationalism and in panArabism, as discussed above. Modern nationalism, however, also contains an important component of structural and ethical secularisation. It aspires to position itself as the primary focus of individual loyalty and to be the principal agent in defining the cultural milieu of the collective.48 The nationalist narrative claims possession of the community’s historical


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memory and cultivates a myth of joint origin and shared destiny. In this process of national coalescence and the redefinition of the ‘I’ and the ‘other’, religion shifts from a concept of a sacred cosmic order to one element of many in the collective identity. Against this background, temporal conflicts are ignited between political elites and religious spokesmen. The political milieu of the ′ulama in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was confined to the polity in which they lived and operated, leaving the pan-Islamic premise of a community of believers largely in the realm of a theological exercise. In contrast, their cultural milieu was far broader, allocating a central position to the universal ethical corpus of Islam as entrenched in the Scriptures. The ′ulama’s adherence to this corpus led to a greater focus on, and a more restrictive approach to the moral code of the political entity in which they lived. In this sense, co-opting indigenous identity into the Islamic discourse entailed the subjection of its legitimacy to a revelatory source. The discourse of setting boundaries – sanctifying the territorial entity while insisting on guiding its moral content in the spirit of Islam – also dictated the nature of the interaction between ′ulama and the national liberation movements. In some spheres, such as the struggle against colonial rule or efforts to restrain tyrannical government, this interaction was rather harmonious. In other spheres potentially detrimental to the entrenched religious ethos (e.g. the organic unity between state and religion, the superiority of the shari′a in matters of personal status, or the second-class civil status of religious minorities), the interaction was acrimonious and resulted in dissent. The underlying premise of the ′ulama in ensuring the normative status of Islam in the state was the Qur’anic injunction to ‘enjoin good and forbid evil’ embodied in the institution of hisbah, which was responsible for enforcing public morality. The inherent assumption of this injunction, defined by medieval scholars as ‘the most important pillar of Islam’,49 is that man is both a political and a metaphysical creature. He is in need of a socio-political order to regulate his affairs, but also of spiritual and religious elevation, which can be attained only by close religious supervision that ranges from preaching to prevention and punishment. According to the prominent Muslim scholar, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111), ‘preventing a Muslim from doing evil means controlling him’.50 Such constant guidance should neutralise and tame the destructive instincts of man and bring him closer to Allah through scrupulous observance of Islam’s commandments. To the ′ulama, the key to enjoining good and forbidding evil was religious assertiveness. Assertiveness is a relative and flexible term, which does not necessarily lead to large-scale achievements but implies perseverance and persistence. In the present context, it related to all matters pertaining to the defence of the faith from religious scepticism and immoral conduct. By expressing

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strong commitment to the duty of enjoining good and forbidding evil, the ′ulama also aimed at re-establishing their traditional status as the sole moral authority in society, which had eroded under the impact of modernisation. In their display of religious assertiveness the Shi′ite ′ulama in Iran – and to a lesser degree in Iraq – used the communal and political assets they controlled. The Sunni ′ulama in the Arabic-speaking countries, however, had at their disposal state assets allocated to them by the government. Notably, the fragility of Arab politics in the context of societal transitions in the post-First World War period required heightened state loyalty to Islam as a prime source of political legitimacy in neutralising political rivals and promoting the national agenda. The budgets, positions, institutions, publications and bodies issuing official fatwas granted by the state compensated the ′ulama for the loss of their traditional assets in education, the judiciary and the awqaf. These assets, combined with Islam’s cultural repository – canonical texts, symbols, ethos, rituals and monuments – enabled the Sunni ′ulama to emerge as a pressure group and to maintain a public presence in the Arab nation states. Although they neither challenged the legitimacy of the state nor claimed political power – in contrast to exponents of radical Islam – the ′ulama, nevertheless, were determined to exploit to the full their role as guardians of the faith and of social morals. They were, after all, designated in Islamic tradition as ‘the heirs of the Prophet’, and formed ‘a strategic stratum in a cosmological hierarchy of which the apex was divine’, to use Benedict Anderson’s expression.51 The Islamic narrative they promoted was quietist politically, but tended to be restrictive culturally. Although put on the defensive, unable to arrest the exposure of local society to a Western hedonistic code, the ′ulama’s narrative continued to demonstrate its presence in the ideological marketplace.52

NOTES

1. See, e.g., H. A. R. Gibb and H. Bowen, Islamic Society and the West, London, 1957, Vol. 2, pp. 111–13, 161–4; Ira M. Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, Cambridge, 1995, pp. 605–6, 617–18, 666; Daniel Crecelius, ‘Non-ideological Responses of the Egyptian Ulama to Modernization’, in Nikki R. Keddie, ed., Scholars, Saints and Sufis, Berkeley, 1972, pp. 185, 208–9. 2. On the ′Urabi episode, see Alexander Scholch, Egypt for the Egyptians, London, 1981; Juan R. Cole, Colonialism and Revolution in the Middle East, Princeton, NJ, 1993. 3. The term ‘theological technocrats’ is taken from Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities, New York, 1991, p. 15. On modernisation and its impact on al-Azhar during the nineteenth century, see, e.g., Crecelius, ‘Non-ideological Responses’, pp. 173–90; Afaf Lutfi al-Sayyid Marsot, ‘The Beginnings of Modernization among the Rectors of al-Azhar 1798–1879’, in William R. Polk and Richard L. Chambers, eds, Beginnings of Modernization in the Middle East, Chicago, IL, 1968, pp. 267–80; Dunne Heyworth, Introduction to the History of Education in Modern Egypt, London, 1968, pp. 339–405. 4. Latifa Muhammad Salim, Al-quwa al-ijtima′iyya fi al-thawra al-′urabiyya [The Social Forces in the ′Urabi Revolution], Cairo, 1981, pp. 359–68; Hasan al-Hanafi, ′Al-din wal-thawra


5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15.

16. 17.

18.

19.

20. 21. 22.

23.

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fi al-thawra al-′urabiyya [Religion and Revolution in the ′Urabi Revolution]’, in ′Abd al-′Azim Manaf, ed., Al-thawra al-′urabiyya mi’at ′amm 1881–1981 [The ′Urabi Revolution, a Centenary 1881–1981], Cairo, 1981, pp. 48–51; ′Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi′i, Al-thawra al-′urabiyya wal-ihtilal al-injlizi [The ′Urabi Revolution and the English Occupation], Cairo, 1965, pp. 531–8. See also Cole, Colonialism and Revolution, pp. 268–72. Salim, Al-quwa, pp. 359–62; Salim Khalil al-Naqqash, Misr li’l-misriyyin [Egypt for the Egyptians], Cairo, 1998, pp. 308–10. Salim, al-quwa, pp. 262–3, 365. Prince ′Abd al-Halim lost his claim to the crown when the Khedive Isma′il (1863–1979) changed the succession system so as to pass down the rule to his eldest son, Tawfiq. Latifa Muhammad Salim, ‘masami al-amir Halim wal-khadiw Isma′il min ajl ′arsh misr athna al-thawra al-′urabiyya [Prince Halim’s and Khedive Isma′il’s Contest over the Throne in Egypt during the ′Urabi Revolution]’, al-majalla al-ta’rikhiyya al-misriyya, Vol. 30–1, 1983–84, pp. 424; Hasan Adali, ‘Documents Pertaining to the Egyptian Question in the Yildiz Collection of the Bas¸bakanlík Ars¸ ivi, Istanbul’, in P. M. Holt, ed., Political and Social Change in Modern Egypt, London, 1968, pp. 52–5. Sa′id Isma′il ′Ali, Al-Azhar ′ala masrah al-siyasa al-misriyya [Al-Azhar in Egyptian Politics], Cairo, 1974, pp. 182–7; Cole, pp. 246–7. Meir Hatina, ‘Religious Scholasticism, Sufism and National Politics in Egypt’ (Hebrew). Jama′a, Vol. 7, 2001, pp. 85–91, 94–5. See, e.g., Muhammad al-Qayati, Nafhat al-basham fi rihlat al-Sham [The Scent of the Flower in the Journey to Syria], Beirut, 1981, pp. 5–9. Sami Zubaida, Islam, the People and the State, London, 1989, pp. 123–9; Piscatori, pp. 40–75. Qayati, Naphat, p. 7. See, e.g., Muhammad Ahmad ′Illaysh, Fath al-′Ali al-Malik fi al-fatwa ′ala madhhab al-imam Malik [′Ali al-Malik’s Commentary on the Fatwa by Imam Malik’s School], Beirut, 1975, Vol. 1, pp. 96–104, 108–111, 158–9, 391–2; Qayati, Naphat, pp. 34, 46–52. See also Hatina ‘Religious Scholasticism’, pp. 87–9, 97, 99–100. ′Illaysh, Fath al-′Ali al-Malik, Vol. 1, pp. 392–3. See also Meir Hatina, ‘Fatwas as a Prism of Social History in the Middle East: The Status of Non-Muslims in the Nineteenth Century’ (unpublished paper), pp. 6–8. Hatina, ‘Religious Scholasticism’, pp. 96–7; ′Abdallah al-Nadim, Sulafat al-Nadim [Nadim’s Best Essays], Cairo, 1901, Vol. 2, pp. 25–8, 64–83, 120–6; Muhammad ′Abduh, Al-ta′assub [Fanaticism], Cairo, 1930; Cole, Colonialism and Revolution, pp. 245–6; Doris Behrens-Abouseif, ‘The Political Situation of the Copts, 1798–1923’, in B. Braude and B. Lewis, eds, Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, New York, 1982, Vol. 2, pp. 193–6. Behrens-Abouseif, ‘The Political Situation’. See, e.g., Muhammad al-′Abbasi al-Mahdi, Al-fatawa al-mahdiyya fi al-waqa′i′ al-misriyya [Al-Mahdi’s Fatwas on Egyptian Events], Cairo, 1887, Vol. 2, pp. 32–3; Vol. 3, p. 377; Vol. 5, pp. 299–300; Hatina, ‘Fatwas as a Prism’, pp. 8–9; Rudolph Peters, ′Muhammad al-′Abbasi al-Mahdi (d. 1897) Grand Mufti of Egypt and His al-Fatawa al-Mahdiyya’, Islamic Law and Society, Vol. 1, No. 1, 1994, pp. 78–81; Gilbert Delanoue, Moralistes et politiques Musulmans dans L’Egypte du XIXe siecle, 1798–1882, Cairo, 1982, Vol. 2, pp. 168–82. The Hidden Imam was Muhammad ibn Hasan al-′Askari, who is said to have gone into occultation (ghaybah), in 872, so as to return on the Day of Judgment to establish the kingdom of justice. See Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi′i Islam, New Haven, CT, 1985, pp. 161–71. On Shi′ite political thought and the ′ulama power in pre-modern Iran, see, e.g., Nikki R. Keddie, ‘The Roots of Ulama’s Power in Modern Iran’, in idem, ed., Scholars, Saints and Sufis, Berkeley, CA, 1972, pp. 211–30; Vanessa Martin, Islam and Modernism, New York, 1989, pp. 11–35; Abdul-Hadi Hairi, ‘The Legitimacy of the Early Qajar Rule as Viewed by the Shi′i Religious Leaders’, Middle Eastern Studies, Vol. 24, July 1988, pp. 271–86. On the Tobacco Revolt and the ′ulama, see Nikki R. Keddie, Religion and Rebellion in Iran, London, 1966, pp. 35–113. Martin, Islam and Modernism, pp. 51–85. For the divergent perceptions of the ′ulama and secular liberals towards constitutionalism, see Said Amir Arjomand, ‘The Ulama’s Opposition to Parliamentarianism 1907–1909’, Middle Eastern Studies, Vol. 7, April 1981, pp. 174–90; Janet Afary, The Iranian Constitutional Revolution, 1906–1911, New York, 1996, pp. 89–115. Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Opposition’, pp. 177–84.

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24. Tabataba’i quoted in Hamid Algar, ‘Religious Forces in Twentieth-Century Iran’, in Peter Avery et al., eds, The Cambridge History of Iran, Cambridge, 1991, Vol. 7, p. 733. 25. Afary, The Iranian Constitutional Revolution, pp. 98–107. 26. See, e.g., Gholam-Husayn Zargari Nizhad, Rasa’il-e mashrutiyyat [Essays on Constitutionalism], Tehran, 1954, pp. 47–54; Husayn Abadian, Hukumat-e mashrutah wamashru′ah [Constitutional and Lawful Government], Tehran, 1954, pp. 28–9, 49–52, 168–9; ‘Two Clerical Tracts on Constitutionalism’, trans. and ed. Hamid Dabashi, in Said Amir Arjomand, ed., Authority and Political Culture in Shi′ism, New York, 1988, pp. 354–68. 27. Nizhad, Rasa’il-e mashrutiyyat, pp. 81–90; Abadian, Hukumat-e, pp. 29–32, 103–5. See also Abdul-Hadi Hairi, Shi′ism and Constitutionalism in Iran, Leiden, 1977, pp. 100–3; Said Amir Arjomand, ‘Ideological Revolution in Shi′ism’, in idem, Authority and Political Culture in Shi′ism, pp. 180–4. 28. Afary, The Iranian Constitutional Revolution, pp. 108–15. 29. This later became a structural component of Khomeini’s concept of velayat-e faqih (rule of the jurisprudent). 30. See, e.g., Muhammad al-Hafiz and Nizar Abaza, Ta’rikh ′ulama dimashq fi al-qarn al-rabi′ ′ashar al-hijri [The History of Damascene ′Ulama in the Fourteenth Century (A.H.)], Damascus, 1986–1991, Vol. 1; ′Abd al-Rahim ′Abd al-Rahim, ‘′Alaqat bilad al-Sham bi-Misr fi al-′asr al-′uthmani [The Relations Between Syria and Egypt in the Ottoman Period]’ in (no editor), Al-mu’tamar al-duwali al-thani li-ta’rikh bilad al-Sham 1517–1939 [The Second International Conference on the History of the Sham Provinces 1517–1939], Damascus, 1978, Vol. 2, pp. 275–92; Qayati, Naphat, pp. 23–30, 35–41, 60–80, 84–91, 94–107, 109–28; David D. Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria, Oxford, 1990, pp. 7–9. 31. Albert Hourani, ‘Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables’, in William R. Polk and Richard L. Chambers, eds, Beginnings of Modernization in the Middle East, Chicago, IL, 1968, pp. 41–68. 32. Moshe Ma’oz, Ottoman Reform in Syria and Palestine, 1840–1861, Oxford, 1968, pp. 95–8. 33. Ibid., pp. 226–40; Bruce Masters, ‘The Ottoman Empire’s Caravan City’, in Edhem Elden, Daniel Goffman and Bruce Masters, The Ottoman City Between East and West: Aleppo, Izmir, Istanbul, Cambridge, 1999, pp. 69–72. 34. On Afghani’s and ‘Abduh’s thought, see, e.g., Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age 1798–1939, Cambridge, 1983 pp. 103–60. 35. Itzchak Weismann, Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus, Leiden, 2001, pp. 273–304. See also Rida in Al-manar, Vol. 8, 1905, pp. 117, 789, Vol. 9, 1906, p. 358; Jawdat al-Rikabi and Jamil Sultan, eds, Al-irth al-fikri li’l-muslih al-ijtima′i ′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi [The Intellectual Heritage of the Social Reformist, ′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi], Damascus, 1963. 36. See, e.g., Commins, Islamic Reform, pp. 80–2; Salah al-Din al-Munajiid, ed., Fatawat al-imam Muhammad Rashid Rida [The Fatwas of Muhammad Rashid Rida], Beirut, 1970, Vol. 2, pp. 765–7, Vol. 3, pp. 864–5, 1118–19, Vol. 4, p. 1483; ′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi, ′Al-fiqh wal-tasawwuf [Jurisprudence and Sufism], in ′Abdallah Nabahan, ed., ′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi al-a′mal al-kamila [′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi: The Complete Works], Damascus, 1995, Vol. 1, pp. 289–308. 37. On the Salafis’ social and intellectual profile, see, e.g, Commins, Islamic Reform, pp. 34–48, 65–88; Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, pp. 222–44; Joseph H. Escovitz, ‘He was the Muhammad ‘Abduh of Syria: A Study of Tahir al-Jaza’iri and His Influence,’ International Journal of Middle East Studies, Vol. 18, 1986, pp. 293–310. 38. Commins, Islamic Reform, pp. 34–48, 104–15. 39. Qayati, Naphat, pp. 23–30, 35–41, 60–80, 84–91, 94–107, 109–28; Zaki Muhammad Mujahid, Al-a′lam al-sharqiyya [Famous Figures of the East], Cairo, 1949, Vol. 2; Niqula Ziyade, ‘Lubnaniyyun darasu bil-Azhar fi al-qarn al-tasi′ ′ashar [Lebanese Studied at al-Azhar in the Nineteenth Century]’, in (no editor), Al-mu’tamar al-duwali al-thani li-ta’rikh bilad al-Sham, Vol. 2, 171–87; Ramadan Mustafa, ‘Riwaq al-Sham bil-Azhar iban al-′asr al-′uthmani [The Sham Loggia in al-Azhar during the Ottoman Period]’, ibid., Vol. 2, pp. 17–97. 40. Commins, Islamic Reform, pp. 107–23. 41. On the emergence of Pan-Arabism see, e.g., Ernest Dawn, ‘The Rise of Arabism in Syria’, in idem, From Ottomanism to Arabism, Urbana, 1973, pp. 148–79; Philip S. Khoury, Urban Notables and Arab Nationalism, Cambridge, 1983, pp. 53–74; Rashid Khalidi, ‘Ottomanism and Arabism in Syria before 1914’, in: R. Khalidi and others, eds, The Origins of Arab Nationalism, New York, 1991, pp. 50–69.


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42. Eliezer Tauber, The Emergence of the Arab Movements, London, 1993; idem, ‘Rashid Rida as Pan-Arabist Before World War I’, The Muslim World, Vol. 79, 1989, pp. 102–12; Emad Eldin Shahin, Through Muslim Eyes: Muhammad Rashid Rida and the West, Herndon, 1993, pp. 60–5; Ahmad Tarabein, ‘′Abd al-Hamid al-Zahrawi: The Career and Thought of an Arab Nationalist’, in Khalidi et al., eds, The Origins of Arab Nationalism, pp. 97–109. 43. Tauber, The Emergence of the Arab Movements, pp. 297–300. 44. See, e.g., Khoury, Urban Notables, pp. 70–4. 45. On the 1920 revolt in Iraq and its ramifications on Shi′ite politics, see Yitzhak Nakash, The Shi′is of Iraq, New Jersey, 1994, pp. 49–72. 46. See, e.g., Uri Kupferschmidth, ‘Islam on the Defensive: The Supreme Muslim Council’s Role in Mandatory Palestine’, Asian and African Studies, Haifa, Vol. 17, 1983, pp. 176–200, 205–6; Musa Budeiri, ‘The Palestinians: Tensions Between Nationalist and Religious Identities’, in Israel Gershoni and James Jankowski, eds, Rethinking Nationalism in the Arab Middle East, New York, 1997, pp. 195–8. 47. Kupferschmidth, ‘Islam on the Defensive’, pp. 200–5. 48. For broader and more controversial discussions on religion and nationalism in the Middle Eastern context, see Piscatori, pp. 40–75; Bernard Lewis, The Middle East and the West, New York, 1964, pp. 70–94; P. J. Vatikiotis, Islam and the State, New York, 1987, pp. 35–43; Elie Kedourie, ‘Introduction’, in idem, Nationalism in Asia and Africa, New York, 1970, pp. 28–31, 69–70; idem, Democracy and Arab Political Culture, London, 1994, pp. 1–11; John L. Esposito, The Islamic Threat: Myth or Reality, New York, 1995, pp. 62–7; Israel Gershoni, ‘Rethinking the Formation of Arab Nationalism in the Middle East, 1920–1945’, in Gershoni and Jankowski, eds, Rethinking Nationalism in the Arab Middle East, pp. 3–25. 49. See, e.g., Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, Ihyah ′ulum al-din [Revival of the Religious Sciences], Cairo, 1967, Vol. 2, pp. 391–455. Ghazali was even prepared to allow individual subjects, not only rulers and scholars, to have recourse to coercive means where necessary. In this sense, his tendency towards political accommodation, reflected in sanctifying obedience to any ruler, even an unjust one, as better than chaos, contrasted with an uncompromising moralistic attitude towards the injunction of forbidding wrong as the sole guarantee against ethical social disintegration. Leonard Binder, ‘Al-Ghazali’s Theory of Islamic Government’, The Muslim World, Vol. 14, 1955, pp. 229–41. See also Ahmad Ibn Taymiyya, Al-hisba wa-mas’uliyyat al-hukuma al-islamiyya [Censorship and the Responsibility of the Islamic Government], Beirut, 1976. For an account of the injunction in classical Islam, see Michael Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought, Cambridge, 2000. The centrality of the injunction was also evident in the writings of modern Islamists, who defined it as ‘the sixth pillar of Islam’. See, e.g., Muhammad Rashid Rida in Al-manar, Cairo, Vol. 30, 1929, pp. 507–8; (no author), Violence: Towards a Bettter Understanding of the Dilemma According to the Muslim Brotherhood, London, 1996, pp. 8–9. 50. Ghazali, Ihyah, Vol. 2, pp. 401–2. For a summary discussion of the place of shari′a in the public domain see Daniel Pipes, In the Path of God, New York, 1983, pp. 29–47. 51. Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 15. 52. Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, New York, 1973, pp. 204–5.

9

Islamic Nationalism in Iran and Its Ideological, Military and Foreign-policy Aspects NUGZAR TER-ORGANOV

The revolution of 1978–79 in Iran dethroned Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi and put an end to the monarchy’s ideology based on Persian nationalism. This policy of promoting Persian nationalism, of glorifying the past of Iran and of acclaiming the contribution of Persian culture to world civilisation was an unsuccessful attempt to unite the Iranian nation under the banner of pan-Iranism. In fact, the creation of the Rastakhiz (‘Revival’) party in 1975 was one of the latest efforts of the monarchy to consolidate Iranian society.1 In all this Islam was almost completely ignored by both the founder of the dynasty, Reza Shah Pahlavi, and his dethroned son. The opposition forces participating in the revolution consisted of various social groups and therefore their ideological base was heterogeneous. Of these the Shi′ite leaders were able to consolidate all the opposition forces around themselves. After all, the Shi′ite clergy enjoyed special authority among the population: on the one hand, this was due to the fact that all through the Pahlavi period they had been in reconcilable opposition to the non-Islamic, secular regime. On the other hand, Shi′ism, which in the sixteenth century had become the official state religion of Iran and had since been transformed into the national religion of the majority of the country’s inhabitants, was more than religion: it was an integral part of the people’s everyday life. Enjoying developed organisational and ideological structures, the Shi′ite leaders proved to be the most organised force among the revolutionaries. Ideologically, they used the concept of the legitimate authority of Velayat-e Faqih (rule of the religious jurisprudent) or Hokumate Eslami (or, in Arabic, al-Hukuma al-Islamiyya, Islamic government). Organisationally, they had at their disposal more than 200 religious institutions of various levels and 80,000 mosques all over Iran, which they used together with the bazaars to disseminate and popularise their ideology among the population. Thus, although in the course of the

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revolution no slogan calling for the establishment of an Islamic state was advanced, the Shi′ite clergy was able first to capture the leadership and then to defeat all the other forces one by one. It should be noted that the principles of the building of an Islamic state had been worked out by the prominent Islamic theologians long before the revolution. They were based upon the Shi′ite ideology, which had always been in opposition to the secular authorities and regarded them as illegal. The problem of authority has been a major problem – both in theory and in practice – in Islam. It caused the division of the Muslim community (umma) and subsequently the Islamic world into Sunnis and Shi′ites. One of the main principles of Shi′ism has been the doctrine of the Imama, which is a supreme authority in the Muslim polity. As is well known, during the first years of Islam the functions of Imam were carried out by the Prophet Muhammad, and after his death by the Caliphs. The Caliph-Imam was the sole legislator and the supreme spiritual and secular authority in the Muslim polity. The Shi′ites did not accept the authority of the Caliphs. Rather, they followed their Imams, who were regarded as the deputies of Allah. Shi′ism inherited the religious power and the spiritual authority of the Shi′ite Imams.2 Shi′ite ideas of legitimate authority remained during many centuries an ideal opposing the actual practices in Islam. ‘Islamic government’ is the renovated doctrine of the Imama. It intends to execute an ideal model of the theocratic government and revive the unity of the spiritual and secular powers in Islam.3 Nevertheless the message of Khomeini does not contain a detailed programme of how to build a functioning Islamic state.4 It appeals to the masses to rise and overthrow the oppressors for the establishment of an ideal, Islamic utopia, where unity, community and self-reliance predominate.5 According to one of the distinguished Shi′ite theologians, Ayatolla Motahhari,6 the Iranian revolution is a revolution with an ideological, Islamic character7. Motahhari denies the social aspects of the Iranian revolution, but at the same time recognises the fact that the ‘oppressed masses’ more than any other social stratum rose against the tyranny and carried the revolution. To him, the ‘oppressed masses’ are that part of the people whose daily life is tightly connected to the performance of religious duties.8 Shi′ite theologians, including Khomeini, have rejected the separation of religion from politics, considering both a single whole. According to Motahhari, one of the reasons for the Islamic revolution was this separation between religion and politics. Other reasons included the aspiration to return to pre-Islamic values, the distortion of the Islamic cultural heritage, the supremacy of non-Muslim over Islamic elements, and gross violations of the Islamic laws. The main goal of the establishment of the Islamic state is to create a classless society.9 In this society one overall interest will reign, based upon a single principle: one Muslim

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for all Muslims, and all Muslims for one. This will build a real Islamic brotherhood and establish social justice. ‘The future of our revolution’, argues Motahhari, ‘will be guaranteed by observing justice, liberty, political and economical freedom, independence of culture, thought and religious school… Our revolution will be victorious when we can acquaint the whole world with our maktab and ideology, that is holy, chaste, primordial Islam.’10 According to Shi′ite theologians, Shi′ism is not merely one of the religions but both a maktab11 and ideology simultaneously. Thus, being the national religion of the majority of Iranians, Shi′ism has, in fact, become the foundation for ‘confessional nationalism’.12 Indeed, analysing the domestic and foreign policy of the Islamic Republic of Iran (IRI) one can observe an indissoluble connection between Persian and Islamic ‘confessional’ nationalisms. The Islamisation of the social and political life of Iranian society aspired to achieve several objectives, among them: to combat the dominant political influence and economic colonisation of the West, to counter Western culture and ideologies and simultaneously to replace the idea of national culture by Islam and Islamic civilisation. According to the Iranian theologian, Zein ol-Abedin Qorbani, author of The History of the Islamic Culture and Civilization, ‘Islamic civilization became a successor of the ancient cultures of the East and the West. It has a universal significance and therefore Islam is a universal religion. The Qur′an has no borders, no racial signs – Eastern or Western.’13 The comprehensive Islamisation of Iranian society had an immediate effect on the armed forces. Like any other revolutionary regime, the new Iranian Islamic one raised the question of a reliable support in the form of new armed forces loyal to the new regime. It decided, therefore, to build armed forces of a new type: the towhid army.14 Indeed, immediately after the revolution one of the main activities of Shi′ite leaders was the basic reorganisation of the Shah’s armed forces. They disbanded the military units most loyal to the Shah, combed out and deposed senior officers, and so on. Furthermore, the constitution of the IRI attaches great importance to the armed forces. It declares that the Rahbar (the supreme leader, Velayat-e Faqih) is the supreme commander-in-chief of all the armed forces. He appoints and dismisses the chief of the general staff of regular forces, the commander-in-chief of the corps of Pasdaran (see below) and the commanders-in-chief of the army, navy and air force. He personally nominates and confirms the members of the Supreme Council of National Defence, which consists of the president of the Islamic republic, the minister of war, the chief of the general staff, the commander-in-chief of the Pasdaran and two advisers. The Rahbar’s powers also include the declaration of war, the conclusion of peace and the mobilisation of the armed forces.15


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More important, the Shi’ite leaders envisioned a militarisation of the country. Khomeini wrote: ‘In the Islamic state all the people must be soldiers and must go through a course of military training. A state that has twenty million young men must after several years have twenty million soldiers who will form a twenty-million-strong Islamic army. Such a state will be invulnerable.’16 This was reflected in Article 144 of the constitution, which stipulates that ‘the army of IRI is to be Islamic, that is orthodox and national’,17 as well as in Article 151, which obliged the government of IRI to supply all the population with military training ‘in accordance with Islamic traditions’.18 The general military training of the population started in December 1979 under the personal guidance of Khomeini, and all the population between the ages of fourteen and sixty had to register at their place of residence and go through a course of military training.19 During the revolution Islamic military groups of Pasdaran (guards, watchmen) had been organised mainly from among the mullahs20 and talibs.21 On 24 February 1979, shortly after the revolution, the corps of the Pasdaran-e Enqelab-e Eslami (Islamic revolutionary guards, watchmen) was established. By May 1979, the first institutions and military units of the corps were organised and subordinated to the Islamic Revolutionary Council and through it to Khomeini personally.22 Khomeini regarded the corps of Pasdaran as a counterbalance to the regular army,23 and paid high tribute to its service to the state.24 Originally the main task of the corps was to ensure internal security and order. Within several years, however, the corps turned into the strongest military and political instrument in the hands of the Shi′ite clergy. It should be noted that Khomeini’s idea of building a huge, towhid army of 20 million was based upon the total mobilisation and training of the population, that is Basij.25 The corps of Basij, organised in 1981, became subordinate to the corps of Pasdaran.26 In 1982, a separate ministry of the corps of Pasdaran was established, and on 28 August new regulations defined the corps’ aims as: ‘to defend the achievements of the Islamic revolution in Iran, to spread Islam all over the world, to wage jihad (holy war) in the name of Allah and to secure co-operation with other armed units.’27 Thus, the corps of Pasdaran was in charge of domestic as well as external functions. It was to keep order inside the country; to fight against anti-governmental and dissenting political groups and organisations; to spread Islamic propaganda inside and outside the country; to guard the state borders and in co-operation with the regular army to protect the territorial integrity of the country; to carry out covert activities in foreign countries; and to strengthen its ties with so-called ‘national-liberation’ movements abroad.28 In 1980 a special department responsible for relations with the liberation movement in the Middle East was established, which intensified the corps’ role in exporting the

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Islamic revolution and preparing the ground for the establishment of Islamic rule all over the world. The corps thus interfered in the domestic affairs of foreign countries. The Iran–Iraq War (1980–88) gave a significant push to the further building up of the corps. It grew from 90,000 to 200,000 men at the end of 1982 and to 400,000 at the beginning of 1985. At the beginning of 1987, the corps of Pasdaran finally confirmed its status as the leading military and political organisation, took under its control all the military industries in the country and started to produce weapons.29 The war also speeded up the militarisation of the country. The military budget rose drastically from US$8bn in 1981/82 to US$20.16bn in 1984/85. (To compare, the peak military budget under the Shah was US$7.79bn.)30 This rapid militarisation of the state has remained one of the characteristic features of the policy of Islamic nationalism in Iran. In a way, one might see in it a continuation of the course of the ancien régime. There is a substantial difference, however, between the military policy of the Shah and that of the Shi′ite leaders. The Shah pursued, first of all, hegemony in the Persian Gulf region. Imam Khomeini, on the other hand, advocated Islamic universalism and claimed for Iran the predominant role in establishing Islamic order all over the world. In a message to the Iranian people on 21 March 1980, he declared that Iran ‘should try hard to export [its] revolution to the world’.31 According to him, Iranian diplomats had to be champions of this doctrine.32 Thus the IRI does not shy away from interfering in the internal affairs of all the Muslim states. As is generally known, this foreign policy is a reflection of domestic policy. From this point of view, the foreign policy of Shi′ite leaders has not been an exception. Essentially it has been the continuation of their domestic policy. The twenty-year history of the IRI’s foreign relations can be divided into two periods. The first period, from the revolution until the end of the Iran–Iraq War (1980–88), was characterised by the country’s isolation, with the economic policy of khodkafai (self-sufficiency). It seems that Khomeini and other Shi′ite leaders regarded Iran’s self-sufficiency as a means to reach economic independence, but experience had completely discredited this approach.33 The two leading foreign policy principles of the IRI during this period were ‘neither East nor West’ and the export of the Iranian model of Islamic revolution to neighbouring Arab states. It should be noted, however, that from the very establishment of the IRI, the former principle turned into anti-American, anti-Soviet and anti-Zionist propaganda. The IRI was thus following the ideological pattern of totalitarian regimes such as the Soviet Union, China, Cuba and some Arab regimes, which had felt the need to create an image of their enemies. The export of the revolution was part of Khomeini’s idea of Islamic universalism, in which Iran occupied a central place. Iran should be the


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state-model in establishing an Islamic order all over the world.34 This export of revolution was also based on the concept of jihad. The plot in Bahrain in 1981, the series of terrorist attacks in Beirut and Kuwait in 1983, the attempt on the life of the Amir of Kuwait in 1985, the efforts to destabilise Saudi Arabia in 1982, 1984 and especially in 1987, and the activities of ‘Hizbollah’ in Lebanon were all manifestations of this policy. In pursuing it, the Shi′ite leaders used their links with radical Shi′ite fundamentalist groups in Iraq,35 while the IRI encouraged in every possible way many extremist groups in the region. Ayatolla Khamenei’s (then the president, nowadays the Rahbar) phrase graphically characterises the nature of the Islamic regime of that period: ‘We don’t deny that fact that we are an extremist group of the world Islamic movement.’36 As expected, the export of Islamic revolution yielded no considerable results, except in those Arab countries where the Shi′ites formed an important part of the population. Generally speaking, the main reason for this failure was the fact that the IRI’s ideology was based on Shi′ism, while the majority of the population of most Arab and Muslim states are Sunnis. As M. Zonis and D. Brumberg observed, ‘Shi′ite message denies the Prophet Muhammad as the final ‘seal’ of the prophets and insists on the return of the twelfth Imam as the only basis for the establishment of a legitimate Islamic state. Both those ideas are fundamentally antagonistic to the word and spirit of Sunni Islam.’37 The Iran–Iraq War had a further negative influence on the success of Khomeini’s ideology. Taking into account the old historical and religious roots of this conflict, it may be defined as a continuation of the rivalry between pan-Arabism and pan-Iranism. Hence the majority of the Arab countries took Iraq’s side and were hostile to Khomeini’s ideology as an Iranian variety of Islamic nationalism. The failure of the economic self-isolation policy combined with the heavy toll of the Iran–Iraq War on the other hand – peaking in the UN Security Council Resolution 598 of 20 July 1987, censuring the Iran–Iraq War, and the Amman Arab Summit of November 1987, which condemned the IRI for occupying Iraqi territory38 – induced the pragmatist wing among the Shi′ite leaders to make the IRI’s foreign policy more flexible and pragmatic, their ideological principles notwithstanding. The acceptance by the Iranian government of the Security Council’s above-mentioned Resolution 598 at the end of July 1988, as a result of which the ceasefire was declared, became a turning point in its regional and international policy and marked the beginning of the second period in the history of the IRI’s foreign relations. It was followed by steps to improve relations not only with neighbouring countries but with the West as well.39 Thus, this second period can be characterised by the formula: ‘Both East and West’. Thanks to this pragmatism, Iran succeeded in breaking out of its isolation. The break-up of the USSR provided it with an additional way

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out of it, and opened up new opportunities for its foreign policy in the vast geopolitical space of the new independent states. Iran’s policy towards its northern neighbours has clearly demonstrated the pragmatist approach of the post-Khomeini leadership. Quite often the Shi′ite leadership has bent backwards ideologically to satisfy geopolitical, economic and other considerations. The IRI’s attitude to the war in Chechnya and the Karabakh conflict are among the best examples of its pragmatist approach: Shi′ite leaders do not support the Muslim insurgents in Chechnya in their fight under the banner of Islam against post-Soviet Russia; the same applies to Iran’s Muslim neighbour, Azerbaijan, in its struggle against Armenia. Close military and technical co-operation with post-communist Russia has been a main orientation in the IRI’s foreign policy in recent years and has provided the starting point for Iranian foreign policy in the Caucasus, on the Caspian Sea and towards the Central Asian republics – especially the settlement of the crisis in Tajikistan; all Iran’s policies have been co-ordinated with Moscow. Ali Akbar Rafsanjani’s eight-year presidency (1989–97) was marked by improving relations with Western European countries. But the qualitative leap in the IRI’s attitude to the West – including the USA – came at the beginning of Mohammad Khatami’s presidency (elected in May 1997 and re-elected in 2001). His historical message of 7 January 1998 to the ‘glorious American people’ was devoid of all past ideological stock phrases. The accelerated warming up of the IRI’s attitude towards European countries turned the heads of many European political leaders. Their approach was best expressed by the representative of the Social Democratic Party of Germany: ‘The West must support Mohammad Khatami – the president-reformer!’40 Relations with Arab states have also improved because the IRI’s leaders were able to normalise their relations with the Arab countries of the Persian Gulf, considerably decreasing anti-Arab propaganda which, according to A. Ehteshami, ‘opened the doors to Tehran’,41 meanwhile preserving strong anti-Israeli propaganda. The improvement of Arab– Iranian relations was also closely connected to Iran’s activities in the Organization of the Islamic Conference (OIC). The eighth summit of the OIC, held in Tehran 9–11 December 1997 – in which President Khatami was elected as the organisation’s chairman for the following three years – was considered a big victory for Khatami’s foreign policy and a stage in the ‘dramatic improvement of relations with the Arab states’.42 This has been dramatically demonstrated by the IRI’s acceptance into the Gulf Co-operation Council. The pragmatism of the Shi′ite leaders in the second period of the IRI’s foreign policy is also displayed in the disappearance of the image of the two ‘satanic powers’ – the Soviet Union and the USA. The only image of an enemy which is still actively exploited is that of Israel.43. It seems


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this image of an enemy is based not merely upon the past close Israeli– Pahlavi relations, but also upon the necessity, from the point of view of propaganda, to have such an image of an enemy. The IRI needs it to distract the Arab states from the daily growth of Iran’s military might in the Persian Gulf and in the Middle East generally. The aspiration of the IRI to produce nuclear weapons and its military programme in general are evidence of the far-reaching aims of its leadership in the region. Thus, the Iranian revolution of 1978–79 put an end to Persian nationalism, pursued by the Pahlavi dynasty. During the revolution, thanks to the heterogeneity of the opposition forces, the common ideological base was absent. In such an advantageous situation the Shi′ite leaders, with developed organisational and ideological structures in place around them, could consolidate all the opposition forces. The Shi′ite doctrine of the legitimate authority of Velayat-e Faqih or Hokumat-e Eslami became an ideological base of the IRI. So, since the revolution, Shi′ism – a national religion of Iranians – became the official ideology of the IRI. Shi′ism inherited the religious power and the spiritual authority of the Shi′ite Imams. Shi′ite Imams were considered the supreme spiritual and legitimate authority instead of the actual rulers. According to Shi′ite theologians, Shi′ism is not only a religion but also a national ideology, and legal regulations connected it to Iranians’ everyday life. In Ayatolla Khomeini’s opinion, religion and politics are a single, indivisible whole. Thus, Shi′ism, which served for centuries as a national religion of Iranians, became a kind of Islamic, or confessional, nationalism. After the victory of the revolution 1978–79 began the overwhelming process of Islamisation of the social, economic and political life of Iranian society, including the armed forces of IRI. They became one of the main objects of such Islamisation. According to the constitution of the IRI, the Rahbar or supreme spiritual leader of the Shi′ite community is the supreme commander-in-chief of all armed forces of the IRI. Under the guidance of the spiritual leader, the corps of Pasdaran-e Enqelab-e Eslami was organised. Khomeini’s idea of building a huge 20 million-strong towhid or monotheist army, by means of total mobilisation and training (Basij) became a basis for the vast militarisation of the country: the corps of Pasdaran was increased from 90,000 men to 400,000 (1979–85). In 1987 the corps of Pasdaran was the leading military and political organisation of the IRI. The IRI’s ideology, a kind of confessional nationalism preached by Shi′ite leaders, became itself a main obstacle in the way of spreading Khomeini’s Islamic (Shi′ite) revolution in the Sunni world. Consequently the export of the Islamic revolution, in which Iran should have been the state-model for other Islamic states, collapsed because of its Shi′ite nature which was unacceptable to the Sunni population of Arab and other Muslim countries. It should be said that pan-Iranism as an ideology was replaced by pan-Shi′ite or confessional nationalism.

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The first period of the IRI’s foreign policy (1979–88), which included the whole period of the Iran–Iraq War, was marked by a strong outburst of anti-Arab, anti-Soviet, anti-American and anti-Zionist propaganda. Since the achievement of the ceasefire with Iraq (July 1988) the foreign policy of the Shi′ite state became less anti-Arab and more flexible and pragmatic. The second period of the IRI’s foreign policy might be characterised by the formula: ‘Both the West and the East’. The pragmatic attitude of the IRI’s leaders towards many questions of regional and international politics gave Iran a good chance to escape from international isolation. The best examples of such an attitude are the war in Chechnya and the Karabakh conflict. It should be noted that many political steps of the IRI, taken in the Caucasus, Central Asia and on the Caspian Sea have been co-ordinated with post-Soviet Russia. This process of the improvement of political relations with the West, which had been begun during the presidency of Ali Akbar Rafsanjani (1989–97), was qualitatively increased at the beginning of Mohammad Khatami’s presidency. Thus, in foreign-policy matters, the post-Khomeini leadership proceeded from a position of pragmatism, and state interests quite often overrode principles of official ideology, meanwhile successfully exploiting an image of an Israeli, Zionist enemy, providing clear evidence of the desire of the IRI to exceed the limits of the leading regional power.

NOTES

1. Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, Towards the Great Civilisation, n.p., n.d, pp. 190–205 (in Persian). 2. S. M. Prozorov, ‘Shi′ite (Imam’s) Doctrine of the Supreme Authority’, in P.A. Griaznevich, S.M.Prozorov, eds, Islam: Religion, Society, State, Moscow, 1984, pp. 204–5 (in Russian). 3. Ibid., p. 211. 4. Islam and Revolution. Writings and Declarations of Imam Khomeini, trans. and annotated by Hamid Algar, Berkeley, CA, 1981, p. 25. 5. M. Zonis and D. Brumberg, Khomeini, the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Arab World, Cambridge, 1987, p. 20. 6. Ayatolla Motahhari, one of the famous Shi′ite theologians of the 1950s–1970s in Iran, was a representative of the ‘reformist wing’ in the Shi′ite clergy. At the beginning of the 1960s he headed the religious society ‘Anjoman-e Dini’. At the same time Ayatolla Motahhari taught theology at Tehran University. He was among the strongest supporters of Khomeini’s Islamic revolution. 7. Morteza Motahhari, Concerning the Islamic Revolution, Tehran, 1988, pp. 36, 41 (in Persian). 8. Ibid., p. 39. 9. Ibid., p. 59. 10. Ibid., p. 65. 11. Maktab – a school, direction; a primary religious school. 12. V. K. Zotov, ‘The Ideology of the Islamic Regime’, in A.Z. Arabajian, ed., The Iranian Revolution, 1978–1979. The Reasons and the Lessons, Moscow, 1989, p. 370 (in Russian). 13. Zein ol-Abedin Qorbani, The History of the Islamic Culture and Civilization, Tehran, 1991, p. 6. (in Persian). 14. Towhid, or more correctly al-towhid in Arabic, means ‘monotheism’. The towhid army is a monotheistic army, guided by the Islamic regulations.


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15. The Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran, second edition, Tehran, 1993, p. 55 (in Persian). 16. The Middle East: Turkey, Iran, Israel; U.S.A., Tbilisi, 1987, No.4, August, p.11 (in Russian). 17. The Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran, p. 70. 18. Ibid., p. 71. 19. The Middle East, No. 4, p. 12. 20. Mullah – a Shi’ite preacher, educated at the madrese (religious school). 21. Talib – a student at the religious school. 22. The Middle East, No. 5, p. 10. 23. P. Daneshvar, Revolution in Iran, New York, 1996, p. 133. 24. R. Carlsen, The Imam and His Islamic Revolution. A Journey into Heaven and Hell, Victoria, 1982, p. 50. 25. Basij in Persian means mobilisation, a weapon, arms. 26. The Middle East, No. 4, p. 12. 27. The Middle East, No. 5, p. 10. 28. Ibid., p. 11. 29. A. P. Shestakov, ‘The Struggle for Power in the Governmental Circles of IRI and the Strengthening of the Extremist Tendency’, in The Iranian Revolution, 1978–1979. The Reasons and the Lessons, p. 343 (in Russian). 30. A. P. Shestakov, ‘The Formation of the Principle Religious-Political Groupings of the Ruling Clergy’, in The Iranian Revolution, 1978–1979. The Reasons and the Lessons, p. 290 (in Russian). 31. R. Ramazani, ‘Khumayni’s Islam in Iran’s Foreign Policy’, in Islam in Foreign Policy, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1983, p. 17. 32. Keyhan, 6 January 1981. 33. Daneshvar, Revolution in Iran, p. 137. 34. L. M. Kulagina, ‘The General Assessment of IRI’s Foreign Policy’, in The Iranian Revolution, 1978–1979. The Reasons and the Lessons, p. 447 (in Russian). 35. Zonis and Brumberg, Khomeini, p. 33. 36. Ettelaat, 15 February 1985. 37. Zonis and Brumberg, Khomeini, p. 28. 38. Ettelaat, 21 July 1987; A. Ehteshami, After Khomeini. The Iranian Second Republic, London and New York, 1995, p. 135. 39. Ehteshami, After Khomeini, p. 147. 40. Jahan-e Ektesad, 11 May 1998. 41. Ehteshami, After Khomeini, p. 141. 42. Economist, December 1997–January 1998. 43. P. Clawson, M. Eisenstadt, E. Kanovsky and D. Menashri, Iran under Khatami. A Political, Economic and Military Assessment, Washington, DC, 1998, p. vii.

10

Communities of Ideas: Blyden, Senghor and the Evolution of the Discourse Between Pan-Africanism and Islam IRIT BACK

In the concluding remarks to his Islam in Tropical Africa (1966) Ioan Myrddin Lewis anticipated that Islam, as both a comprehensive universal ideology and an active political power, would eventually vanish from the African discourse. He acknowledged the demographic force of Islam during the colonial period, but expressed his belief that ‘secular aims and politics are more important in the modern world than common religious beliefs’.1 Two years later, Spencer J. Trimingham wrote in the concluding paragraph of his The Influence of Islam upon Africa: There are those in Africa to whom Islam as a spiritual and moral force is becoming irrelevant to life, who at the same time retain full loyalty to Islam as the cultural environment to which they belong. Islamic culture like Western culture is being gradually weaned from its religious roots, and the gulf between the spiritual and secular spheres of life is widening. Islam, whilst continuing to influence deeply individual life, will gradually cease to have the profound effect it formerly exercised over the vast ranges of people.2 In the context of the initial post-colonial period, such views were not extraordinary among scholars of Islam in Africa. Beliefs that the processes of social change, modernisation and secularisation would eventually reduce the power of Islam in Africa were dominant at that time. After all, Lewis, Trimingham and their contemporaries could not anticipate in the 1960s the revival of Islam, as a universal as well as an African phenomenon, in the last quarter of the twentieth century. Yet Islam has proved to be one of the vital and dynamic forces on the contemporary African scene, not merely demographically, but also politically, intellectually and ideologically. While many aspects of this revival of Islam in

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Africa have been widely discussed, the discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam has been rather neglected.3 This chapter aims to follow the route along which this discourse developed by examining and comparing the thoughts of Edward W. Blyden and Léopold Sédar Senghor. Those two were chosen not merely because they were prominent pan-African thinkers, but also because they represent different stages and aspects in the development of this discourse: Blyden represents the initial and pioneering stages of panAfricanism while Senghor personifies its consolidation under the cultural current of Négritude and later its transition to the post-colonial stage of political and continental pan-Africanism. Furthermore, Blyden the Anglophone and Senghor the Francophone represent two different cultural-linguistic traditions in their attitudes towards both Islam and pan-Africanism. After locating the contribution of both to the evolution of the discourse pan-Africanism–Islam, this chapter will conclude with a few remarks concerning the contemporary relevance of this discourse.

BLYDEN AND THE ROOTS OF THE DISCOURSE PAN-AFRICANISM–ISLAM

Edward W. Blyden was born in the Virgin Island of St Thomas in 1832 into a family able to trace its ancestry to the Igbo of Nigeria. In 1850 he immigrated to the United States. His stay in the USA, although it lasted for one year only, proved to be a meaningful experience for him. During this year Blyden encountered racial prejudice both personally – when he was not accepted by a theological college because of his complexion – and collectively (the Fugitive Slave Act and general racism of the period). As a result of his experience, he became a fierce adherent of the ideas of Back-to-Africa and African continental independence. In 1851 he immigrated to Liberia, the West African Republic, which had become independent three years earlier. He became the editor of the newspaper Liberia Herald (1855–56), the principal of Alexander High School in Monrovia (1858–61), secretary of state of Liberia (1864-1866), president of Liberia College (1880–84) and Liberian ambassador to the United Kingdom (1887–90 and 1892–94) – to mention just a few landmarks in his prolonged and impressive intellectual and political career. If Blyden’s first twenty years in Africa were devoted mostly to Liberia, from the 1870s he was travelling throughout West Africa, in search of the common characteristics of the African people. The power and vitality of Islam in Africa was a revelation to Blyden; his own religious background had not prepared him for it. Exposed in his childhood and adolescence to strong Christian, and perhaps even some Jewish, influences,4 he was a devoted Christian, and probably knew nothing about Islam until his arrival in Africa. Blyden’s analysis was, therefore, based mostly on first-hand impressions and experiences from his travels and

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lacked essential knowledge of the history of Islam in Africa.5 This revelation was displayed in his Islam, Christianity and the Negro Race (1887), which collected previously published articles and speeches. His first observation was that Islam was more suited to African communities than was Christianity: Whenever the Negro is found in Christian lands, his leading traits are not docility, as has been often alleged, but servility. He is slow and unprogressive. Individuals here and there may be found of extraordinary intelligence, enterprise and energy, but there is no Christian community of Negroes anywhere, which is self-reliant and independent. […] On the other hand, there are Negro Mohammedan communities and states in Africa, which are selfreliant, productive, independent and dominant, supporting, without the patronage of the parent country, Arabia, whence they derived them, their political, literary and ecclesiastical institutions.6 Blyden suggested two explanations for his observation; one was essentially historical. Blyden tried to trace the roots of the contacts between the two religions and the African people. From its creation, the history of Islam interlocked with the history of black Africa. Referring probably to the flight of Muhammad’s adherents to the court of the Ethiopian king in 615 AD, he noted: ‘Again, when the religion of Islam would have perished in the place of its origin, by Caucasian intolerance and persecution, it was to the land of Ham that its Few adherents fled for shelter and protection; so, that if this religion did not originate in Africa, Africa was its nursing Mother.’7 Christianity, Blyden stated, was not only introduced to Africa much later, but the character of this introduction was radically different. Islam penetrated Africa south of the Sahara gradually, adapting itself to the African religious and cultural climate. Christianity, on the other hand, came to Africa aggressively, first through the trans-Atlantic slave trade, and later through the missionaries. Thus, the dialogue that had been created through centuries of contacts between Islam and the African people was absent in the case of Christianity. The historical dimension led Blyden to the other explanation, which was essentially cultural. Christianity, according to Blyden, was part of the Aryan European culture. This culture was essentially imperialistic, and throughout its contacts with other cultures it tended to control them. Being part of an imperialist culture, Christianity was infected with racist attitudes to other races, and especially towards the black race. The attitude of Christianity towards the African people – in the African continent as well as in the Diaspora – was essentially paternalistic: ‘So long as you treat us like children,’ he claimed, ‘we shall behave like children. Treat us like men and we shall behave like men.’8 Being directed only to


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Caucasian models in its history, theology, art and education, Christianity frustrated any ‘other’ willing to adopt it. Moreover, throughout the centuries of trans-Atlantic slave trade, Christianity had been taking an active role in the establishment of ‘anti-Negro’ literature, art and academic discourse that aimed at dehumanising the character of the black people.9 Muslim art, on the other hand, resembled in its spirit African art more than Christian art did. Muslim scripts, as opposed to Christian scripts, were full of references to what Blyden called ‘distinguished Negroes’, like Bilal the Ethiopian, the first muezzin. No wonder that: […] Negroes trained under the influences of such a social and literary atmosphere must have a deeper self-respect and higher views of the dignity of human nature than those trained under the blighting influence of caste, and under the guidance of a literature in which it has been the fashion for more than two hundred years to caricature the African, to ridicule his personal peculiarities, and to impress him with a sense of perpetual and hopeless inferiority. Christian literature has nothing to show on behalf of the Negro comparable to Mohammedan literature; and there is nothing in Mohammedan literature corresponding to the Negro – or ‘nigger’ – […] of Christian caricatures.’ 10 Despite this unequivocal criticism, it seems that it was directed not at Christianity as a religion but at institutionalised Christianity, which he accused of the sins of pride, ignorance, lack of humility, and so on. Personally, Blyden continued to be a strong and fierce believer in Christianity and had an impressive career in the Presbyterian Church. Thus, he was one of the main advocates of the Calvinist perception of Providential Design. According to this perception, slavery was part of a divine scheme, according to which Africans were brought to the New World in order to absorb the values of Western and Christian culture. In the following stage, they were to return to Africa and to spread those values there.11 The historical role of Islam was, according to this scheme, to eradicate paganism and its evils from Africa.12 The following stage, he believed, would be the disappearance of Islam from, and the spread of Christianity in, Africa: We entertain the deliberate conviction – gathered not from reading at home, but from travels among the people – that, whatever it may be in other lands, in Africa the work of Islam is preliminary and preparatory. Just as Ishmael came before Isaac in the history of the great Semitic families, so here the descendants of Ishmael have come before the illustrious descendant of Isaac … In view, then, of the work which Islam already accomplished for Africa and the Negro race, and the work which it may yet accomplish, we may

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Community, Identity and the State express the belief of Möhler, quoted in the Guardian, that ‘one day the true labourers sic may find (in Africa) a harvest ready for their reaping, and the Gospel speed thither on its way rejoicing, and Mahomet prove a servant of Christ’.13

In many respects, Blyden used his discourse about Islam as a way to flay racist attitudes concerning the disabilities of African (and people of African origin) Christians. Ironically, as shown above, he himself used the same terminology in his discourse about religions in Africa. Many aspects of Blyden’s writing were idealistic and historically misleading. He ignored the Arab and Muslim involvement and active participation in many forms of slave trade – trans-Saharan, trans-Atlantic and that of the east coast alike. He ignored the complex sets of attitudes and images that had evolved between Africans and other Muslims and which were definitely less ideal than described in his book. And he admitted that to him the theological dimension of Islam was secondary to the anthropological one: ‘In our discussion of the Mohammedan question we do not consider the theology of the system, but its anthropology: those practical features of it which affect man – the natural man, and especially the African man. And in viewing it in this manner, we cannot but feel a deep personal interest in the system.’14 Blyden’s analysis made an important contribution to the dialogue between African identity and Islam and Christianity, the flaws in his attitude towards Islam notwithstanding. To evaluate this contribution properly, Blyden’s attitude to Islam has to be placed within the wider context of his pan-African thinking.15 Blyden probably coined the term ‘African personality’. While a full discussion of this concept is outside the scope of this chapter, some of its main characteristics and their relevance to the discourse with Islam must be mentioned here. Blyden believed in a distinct ‘African personality’, a concept deeply rooted in his notions about race. He shared with Western thinking of his time the belief that each racial group was distinguished by its particular characteristics. Unlike it, however, Blyden believed that these particularities did not imply superiority of one race over another, only their difference from each other. Like other contemporary cultural nationalists, mostly Westerners, he believed that the distinct African personality would flourish only if it was cultivated separately from other races. The history of the African Americans was the main rationale behind his ‘Back-to-Africa’ call.16 He believed that the African setting would enable the black race to explore the glorious African past and present and to build its unique contribution to universal civilisation.17 As already noted, Islam, being one of the major components of the African personality, was assigned a central role. Blyden’s contribution was not merely theoretical. As an advocate of a distinct African education, Blyden supported inclusion of Arabic and Islamic studies as an integral part of


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the curriculum. Thus, as the director of Mohammedan education in Sierra Leone (1901–6), he attempted to put his ideas into practice. Because of various factors, however, his efforts were unsuccessful. Blyden wrote and published a huge number of books, pamphlets and newspaper articles, which reached many Anglophone African territories. Blyden’s ideas thus gained wide circulation and re-emerged in the thought of the national leaders that led Africa to independence, such as Kwame Nkrumah of Ghana and Julius Nyerere of Tanzania, to mention just a few. In Francophone territories Blyden’s influence was less direct. Still, there can be little doubt that his concept of ‘African personality’ was a major influence on Senghor’s idea of Négritude. Notions basic to Senghor’s thought, such as the African’s closeness to nature, his religious superiority to other races and the unique contribution of Africa to world civilisation, can be traced to Blyden’s writings.18 Yet it is interesting to note that the component of Islam was almost totally absent from Senghor’s Négritude.

ISLAM AND PAN-AFRICANISM

– THE CASE OF SENGHOR

Born in 1906 in the village of Joal, about 80 km south of Dakar, Léopold Sédar Senghor’s early childhood was typical of the traditional African environment of that period. Yet, from the age of seven, he was educated in Catholic mission schools. Between 1935 and 1939 Senghor studied at the Sorbonne and was the first West African to complete the agrégation there. During the 1930s, he also became a well-known poet and the founder of Négritude, a black literary and philosophical movement that will be discussed below. He served in the French army during the Second World War, and was in a German concentration camp 1940–42. That experience was one of his main motives for joining the political realm. He was elected the Senegalese deputy to the French National Assembly (1946–58), and was elected the first president of independent Senegal (1960–81). The unique biography of the poet-president Senghor is a perfect case study of the evolution of the discourse between panAfricanism and Islam for at least two reasons. First, Senghor played a central role in the shaping of twentiethcentury African history, both before and after independence. He had both the intellectual competence and the political power to design and implement pan-African theories and policies. His perception of Négritude was an important contribution to the pre-independence discourse, while his notions and policies of Africanité greatly influenced the development of the pan-African discourse after independence.19 Second, Senghor, being a Christian leader in a predominantly Muslim country, represented a unique case in the African context. The study of his attitudes from this point of departure would, therefore, add an interesting

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perspective of the evolution of the discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam. Senghor defined the essence of Négritude as ‘the sum total of BlackAfrican cultural values’,20 and tried to expound on it in his abundant publications. He was a strong advocate of pride in the African heritage. Like Blyden, he was a fierce believer in the uniqueness of the black identity and culture. Unlike Blyden, however, he believed that this identity should live through crossbreeding (méttisage) with European culture and identity. It is hard to ignore the fact that in his numerous poetic, literary, ethnological, linguistic and historical writings Senghor almost completely ignored Islam (the exception justifying the qualifying term ‘almost’ being one short article.)21 Yet the real question to be asked is whether this exclusion of Islam was indeed extraordinary within the context of pre-independence pan-African discourse. Senghor’s pan-African ideas, like those of most of his contemporaries, were formed in response to Western Christian values. Senghor both internalised the idea that Christianity arrived in Africa due to divine guidance and developed criticism of some of the paternalistic and racist attitudes of the Catholic priesthood. Most of his perceptions of Négritude were shaped through his contact with liberal Catholic intellectual circles in Paris in the 1930s and the 1940s.22 Like Blyden in his time, Senghor directed his pan-African arguments primarily against the claims of the superiority of Western civilisation. Unlike Blyden, Senghor did not see Islam as an exotic and exciting discovery. After all, he was born into a partly Muslim environment – many of the members of his extended family, his village and his school colleagues were Muslim. Moreover, Senghor’s political activity was based almost solely on the Muslim identity of Senegal. He was the first Senegalese politician to realise the electoral potential embodied in the leaders of the Sufi brotherhoods, and forged an alliance with them in the 1950s that provided him with both a power base and legitimacy. The political, economic and cultural co-operation between the Catholic president and the Muslim leaders continued after independence all through Senghor’s term as president. 23 Paradoxically, it was Blyden ‘the stranger’ who did not hesitate to search for the Muslim roots of the African personality, while Senghor the African preferred to ignore it. This paradox can be explained by their personal experiences. While Blyden felt rejected by Western culture and used the case of Islam as a weapon against it, Senghor was a devoted Francophone and Catholic. Although his Négritude perceptions stemmed from the conflict between African and Western values, his religious belief remained untouched. His debate with the West excluded Christianity, as opposed to Blyden, who did not hesitate to attack its institutionalised aspect. During the 1950s, the pan-African discourse was moving its emphasis from theoretical to more practical issues and thus focused inter


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alia on geography. Blyden’s pioneering idea of the necessity to create political unity in Africa was now revived and discussed; the debates about its essence and nature intensified as independence became imminent.24 One of these debates focused on the split between Africa north and south of the Sahara. Some African leaders believed that the essence of panAfricanism was the search for a common identity south of the Sahara only. Senghor was not of this opinion. In his speech at the constitutive conference of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU), he said: ‘There are two cleavages, two obstacles to the realisation of African unity: the gap between Francophones and Anglophones, and the gap between Arab-Berbers and Black-Africans. The second seems to me more important, because it is older and stems from the ambivalent nature of Africa.’25 After independence the centrepiece of Senghor’s pan-African theory and policy, which he termed Africanité, was the need to build a ‘bridge across the Sahara’.26 Even though Islam could have served as the perfect common denominator for such a bridge, Senghor’s Africanité failed to refer to it during the 1960s. As the president of a country located on the border of the Sahel, Senghor maintained that Senegal had played an important historical role as the crossroads of cultures south and north of the Sahara. He believed that his country should fulfil a similar role in post-colonial Africa. Two African countries, Mauritania and Morocco, could have been Senegal’s potential partners in building such a ‘bridge’ across the Sahara. To all three, Islam was the obvious common denominator. Yet Senghor attempted to define the connections among these countries in terms that avoided Islam. In Senegalese consciousness Morocco was the natural partner to build this bridge. Historically, Morocco played an important role in transSaharan trade and was unique among the political entities of the Maghreb in that it maintained stable relations with Africa south of the Sahara. However, Senghor chose Mauritania. Located, like Senegal, on the historical Saharan trade route with its population divided between about 60 per cent Moors and 40 per cent black Africans, Mauritania was the perfect example of Senghor’s theory about a society of mixed races and cultures, and a proof of his claim of the non-existence of historical racial barriers in Africa. Moreover, the same ethnic groups – the Fulani, the Soninke, the Wolof and the Bambara – inhabited both banks of the River Senegal. The close cultural, commercial and agricultural ties between the populations of Mauritania and Senegal paved the way for Senghor’s assertion that the two countries were to be the avant-garde, building the ‘bridge across the Sahara’. The prevailing explanation for Senghor’s preference of Mauritania focuses on the political and ideological developments in the pan-African arena after independence. In the late 1950s, Muhammad IV, the king of Morocco, suggested to Senghor that the territory of Mauritania might be divided between their two countries. This could perfectly suit the idea

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of a ‘bridge across the Sahara’, because it would establish geographical continuity between Morocco and Senegal. But Senghor rejected the idea, and thus moved closer to Mauritania even before its independence.27 After independence, the Moroccan claim to Mauritania was the cause of the first major crisis in the pan-African movement. It was a major reason for the ideological split between the ‘Casablanca bloc’ – also known as the ‘radicals’, and the ‘Monrovia bloc’ – the ‘moderates’.28 Senghor was unequivocally affiliated with the moderates. In this sense, his support of Mauritania over Morocco was not surprising. Another possible explanation for Senghor’s preference of Mauritania exists, one related to Islam: the age-old relationship between Senegal and Morocco had a strong Islamic flavour to it, especially in view of the links among members of the Tijaniyya Sufi brotherhood in both countries. As mentioned above, the leaders of the Sufi brotherhoods were central to Senghor’s power base. Still, Senghor preferred not to emphasise these religious connections between Morocco and Senegal. Thus, he either was unwilling to alienate the leaders of the other two brotherhoods – the Mouridiyya and the Qadriyya – or he simply did not consider Islam a valid option. The relations between Senegal and Mauritania, on the other hand, could be more easily defined in terms other than Islamic. In the choice between King Hassan II of Morocco and Moukhtar Ould-Dada of Mauritania, Senghor naturally preferred to construct the ‘bridge across the Sahara’ with the leader whose ideology seemed to be more secular. Indeed, immediately after independence Ould-Dada seemed the ideal partner to realise Senghor’s thesis. On the theoretical pan-African level, Ould-Dada was a moderate with ideas close to Senghor’s. In practical terms, the borders between the two states were virtually non-existent. The area astride the Senegal river had become a centre of cultural and economic activity, and both leaders expressed the hope that it would become a model for the envisioned ‘bridge between Africa, north and south of the Sahara’.29 Within a few years all this turned around. Ould-Dada’s orientation had grown more radical and the former devoted pan-Africanist turned his back on the African countries south of the Sahara and moved closer to the Arab League. This had a direct effect on Moroccan–Senegalese relations. In March 1964, King Hassan II visited Dakar for the inauguration of the Great Mosque of Touba. Even on such a religious occasion Senghor avoided reference to Islam. Of the many articles in L’unité Africaine, the organ of the ruling party in Senegal, discussing the long-lasting historical and cultural relations between the two countries, none mentioned the Islamic ones. The Moroccan disavowal of territorial claims to Mauritania in the early 1970s seemed to open the way for Senghor’s ‘bridge across the Sahara’. Indeed, the declaration of the OAU conference in Rabat, in June 1972,


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reflected this spirit.30 Those hopes had to be abandoned a few years later, with the outbreak of the crisis in the western Sahara. While these events are beyond the scope of this chapter, however, a meaningful shift in Senghor’s concept of Africanité was occurring during the 1970s, the influence of which on his attitudes towards Islam should be examined. In February 1967 Senghor delivered a speech at the University of Cairo on ‘Africanité or the foundations of Négritude and Arabité ’.31 In this speech, he tried to define the common historical, cultural, psychological and linguistic characteristics of what he called the black African and the Arab Berber inhabitants of the continent. Until then, Senghor had held the view that the African and Arab worlds were essentially divergent in their cultural backgrounds, ideologies and aims.32 The gradual rapprochement between Africa and the Arab world following June 1967 was the motivating force behind this change in Senghor’s views. After Nasser’s death, in 1970, the attitudes of the many leaders in the Arab world had in general grown more moderate. This, in turn, created a more comfortable environment for leaders like Senghor, who, being labelled ‘moderates’, had found it difficult to co-operate with ‘radical’ movements and leaders.33 Still, until 1973, Senghor’s views on the rapprochement between the Arab and African worlds were mainly secular and free of any reference to Islam. In many respects, Senghor’s secular views overlapped those of the historian Dunsten Wai, who suggested defining their common identity on the basis of ‘political beliefs, common ideologies, pragmatic targets and local circumstances’.34 One of the meaningful obstacles to full rapprochement between Africa and the Arab world was the refusal of the Organisation of African Unity and many of the African leaders to break off diplomatic relations with Israel. This obstacle was removed after the October 1973 war, when many African states south of the Sahara, including Senegal, were severe on diplomatic relations with Israel.35 The period beginning in 1973 and until Senghor’s resignation in 1981 was considered a ‘honeymoon’ in the relations between Senegal and the Arab world. One can see that Senghor was no longer as cautious of using Islamic terminology as before. One of the earlier examples (even before the October war) of this was his speech at the inauguration of the Islamic Institute of Dakar in July 1973: In its way, the Islamic Institute of Dakar contributes to the rapprochement between Muslims all over the world and to a favourable change in the mentality of the outside world. This cultural change will contribute to the dynamic integration of the fertile elements of Islam in modernity, and will realise the Koranic ideals of fraternity, tolerance and liberty. […] As a research centre, it will be the summit of Arab-Islamic and Black-African cultures, where historians, ethnologists, linguists and scholars will discover the horizons of our differences and affinities.36

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Yet, even when explicitly mentioning Islam, Senghor preferred to refer to it not as a political force but rather as a cultural component of Africanité. Senghor thus disregarded what has been the main base of the theory he had developed – Islam – and tried to blur the Islamic identity of his country. This can perhaps be explained by his unique position as a Christian leader in a predominantly Muslim political and geographical space. This explanation gets support when Senghor’s attitudes are compared to those of his Muslim successor, President Abdou Diouf (1981–2000). Diouf’s first official journey as president was to the Islamic conference at Taif in Saudi Arabia in January 1981, where he expressed his wish to make his country the ‘African spokesman of the Muslim world’.37 Diouf also became the president of the Organisation of the Islamic Conference (OCI) and endorsed Senegal’s participation in various Islamic organisations, both in Africa and in the world of Islam at large. Yet, from a pan-African perspective, Diouf lacked the abilities of Senghor to create a comprehensive discourse between Muslim identity and panAfricanism, a need that had become much more evident under Diouf due to the revival of Islam in Africa.

CONCLUSION

The discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam could be seen as a matter of terminology. The debate as to what ought to be included in, or excluded from it is as old as the pan-African movement itself. Until the 1980s, the common tendency was to separate the conceptual and cultural dimension of the movement on the one hand from its political and practical dimensions on the other. This division was carried on into chronology: the conceptual-cultural period from the end of the nineteenth century to the Second World War, and the political-practical one from the war’s aftermath to the end of the decolonisation period.38 The recent trend of this historiography, since 1980, has tried to seek continuity rather than change in the evolution of the movement. Instead of separating between culture and politics, ideas and deeds, it has tried to redefine ‘culture’ as a whole, which includes both the practical and conceptual dimensions of pan-Africanism. One such definition is by the Nigerian historian Olisanwuche Esedebe: With some simplification we can say that Pan Africanism is a political and cultural phenomenon that regards Africa, Africans and African descendants as a unit. It seeks to regenerate and unify Africa and promote a feeling of oneness among the people of the Africa world. It glorifies the African past and inculcates pride in African values. Any adequate definition of the phenomenon must include its political and cultural values.39


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The definition of Islam, especially in the African context, is more complicated. When one refers to ‘Islam in Africa’, does one allude to ‘contextualised or localised’ forms of Islam, usually attributed to African Islam? Or does one refer to the ‘Islamisation’ discourse, focused on the umma as the worldwide Islamic community, open to all Muslims, ideally led by only one leader, a Khalifa?40 In short, is Islam in the African context ‘one’ or ‘many’? Recent conflicts, like those between Sufis and Islamists or between ‘radicals’ and ‘moderates’, show the intensity of the tension around the definition of Islam in the African context.41 Yet by far more complicated is the question of what ought to be included in or excluded from the discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam. It raises essential questions about the relevance of religion to ‘pan’ ideologies and movements and vice versa. Yet, as stated above, both pan-Africanism and Islam are emerging forces in the African world, and their interaction should be studied. Blyden’s attitude to Islam in Africa, like so many other dimensions of pan-African thought, was pioneering. He did not hesitate to recognise its essential role in Africa’s past, present and future. Senghor, on the other extreme, ignored Islam almost completely. Their above-mentioned personal differences apart, Blyden and Senghor reflect different stages in the evolution of the discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam. In Blyden’s time it was culture-oriented, and as such was more pluralistic and did not hesitate to include controversial issues. In Senghor’s period, and especially from the 1950s onwards, it was mainly committed to independence and African unity. It tried, therefore, to avoid controversial issues. One may generalise that the geopolitical phase of panAfricanism was secular in its emphasis,42and Senghor was part of this trend. The new dynamism of Islam in Africa in the recent two and a half decades has emphasised the necessity to refresh the discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam. With regard to pan-Africanism, Islam can be a unifying force in two respects: culturally, by exploring its glorious past in Africa and laying the foundations for the spread of Islamic education and Arabic all over the continent;43 and politically, as a major force in confronting and liberating Africa from Western imperial domination. In both senses, it can also facilitate unity between Muslim Africans and Muslims in America and elsewhere in the Diaspora. Yet, from a panAfrican perspective, Islam can also be a force dividing either Muslims and Christians in Africa, or tendencies of Islamisation and those of secularisation and even Westernisation. The contemporary discourse between pan-Africanism and Islam is manifold. It poses many questions and supplies but few answers. But its contemporary relevance is not disputed. This is exemplified by the final communiqué of the first International Conference on Islam in Africa, held in Abuja, Nigeria in January 1989:

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Community, Identity and the State […] Aware that Muslims in Africa share common experiences of profound transformation of their society which has been brought about by Islam; of being the object of imperial plunder and serving as a theatre for Europeans to fight proxy wars; of being the dumping ground for cultural and ideological ideas, and yet the continent has great potential to overcome obstacles to its progress if it reverts to its rich Islamic heritage…. Desirous of forging a common front to unite the umma with a view to facing its common enemies: the imperial forces of domination and secularisation; illiteracy, poverty and degradation, and to rediscover and reinstate Africa’s glorious Islamic past. […]44

NOTES

1. I. M. Lewis, ed., Islam in Tropical Africa, London, 1966, p. 91. 2. Spencer J. Trimingham, The Influence of Islam upon Africa, London, 1968, p. 125. 3. See, for example, David Westerlund and Eva E. Rosander, eds, African Islam and Islam in Africa: Encounters Between Sufis and Islamists, London, 1997. 4. Benjamin Neuberger, ‘Early African Nationalism, Judaism and Zionism: Edward Wilmot Blyden’, Jewish Social History, Vol. 43, No. 2, Spring, 1985, p. 153. 5. Thus, for example, he was surprised to find in Boporo, about 200 km from the coast, an important and vital centre of Islamic learning. His impressions were published in the article ‘Mohammedanism in Western Africa’, Methodist Quarterly Review, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1871. 6. Edward Wilmot Blyden, Islam, Edinburgh, 1887, pp. 231–2. 7. E. W. Blyden, The Elements of Permanent Influence: Discourse Delivered at the 15th St. Presbyterian Church, Washington D.C., 16, February 1890, Washington, DC, 1890. 8. Blyden, Islam, Christianity and the Negro Race, pp. iii–iv. 9. Ibid., pp. 16–17. 10. Ibid., p. 17. 11. For the origins of this perception, see Archivald Alexander, A History of Colonization in the Western Coast of Africa, New York, 1969, pp. 87–8. 12. Thus, on the advantage of Islam upon paganism Blyden wrote: ‘It is evident that, whatever may be said of the Koran, as long as it is in advance of the Shamanism or Fetichism [sic] of the African tribes who accept it – and no one will doubt that Islam as a creed is an enormous advance not only on all idolatries, but on all systems of purely human origin – those tribes must advance beyond their primitive condition. The Koran is, in its measures, an important educator. It exerts among a primitive people a wonderful influence. It has furnished to the adherents of its teachings in Africa a ground of union which has contributed vastly to their progress’ Blyden, Islam, p. 6. 13. Ibid., p. 24. 14. Ibid., p. 10. 15. Hollis R. Lynch, ‘Edward Wilmot Blyden: Pioneer West African Nationalist’, Journal of African History, Vol. 6, No. 3, 1965, pp. 373 –5. 16. See, for example, E. W. Blyden, The African Problem and the Methods of Its Solutions, Washington, DC, 1890; idem, The Return of the Exiles and the West African Church, London, 1891. 17. See, for example, E. W. Blyden, West Africa Before Europe, London, 1905; idem, African Life and Costumes, London, 1908. 18. Many of these similarities are noted in Senghor’s summary of his Négritude ideas. See L. S. Senghor, ‘L’esprit de la civilisation ou les lois de la culture négro-africaine’, Présence Africaine, Le 1er Congrés International des Ecrivians et Artistes Noirs, Nos 8–9–10, June–November 1956, pp. 51–65. See also Robert W. July, ‘Nineteenth-Century Negritude: Edward Wilmot Blyden’, Journal of African History, Vol. 5, No. 1, 1964, pp. 73–86.


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19. Yet it is important to notice that the contribution of Senghor’s Africanité is still neglected in comparison to that of his Négritude. See Irit Back, ‘From Négritude to Africanité: L. S. Senghor’s Pan-African Thought and Policy Reconsidered’, PhD thesis, Tel Aviv University, 1999 (in Hebrew). 20. L. S. Senghor, ‘Eléments constitutifs d’une civilisation d’inspiration négro-africaine’, Liberté I: Négritude et Humanisme, Paris, 1964, p. 252. 21. L. S. Senghor, ‘Pour une coopération entre l’Islam et le Christianisme’, in ibid. pp. 304–7. 22. Most prominent among them were the Jesuit priest and philosopher Pierre Theilard de Chardin and the founders of and contributors to the journals Esprit and Présence Africaine (Senghor was one of its founders). For more details see Jacques L. Hymans, Léopold Sédar Senghor: An Intellectual Biography, Edinburgh, 1971, chs 2, 3, 14, 18, 21. 23. See Lucy Creevey, ‘The Political Influence of Muslim Brotherhoods in Senegal’, PhD dissertation, Boston University, 1968; Sheldon Gellar, Senegal: An African Nation Between Islam and the West, Boulder, CO, 1995. 24. For a general description of the events in the pan-African arena in this period, see Colin Legum, Pan Africanism: A Short Political Guide, New York, 1965; Imanuel Geiss, The Pan African Movement, London, 1974; Olisanwuche Esedebe, Pan-Africanism: The Idea and the Movement, 1776–1991, Washington DC, 1994. 25. L. S. Senghor, The Foundations of Africanité or Négritude and Arabité, trans. Mercer Cook, Paris, 1971, p. 86. 26. Senghor mentioned this term in his speech in the constitutive congress of the OAU in 1963, and elaborated it in his speech The Foundations of Africanité or Négritude and Arabité: ‘I said approximately this: to base solely on anti-colonialism the joint organisation that we plan to build is to give it a very fragile foundation. For it is not the colonial past that characterises us as Africans. We share it with all the other peoples of Asia and America. It belongs to the past – at any rate, it will belong to the past tomorrow. It lies behind us now that our task is to build our future. This can rest firmly only on values common to all Africans and permanent at the same time. It is precisely the sum total of those values that I call Africanité’. Ibid. pp, **** 27. The reason for Senghor’s decision was that during this period he was probably more committed to the principle of the sacredness of the colonial boundaries than he was willing to admit, though publicly he criticised them as arbitrary. 28. This terminology reflects the split that occurred during the 1960s between African leaders around the events of the Cold War. The normative classification usually referred to ‘radicals’ as pro-Soviet and to ‘moderates’ (or ‘conservatives’) as pro-Western. 29. Gebra Diallo, ‘Mauritania – the Other Apartheid?’ Current African Issues, No. 16, February 1993, pp. 18–21. 30. Pierre Biarnés, ‘O.U.A.: L’esprit de Rabat’, Le mois en Afrique, No. 79, July 1972, pp. 3–6. 31. L. S. Senghor, The Foundations of Africanité or Négritude and Arabité, trans, Mercer Cook, Paris, 1971, p. 86. For the French original see L. S. Senghor, Libérte 3: Négritude et Civilisation de l’universal, Paris, 1977. 32. See, for example ‘Le président Senghor évoque le but ultime de l’O.U.A.: défance et illustration de l’Africanité’, Dakar Matin, 6 March 1965, p. 5. 33. For general discussion about the rapprochement between pan-Arabism and panAfricanism, see Yvonne Haddad, ‘The Arab–Israeli Wars, Nasserism and the Affirmation of Islamic Identity’, in John L. Esposito, ed., Islam and Development: Religion and Sociopolitical Change, New York, 1980, pp. 107–212. 34. Dunsten M. Wai, ‘African–Arab Relations: Interdependence or Misplaced Optimism?’ Journal of Modern African Studies, Vol. 21, No. 2, 1983, p. 191. 35. This is the theory presented by Boutros-Ghali. See Boutros Boutros-Ghali, ‘The OAU and Afro-Arab Co-operation’, in Yassin al-Hyouti, ed., The Organisation of African Unity after Thirty Years, Westport, CT, 1994, pp. 147–68. For the Senegalese declaration about breaking diplomatic relations with Israel, see Le Soleil, 30 October 1973, p. 1. 36. L. S. Senghor, ‘L’Institute Islamique de Dakar’, Libérte 3: Négritude et Civilisation de l’universal, Paris, 1977, pp. 435–6 (my translation). 37. Gellar, op. cit., pp. 24–31. 38. Usually, the Fifth Pan-African Congress held in Manchester, Britain, in 1945 is considered to be the watershed between the two periods. See Legum, Pan African, Geiss, The Pan African Movement, Vincent B. Thompson, Africa and Unity: The Evolution of Pan Africanism, London, 1969. 39. Esedebe, Pan Africanism, p. 5.

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40. Eva E. Rosander, ‘The Islamization of “Tradition” and “Modernity”’, in David Westerlund and Eva E. Rosander, eds, African Islam and Islam in Africa: Encounters Between Sufis and Islamists, London, 1997, p. 2. 41. See, for example, Muhammad S. Umar, ‘Changing Islamic Identities in Nigeria from the 1960s to the 1980s: From Sufism to Anti-Sufism’, in Louis Brenner, ed., Muslim Identity and Social Change in Sub-Saharan Africa, London, 1993, pp. 154–88. 42. Louis Brenner, ‘Muslim Representations of Unity and Difference in the African Discourse’, in ibid., pp. 1–20. 43. This phenomenon is widely discussed in recent historiography. See, for example, Stephan Reichmuth, ‘Islamic Learning and Its Interaction with ‘Western’ Education in Ilorin, Nigeria’, in ibid., pp. 179–97. 44. Quoted in Brenner, ‘Muslim Representations’, p. 12.

11

Oil and Tribal Politics: Changing the Guard in Abu Dhabi UZI RABBI

The tragedy is not in our having the oil, but in the way we use the wealth it has created and in the future awaiting us after it has run out. ‘Abd al-Rahman Munif, Cities of Salt Writers on change in the Arabian Gulf usually point at the year 1966 as an important landmark in the history of Abu Dhabi and the United Arab Emirates. It is commonly held that the coup of August 1966, in which the present ruler of the United Arab Emirates, Shaykh Zayid bin Sultan al-Nuhayyan, deposed his brother Shaykh Shakhbut, opened the gate to change and development in Abu Dhabi. The historiography of the period has drawn a stark contrast between the medieval, obscurantist regime before 1966 and the progressive, enlightened government that succeeded it. Whereas Zayid has been described as a bold and charismatic leader, committed to propelling both his family and his emirate headlong into the second half of the twentieth century, Shakhbut has commonly been characterised as a harsh, autocratic, cruel, despotic and absolute conservative reluctant to use Abu Dhabi’s growing oil revenues to improve its overall economic infrastructure. The British Political Agent in Abu Dhabi, A. T. Lamb, described him as ‘… an autocrat who tries to run the state single-handed and whose insistence on personal control of even the minutest details of government would make Louis XIV look like a constitutional monarch’.1 Thus, both Western and Arab writers depicted the event as marking the ‘rebirth of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi’ from its ‘medieval slumber’ into an oriental El Dorado. From Rags to Riches: A Story of Abu Dhabi 2 or simply Zayid: A Life of Achievement 3 are titles that typify the scholarly writing since then. This chapter aims at offering a critical look at some aspects of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi during the reign of Shaykh Shakhbut (1928–66).

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Its approach coincides with the renewed interest in theories of tribe– state relations and the new definitions of ‘tribe’ and ‘state’, which transcend the dichotomy between the two and emphasise a more dynamic interaction.

THE AL-NUHAYYAN (AL BU FALAH) OF ABU DHABI

The modern history of Abu Dhabi4 dates back to around 1761, when water was discovered in the island by the Bani Yas,5 a tribal confederation of central Arabian origin. Over the following decades groups of the Bani Yas gradually migrated to Abu Dhabi until, by the end of the eighteenth century, the entire tribe had settled there. The ruling family of Abu Dhabi, Al-Nuhayyan, is part of the Al Bu Falah section of the Bani Yas – one of its smallest sections,6 which had traditionally provided the paramount Shaykh of the Bani Yas, who became the ruler of Abu Dhabi. The Bani Yas have traditionally been the main rivals of the Qasimi (plural Qawasim) tribal confederation, the other important tribal grouping in the region. Since the Qawasim opposed the British fleet, the Bombay government mounted in 1820 an overwhelming attack on their headquarters at Sharja and Ras al-Khaima7 in order to support its allies and to protect its interests in the Gulf and the Indian Ocean. The defeat of the Qawasim ushered in an era of relative maritime tranquillity through a treaty labelled by the British the General Treaty for the Cessation of Plunder and Piracy by Land and Sea. The 1820 agreement was followed by the 1853 Perpetual Maritime Truce agreement, following which the epithet Pirate Coast8 gave way to Trucial Coast.9 The shaykhdoms whose rulers had signed the 1853 agreement became known as the Trucial States, a name that persisted until 1971, when they were united to form the federation called the United Arab Emirates. Both agreements formed the foundation of British relations with the coastal shaykhdoms. The British authorities undertook to protect them from all aggression. In return, their foreign relations were conducted through the British government, which excluded all other powers from direct contact with any of them. Among these was Abu Dhabi, the shaykh of which signed in 1892 an exclusive agreement with Britain, in which he pledged not to ‘cede, sell, mortgage or otherwise give for occupation any part of [his] territory, save to the British government’ in return for British protection.10 Once the power of the Qawasim had been curtailed, that of the Bani Yas – a land power – began to grow correspondingly. It reached its apogee during the rule of Shaykh Zayid bin Khalifa (known as Zayid the Great; 1855–1909) of Abu Dhabi. Shaykh Zayid related himself by marriage to many tribes of the Oman coast and the Al-Dhahira, thereby extending his authority over many of the neighbouring tribes. By the

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end of the nineteenth century the town of Abu Dhabi, the core of the shaykhdom, had an estimated population of about 6,000, and most of the ruler’s income (US$57,000 out of an annual total of about $75,500) derived from dues on pearl boats and other income dependent on the pearl industry.11 Zayid’s death in 1909 marked the end of Abu Dhabi’s dominance in the Trucial Coast. Without an established order of succession, Abu Dhabi went through a long period of instability. Khalifa, the eldest of Shaykh Zayid’s seven sons, refused the throne, so the late leader was succeeded by his second son, Shaykh Tahnun bin Zayid (1909–12), and then by another son, Shaykh Hamdan bin Zayid (1912–22). Hamdan proved incompetent to quell tribal fighting in the southern and western regions of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi.12 When he suspended the subsidies usually paid to the members of the ruling family, he was assassinated by his brother, Sultan bin Zayid (1922–25).13 Sultan, in his turn, soon attracted the tribes’ growing dissatisfaction and the enmity of his remaining brothers and was killed by his brother, Saqr bin Zayid (1926–28).14 The new shaykh of Abu Dhabi got entangled in a deteriorating dispute with the Manasir, the nomadic tribe of the interior al-Dhafra region. While plotting to kill his elder brother, Khalifa (who was on good terms with the Manasir), Shaykh Saqr was himself murdered by a group of Manasir tribesmen.15 With the support of Khalifa, who continued to play the role of kingmaker, the choice of the ruling family now fell upon the eldest son of Sultan, the twenty-five-year-old Shakhbut.16

THE REIGN OF SHAKHBUT: PRE-OIL SOCIETY

Shaykh Shakhbut bin Sultan remained in power for nearly four decades (1928–66). Ascending the throne after a period of almost constant political turmoil, he inherited a deteriorating political situation. Worse, he soon had to face an economic menace as well: forces beyond the control of Abu Dhabi were to deprive it of its last sign of vitality: pearl fishing. The early part of the twentieth century was a period of relative boom for Persian Gulf pearls, and quite naturally Abu Dhabi benefited from it. Although the bulk of the pearls found their way to Bahrain for distribution to India and Europe, a large portion of the pearling fleet was supplied by the Trucial Coast, and in particular Abu Dhabi. During the reign of Zayid the Great, Abu Dhabi had steadily increased its participation in the pearling, which meant an increased income not only for those directly dependent upon the trade, but for those who benefited from the wealth it brought into the emirate.17 According to Lorimer, the ruler’s income derived from pearling was estimated at US$62,000 in 1909, based on a pearling fleet of 410 boats.18 These figures clearly demonstrate Abu Dhabi’s exclusive reliance upon the pearling income

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in an area that had little else to offer. Without this income the economy of Abu Dhabi would rapidly decline. This indeed happened soon after the beginning of Shaykh Shakhbut’s reign. The Gulf pearling industry was effectively destroyed by the worldwide depression of the 1920s and 1930s and by the introduction of the Japanese cultured pearl, which was much cheaper. Shakhbut’s Abu Dhabi provides ample examples of how remote areas of tribal societies were administered. It was what recent theories of tribe– state relations call a chiefdom – a major conceptual tool providing a useful way of looking at the complexity of state–tribe relations. The chiefdom is an intermediate political structure between tribe and state, incorporating features of both. Differently put, it is a power-sharing system which involves pastoral nomads, semi-sedentarised tribesmen and urban dwellers. It lacked institutional central authority, defined boundaries and was a relatively short-lived entity.19 The economic and social scene of the chiefdom was rudimentary. There was virtually none of the infrastructures normally regarded as necessary – roads, motorised transport, hospitals, electricity, and so on. The political system in Abu Dhabi was, by Western criteria, no less rudimentary if not anarchic, but not without its own logic. With nearly the entire population being organised along tribal lines and adhering to tribal values and customs, the most important factor was that allegiance and loyalty were offered on a personal basis. Hence the European concepts of the nation-state and of territorial sovereignty were neither applicable nor comprehensible. Tribal politics were concerned with authority over people, not territory: The political unit was not a territorial concept, but was peoplecentred. Further the ruler – or tribal leader – had to earn allegiance and his poor performance was critically assessed. Lack of baraka, a period of ill luck, or a major row could easily reduce drastically the number of followers and, through them, the territorial holdings deemed to be within the sphere of influence of the ruler or Shaykh in question.20 Thus, whereas state territories were defined in terms of tribal allegiance and tribal territory, the political institutions of Abu Dhabi were based on personal and tribal loyalties. Allegiances were, therefore, extremely mobile and inter-state rivalry was essentially tribal. A most instructive illustration of this point is the secession of the Al Bu Falasa section of the Bani Yas in the 1830s, during the rule of the fourth shaykh, Khalifa bin Shakhbut (1833–45). Dissatisfied with his rule, they migrated and established a new settlement at Dubai, which has since been a separate centre.21 The main population centres within Abu Dhabi were the town itself, and the oases of al-Buraimi and al-Liwa. In addition there were semi-


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nomads living on a few islands, and nomads that roamed al-Dhafra region, the northern part of the Rub′ al-Khali basin. In the chiefdom of Abu Dhabi the balance between townsmen and nomads occurred naturally. Those settled along the coasts provided dried fish, goods and services, while the inhabitants of the oases provided dates and vegetables. The nomads moved between the settled areas and provided meat and other animal products. It was a comfortable balance. Except for some Persian shopkeepers in Abu Dhabi town and al-Buraimi, it was a homogeneous population.22 Although young and inexperienced, Shakhbut ruled the country to the satisfaction of other tribal chiefs. His correct and congenial manners helped him maintain friendly and conciliatory relations with them. Above all, he knew how to deal with them by exercising minimal control and leaving internal affairs to them. The ‘executive’ of his chiefdom leaned heavily upon the principle of wavering centralisation, which allowed the tribal heads greater leeway for manoeuvring and ‘string pulling’. Shakhbut’s chieftaincy was based, therefore, on a kind of modus vivendi with the tribes. The compatibility, rather than contradiction between state and tribe is particularly relevant in the case of Shakhbut’s Abu Dhabi, where the role played by tribal shaykhs has been largely overlooked. The relationship between tribal groups and the ruler of the chiefdom varied: subsidies were demanded from some of them as a sign of submission, occasional gifts or regular allowances were given to others, and some were exempt from paying the regular taxes. The payment of a subsidy by a ruler to a tribe was as much a manifestation of authority as the collection of taxes and the granting of concessions. It was known, for instance, that during the 1950s the ruler regularly paid subsidies to the Manasir and the ′Awamir, one of the major tribes in Abu Dhabi that had been allied with the Bani Yas since the early nineteenth century. 23 To understand this reality better one should remember that ‘tribes are just as likely to resist states by acting as antistates as they are to coexist with them’.24 The fact that tribes as large as the ′Awamir and the Manasir expected such subsidies from the ruler of Abu Dhabi, and in turn offered their allegiance, shows that such payment played an important role in maintaining the authority of the ruler. Thus, tribal groups (based on either kin ties or political and economic alliances) constituted an integral part of the state and effected its survival. Shakhbut tried neither to alter the tribal infrastructure of society, nor to abandon traditional means of securing loyalty, such as marriage and subsidies. It may be said, therefore, that in the case of Abu Dhabi tribe and state formed a dialectical symbiosis by which they merged and sustained each other. Moreover, Shakhbut extended his authority over all the tribes that had been loyal to Zayid the Great. He was also determined to consolidate his

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position in the Buraimi oasis (nowadays Al-′Ayn) in view of Saudi attempts to curb it. Indeed, the Military Report and Route Book: The Arabian States of the Persian Gulf (prepared in 1939 by the General Staff, India) indicated that ‘the influence of Ibn Sa′ud in the Buraimi oasis […] is on the decline and that the dominant position is now held by the Shaykh of Abu Dhabi’.25 In addition Shaykh Shakhbut extended his power in the coastal towns and villages, where he had to contend with British policy. One may say that Shakhbut’s chiefdom, unlike that of his predecessors, displayed definite signs of change in its political make-up. It engaged in a process of territorial expansion – a typical means of a chiefdom to strengthen itself, conquer strategic areas and overpower other chieftaincies militarily. It seems, therefore, that the position of prominence Abu Dhabi had achieved (and has been enjoying since) is to a great extent due to Shakhbut’s firm rule.26 A very proud man, Shakhbut did not bend to British power. He refused to be coerced by threats, as his fellow rulers of the Trucial States had been. Whenever convinced of his own rights, he persistently challenged the British representatives. In 1937, for example, the Political Resident emphasised that Britain would allow the Trucial States to sign concessions with Petroleum Concessions (a subsidiary of the Iraq Petroleum Company) only, even though Standard Oil of California – which had obtained the Saudi concession – was far more generous in its terms. Most of Shakhbut’s counterparts signed agreements with the company of Britain’s choice. Shakhbut resisted for two years before he was finally forced to comply.27 The administrative authority over a small population, spread over a large area in the chiefdom of Abu Dhabi, i.e. the ‘civil servants’, consisted of permanent representatives (most of them shaykhs of leading tribes and members of the extended ruling family), usually called wali, who were appointed for the main population centres and qadis (a judge, appointed by the ruler, to apply Islamic law) and their retainers There was no central administration. All the internal affairs in the chiefdom were under Shakhbut’s control and he was, inter alia, his own minister of finance. His decisions were absolute. Other than employing a British adviser and a chief of police, whose advice he rarely used, he directly controlled all the functions of government. Although he had not received a formal education, he was well informed of world events by newspapers and radio broadcasts in Arabic. Shakhbut made several visits to Europe and one to the United States, all of them either for medical treatment or oil negotiations.28 To conclude, conditions before the advent of oil in Abu Dhabi were not nearly as bad as painted. Shaykh Shakhbut attained a degree of internal security in Abu Dhabi his father and uncles had never known. Before the discovery of oil, when the country’s resources were meagre, Shaykh Shakhbut’s policy of conservatism and careful spending was


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considered prudent and highly estimable by British officials. Relatively speaking, Shakhbut’s Abu Dhabi was a country with healthy accumulated public surpluses and his personal achievement in balancing the budget and keeping out of debt within a short time from his coming to power should not be underestimated. Above all, his integrity and forthrightness compelled all foreign (including British) agents, with whom he had a special relationship, to respect him.29 This was clearly shown when the above mentioned Military Report and Route Book: The Arabian States of the Persian Gulf labelled Shakhbut ‘a powerful ruler’.30

THE ADVENT OF OIL: 1958–66

The dialectics of Abu Dhabi’s chiefdom took a new turn following the advent of oil. Oil was discovered off Abu Dhabi in 1958 and two years later a similar discovery was made on the mainland.31 Although Shaykh Shakhbut (the major recipient of oil royalties) was now getting large sums from companies such as Trucial States Petroleum Development, he refused to spend money on much-needed public projects. Nor was he willing to spend money on his own family. Long accustomed to a simple way of life, Shaykh Shakhbut was psychologically ill equipped for an open-door policy leading to heavy expenditure, which in his opinion might expose the country to dangers. Knowing that, other than oil, there was little that Abu Dhabi could offer – not only had the pearling operations practically ceased, but other maritime pursuits had steadily decreased as well and there were neither known minerals in the shaykhdom, nor local crafts or skills of commercial value – Shakhbut argued that oil income had to be saved for the future, when the country might need it. Shakhbut’s personal life was simple and appeared unaffected by his sudden wealth. He was convinced that rapid social change would corrupt the people and encourage them to lavish their resources on unnecessary Western luxuries. His only known luxury was an air-conditioner installed in his bedroom, which he was reluctant to use. The only vehicle he maintained was a British Land-Rover, which was particularly suited for the terrain of Abu Dhabi. Like other shaykhs along the coast, he looked forward to the hawking season (November to March).32 Even before he began receiving royalties from the offshore oil concession, he had managed to save and store in his fort an estimated US$6m. (stored in the fort in rupee notes). Some of this money, claimed Western observers, could have been utilised – long before the ‘oil boom’ – to provide some governmental services and social amenities regard as necessities by Westerners. But Shakhbut regarded them as unnecessary luxuries.33 British officials were convinced that Shaykh Shakhbut was merely a miser. Nevertheless, Shakhbut’s generosity outside Abu Dhabi disproves

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this belief. He was known to have raised donations in 1963 for the earthquake victims in Iran and for the reconstruction works of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.34 In March 1966 he granted King Hussein of Jordan approximately US$ 700,000 for flood relief work in Jordan.35 Thus, once the theory of ‘the miserly Shaykh’ is discarded and since he did not use the money for personal extravagances, one must conclude that Shakhbut was reluctant to allow sudden prosperity to alter a traditional way of life. What he feared most was the disintegration of the social fabric of his tribal state in the face of such an extraordinary windfall, which he had witnessed in some of the neighbouring states. Ample evidence had already started to accumulate which added substance to his convictions. The prospects of wealth had brought thousands of immigrants to the shaykhdom. Whereas Shaykh Shakhbut had formerly known of the arrival and departure of everyone in his chiefdom, he now found that travellers came and went with increasing frequency and without his knowledge. In a land where the Bedouin and their herds were admired and respected there was now a new emphasis on speed and education. Prices were already moving rapidly upwards, and the locals had to adjust by driving Land-Rover taxis or working for the oil companies so as not to find themselves deprived of means of exit.36 Up to then, it had been the simple needs of the population coupled with a balance among Bedouins, coastal townsmen and the inhabitants of the oases, that permitted the chiefdom to continue its precarious existence. But now inexpensive commodities – primarily from Japan, India, Iran and Britain – were being imported by the local merchants, chiefly Indians and Iranians. Shakhbut could not be persuaded that his people were going to be any happier with the wealth derived from oil, and he believed that any changes had to be introduced gradually over many decades. Shakhbut’s beliefs that development had to proceed slowly, that his people should not become a minority in their own country, as had happened in Kuwait, and his attitude to money were, thus, not as ridiculous as the gossip about his attitude to wealth and spending might suggest. If ‘progress’ meant that Abu Dhabi had to become predominantly non-Arab, forcing its own inhabitants to relinquish their traditional concepts and way of life, then to Shakhbut ‘progress’ was the greatest menace that Abu Dhabi had ever had to cope with. This is a difficult concept for Westerners to grasp, and consequently it was the nub of Shaykh Shakhbut’s difficulties with the British.37 Shakhbut appeared to be very suspicious of the British and of foreign experts in particular. He complained that all that foreign experts would advise was to spend rather than save the country’s income. He suspected that they were concerned more with spending money under the pretext of ‘social change’ and ‘the development of the country’38 than with the detrimental effect such a change might have on the country. Told that his people were entitled to a good hospital or a post office, which he was in


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a position to provide, he questioned why this was so when they had managed without one for two centuries. Shakhbut honestly believed that maintaining the status quo was the only way to save Abu Dhabi. So even when he agreed to donate 4 per cent of his income for the economic development of the entire area, he afterwards took no practical steps to carry it out.39 His motives seem to have been misunderstood, and he was considered opposed to dealing with Westerners. He might have been at times irritated by the British political agents who argued that ‘he must now show to the world that he was ready and willing to undertake projects which would provide work for his people and also distribute the wealth he was now receiving from the oil companies’,40 but his relations with British and other Western diplomats were known to have been agreeable and he was acknowledged as ‘a man of considerable charm, who commands considerable respect by sheer force of character’.41 Developments in the 1960s, however, bringing both opportunities and dangers, finally overwhelmed Shakhbut. The discovery of oil in Abu Dhabi coincided with the impending British decision to withdraw from the Gulf and to bring to an end its protection of Abu Dhabi and the other Trucial States. By that time, two intertwined objectives, one economic and the other political, had attained crucial significance. On the economic plane, Britain tried to ensure that the local leadership should pursue a policy of development so as to ensure the recycling of oil income to Britain and other industrialised countries. On the political plane, Britain sought to guarantee that after its departure the country would not fall under radical influences and be swept by revolutionary winds from south Arabia.42 Against this background the British press began to hint that Abu Dhabi’s ruler should be persuaded to open his country to foreign trade and to use the oil royalties for development. These ideas were echoed in the press of the neighbouring Arab states – Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain and others – which launched a full-scale campaign suggesting that the Trucial States would benefit from the oil royalties by following the path of progress and development.43 When Shakhbut paid no attention to such hints, the Western press began to criticise him and call openly for a change in the regime in the interest of stability and progress not only in Abu Dhabi, but also in the Trucial Coast as a whole. ‘If the revenues from oil at Abu Dhabi’, wrote the Financial Times correspondent, ‘are not to be used for the benefit of the people, it will be reductio absurdia for the whole Shaykhly system. This will be a great blunder by Shaykh Shakhbut, and revolution and tribal armed conflict will be the consequence.’44 Shakhbut, however, was convinced that Abu Dhabi should not follow the path of its neighbours, since in his view these had fallen under foreign influence and departed from the traditional way of life. Although

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he was disturbed by negative publicity he had received in the Western press and the subsequent demand for change spreading through the country, he thought that if he stayed calm, the crisis would eventually pass and the fuss disappear. However, these rumours, unhindered by a ruler who tried to keep his dignity by silence, caused uneasiness in the ruling family and confusion in Abu Dhabi. Although the numbers involved were relatively small, a number of Abu Dhabians were already familiar to some extent with the effects of oil on the population.45 They began criticising the situation in Abu Dhabi where, despite wealth, there was no progress. There was also, of course, the inevitable comparison of Abu Dhabi with its prosperous neighbour, Dubai. Infuriated, British officials began to approach members of the ruling family to urge Shakhbut and even to put pressure on him to accept change and to heed the calls for reform. At the beginning, Shaykh Shakhbut listened carefully to family pleas; he even admitted that some changes should perhaps be made. In the second half of 1962 there was some evidence of development in Abu Dhabi: two British engineering firms submitted a joint development plan and some unpaved roads were constructed.46 But Shakhbut wanted to move slowly and carefully. His decisions remained absolute and he refused to listen to advice, or to tolerate family pressure, and his brothers realised that nothing could change his mind. No wonder that when invited to carry out the changes his brothers were hesitant to accept. Perhaps they suspected that Shakhbut intended to let them accept responsibility, without real powers to carry out the proposed reforms.47 Shakhbut suspected specifically that his brother, Zayid, was behind the drive to influence him. When some of his brothers came to talk with him, almost pleading, he warned them against Zayid’s intrigues.48 The youngest brother of Shaykh Shakhbut, Shaykh Zayid was born in 1916. He served twenty years as governor of al-′Ayn, where he acquired an intimate knowledge of the people and tribes. In this position he first learned the skills of governmental administration and won a reputation as a statesman of integrity and high dedication. During his term in office the water system in al-′Ayn underwent an effective revolution, the first modern school in the district’s history was established and, in general, the living standard of its almost exclusively Bedouin population was substantially raised.49 While in England in 1953 he was quoted as saying: ‘Although the English way of life in general is different from ours, economic development is what we need for the reconstruction of our country.’ Nothing along the path of such development, he added, was ‘contrary to Islamic teachings’.50 Such informal observations about the need for development initiatives, in contrast to his brother’s policy, attracted attention to him and he was described as the most intelligent, attractive and popular member of the Abu Dhabi ruling family.


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In July 1966, almost four years after the first oil shipment had left Abu Dhabi, there was no evidence of real progress in administrative and economic development. Shakhbut had managed to cancel, postpone or obstruct almost every development project submitted to him by his consultants. In April 1966, for instance, he cancelled the planned electrification project; and firms who had participated in tenders for this project in Abu Dhabi and Buraimi were disappointed to learn that the ruler had decided not to award a contract at all.51 Christopher Tugendhat, MP, who visited Abu Dhabi in May 1966, summed up his impression: I found it hard to believe. The airfield is just a strip of tarmac. There are no roads in the capital and the streets are still unpaved. Many inhabitants live in enclosures made of rushes called barasti. All the oil revenues of millions of pounds go personally to the ruler. One day this will create a great storm in this Emirate, if the attitude of the ruler remains that of status quo.52 Obviously, such statements served to prepare the public for the idea of Shakhbut’s possible removal. Indeed, Britain’s agents in the Gulf, concerned about Abu Dhabi’s future, had gradually come to the conclusion that Shakhbut had to be replaced since ‘he had shown himself increasingly neglectful of the needs of his people and increasingly obstructive of all practical steps for constructive development’.53 Such an action was considered to be not only in Britain’s, but also in the Trucial States’ interests. Before relinquishing its responsibility in the region, Britain spared no efforts in encouraging the rulers of the Trucial States to co-operate and achieve unity for their mutual benefit. Increasing co-operation was regarded as essential for the future development and welfare of the Trucial States. In this respect Shaykh Shakhbut posed a special problem for British officials, because he was determined to dissociate Abu Dhabi from the other Trucial States. He refused to take the chair at the Trucial States Council meeting in April 1966 and even failed to attend it.54 Events in south Arabia had already convinced the British government that it could not afford to stand indifferent to the call for change in an area so vital to Britain and other Western countries.55 In Britain – indeed in all Gulf political circles – it had become clear that no change could be expected in Abu Dhabi as long as Shaykh Shakhbut remained in power. Once rumours to this effect began to circulate, all eyes turned to Shaykh Zayid – ‘everyone’s idea of a desert Shaykh’.56 In July 1966 Shaykh Zayid paid a visit to England. There, he moved in high political circles and met leading statesmen. The future of Abu Dhabi was discussed, and the need for a change in its leadership hinted at. It was tacitly agreed that he should take responsibility and that the method of change should be left to British officials in the Gulf.57

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Zayid, however, was bound by an oath to support his brother. Immediately after Shakhbut became ruler, his mother, Shaykha Salama bint Butti, who was regarded as an important figure in Abu Dhabi politics, had gathered all her sons and made them swear never to resort to the bloody tradition of fratricide.58 Thus, after his return, Zayid tried to persuade his brother to step down in an honourable way without the use of force, but to no avail. Considering this an affront, Shakhbut rejected the offer and said that he would never abdicate. At this point all leading members of Al-Nuhayyan seemed to have become impatient for Zayid to succeed Shakhbut, without waiting for Shakhbut’s death (Shakhbut was only sixty-two in 1966). They had considered the oil income an opportunity to improve their conditions, but Shaykh Shakhbut had failed, in their eyes, to rise to the occasion. Leading members of the ruling family had gathered in mid-May and agreed that they would refuse to accept any money from Shakhbut unless the latter agreed to make clear to all concerned how much money he allocated to the family as a whole and the amounts of the individual allowances.59 Furthermore, Shakhbut’s increasingly frequent outbursts of temper caused the senior members of the ruling family growing concern. Under pressure from them as well as from the political agent, Shakhbut agreed in April 1966 on an outline plan for Abu Dhabi government, and following a major row within the ruling family in May he appointed Shaykh Zayid president of the finance department, with rather vague powers.60 At the end of that month he even drew up a civil list, which for the first time fixed the amounts of money paid to members of the ruling family. The ruling family was not satisfied with these tokens of progress, however, and consequently decided to depose him.61 A letter to this effect signed by senior members of the ruling family was presented on 4 August to Hugh Balfour-Paul, the acting political agent in Abu Dhabi.62 Balfour-Paul personally conveyed the message to Shaykh Shakhbut on 6 August. As Shakhbut boldly refused, it was decided to use force as a last resort. On that day the palace was surrounded by a detachment of soldiers. The siege lasted almost five hours, but Shakhbut refused to surrender. Then, a handful of soldiers were ordered to enter the palace and force him to leave. A car, waiting at the front door, carried him to the airport where a special plane was ready to take him directly to London.63 Concomitantly, Zayid’s supporters and well-wishers went immediately to offer congratulations and acknowledge him as the new ruler. Shaykha Salama was told that Shakhbut had gone away for eye treatment and it had been forbidden to tell her the truth. A female member of the ruling family was physically restrained by another when she tried to enter Shaykha Salama’s palace to tell her the news.64 On that day, 6 August 1966, Shaykh Zayid bin Sultan Al-Nuhayyan took over the reins of power in Abu Dhabi.


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NOTES

1. UK, Public Record Office, PRO, London, Foreign Office Archives, FO 371/185523, A. T. Lamb to Sir William Luce, ‘Annual Review of Events in Abu Dhabi in 1965’, Despatch no. 1, 1 January 1966. 2. M. al-Fahim and S. Macaulay, From Rags to Riches: A Story of Abu Dhabi, London, 1995. 3. ′Abd al-Rahman Ziyad, Zayid bin Sultan al-Nahyan, London, 1982. 4. The city of the same name occupies an island whose shape resembles that of an Arabian gazelle, hence the name means literally ‘father of the gazelle’. 5. The prefix ‘Bani’ means ‘the sons of’, but more in the sense of a clan, i.e. having a common ancestor. 6. According to Lorimer, the Al-Falah numbered only fifteen to twenty houses – J. G. Lorimer, Gazetteer of the Persian Gulf, Oman and Central Arabia, Vol. 1, Calcutta, 1915, pp. 46ff. Reprint (two vols in six) in 1970. 7. R. S. Zahlan, The Making of the Modern Gulf States: Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, United Arab Emirates and Oman, London, 1989, pp. 8–9. 8. London and Bombay, whose Indian trade was severely disrupted, denounced the Qawasim’s activity as piracy, but Arab historians, including descendants of the Qawasim themselves, view it as maritime warfare, carried out in the spirit of Arab nationalism. 9. A. M. Khalifa, The United Arab Emirates: Unity in Fragmentation, London, 1979, pp. 20–1. 10. D. Hawley, The Trucial States, London, 1970, pp. 320–1. 11. Lorimer, Gazeteer, pp. 409–10. See also M. M. Abdullah, The United Arab Emirates: A Modern History, London, 1978, p. 103. At the end of the nineteenth century Abu Dhabi owned the largest diving fleet on the coast, with 410 boats. 12. ′Abd al-Rahman Ziyad, Zayid, p. 12. 13. Zahlan, The Making, p. 91. 14. C. Mann, Abu-Dhabi: Birth of an Oil Shaykhdom, Beirut, 1964, pp. 80–1. 15. Ibid., p. 81. 16. P. Lienhardt, Shaikhdoms of Eastern Arabia, ed. Ahamad al-Shahi; New York, 2001, pp. 176–7. 17. For further details on the pearling industry see F. Heard-Bey, From Trucial States to United Arab Emirates: A Society in Transition, London, 1982, pp. 182–97. 18. Lorimer, Gazeteer, pp. 408–9. 19. ‘Introduction: Tribes and the Complexities of State Formation in the Middle East’, in P. S. Khoury and J. Kostiner, eds, Tribes and State Formation in the Middle East, Los Angeles, CA, 1991, p. 7. 20. J. P .Bannerman, ‘The Impact of the Oil Industry on Society in the Arabian Peninsula’, in R. I. Lawless, ed., The Gulf in the Early 20th Century: Foreign Institutions and Local Resources, Durham, 1986, pp. 76–7. 21. M. T. Sadik and W. P. Snavely, Bahrain, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates: Colonial Past, Present Problems, and Future Prospects, London and Toronto, n.d., p. 139. 22. Mann, Abu-Dhabi, p. 15. 23. Heard-Bey, From Trucial States, pp. 120–1. 24. Khoury and Kostiner, Tribes, p. 7. 25. As quoted in Zahlan, The Making, p. 181. 26. Ibid., pp. 92–3. 27. Ibid., pp. 93–4. 28. Mann, Abu-Dhabi, pp. 106–7. 29. M. Khadduri, Arab Personalities in Politics, Washington, DC, 1981, p. 297. 30. Quoted in R. S. Zahlan, The Origins of the United Arab Emirates, London, 1978, p. 181. 31. While at the beginning of the century the estimated revenue of Abu Dhabi stood at US$75,500, in 1966 it was estimated at US$84m. 32. Mann, Abu-Dhabi, p. 107. 33. Ibid., pp. 112 –13. 34. Ibid., p. 113. 35. See PRO, FCO 8/827, Political Agency Abu Dhabi to Sir Stewart Crawford, Bahrain Residency, 2 January 1967, ‘Annual Review of Events in Abu Dhabi in 1966’, Dispatch No. 1. 36. Mann, Abu-Dhabi, pp. 113–14. 37. Khadduri, Arab Personalities, p. 299.

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38. PRO, FO 371/185578, A. T. Lamb (British Political Agency, Abu Dhabi) to Sir R. W. Parkes, British Embassy, ′Amman, 16 April 1966. 39. M. Joice, ‘On the Road Towards Unity: The Trucial States from a British Perspective, 1960–66’, Middle Eastern Studies, Vol. 35, No. 2, April 1999, p. 46. 40. PRO, FO 371/185526, A. T. Lamb to Sir W. Luce, British Residency, Bahrain, 16 April 1966. 41. PRO, FO 371/185578, A. T. Lamb to Sir R. W. Parkes, British Embassy, ′Amman, ‘Biographical Notes’, 16 April 1966, Dispatch No. 1. 42. Khalifa, The United Arab Emirates, p. 24; Khadduri, Arab Personalities, p. 298. From the late 1960s the Aden government provided active support to the Dhofar Liberation Front, an essentially tribal rebellion seeking to throw off the rule of the Al Bu Sa′id in Oman’s southern province. 43. Khadduri, Arab Personalities, pp. 300–1. 44. For more citations from the British press, see Claude Morris, The Desert Falcon, London, 1974, pp. 51–3. 45. It should be noted that some of the inhabitants of Abu Dhabi (as well as other Trucial States) began to seek employment in other places in the Gulf – in Kuwait, in Bahrain or in Qatar – and elsewhere. The demand for labour in Bahrain and al-Hasa in the mid1930s contrasted sharply with employment conditions throughout the lower Gulf. And see I. Seccombe and R. Lawless, ‘The Gulf Labour Market and the Early Oil Industry: Traditional Structures and New Forms of Organisation’, in R. Lawless, ed., The Gulf in the Early 20th Century: Foreign Institutions and Local Resources, Durham, 1986, pp. 91–124. 46. Mann, Abu-Dhabi, p. 117. 47. Khadduri, Arab Personalities, pp. 301–2. 48. Ibid., p. 302. 49. PRO, FO 371/185578, A. T. Lamb to Sir R. W. Parkes, British Embassy, ′Amman, ‘Biographical Notes,’ 16 April 1966, Dispatch No. 1. 50. Khadduri, Arab Personalities, pp. 307–8. 51. PRO, FCO 8/827, Political Agency, Abu Dhabi to Sir Stewart Crawford, Bahrain Residency, 2 January 1967, ‘Annual Review of Events in Abu Dhabi in 1966’, Despatch No. 1. 52. Quoted in Ziyad, Zayid, p. 24. 53. PRO, FCO/8/2, Sir S. Crawford, Bahrain Residency, to Foreign Office, ‘Persian Gulf: Annual Review for 1966’, 27 January 1967. 54. PRO, FCO 8/827, Political Agency, Abu Dhabi to Sir Stewart Crawford, Bahrain Residency, 2 January 1967, ‘Annual Review of Events in Abu Dhabi in 1966’, Dispatch No. 1. 55. Khadduri, Arab Personalities, p. 303. 56. PRO, FO 371/185528, Bahrain Residency, ‘Likely Effects of the Accession of Shaykh Zayid bin Sultan as Ruler of Abu Dhabi’, 29 August 1966. 57. PRO FO 371/185527, Foreign Office to Certain Missions, 6 August 1966; Khadduri, Arab Personalities, p. 309. 58. PRO, FO 371/185578, Political Agency, Abu Dhabi to H. G. Balfour-Paul, Bahrain Residency, 14 August 1966. 59. PRO, FO 371/185578, A. T. Lamb, Political Agency Abu Dhabi to Sir W. Luce, British Residency, Bahrain, 21 May 1966. 60. PRO, FO 371/185526, A. T. Lamb to Sir W. Luce, British Residency, Bahrain, 16 April 1966. 61. PRO, FCO 8/827, Political Agency, Abu Dhabi to Sir Stewart Crawford, Bahrain Residency, 2 January 1967, ‘Annual Review of Events in Abu Dhabi in 1966’, Despatch No. 1. 62. PRO, FO 371/185527, Foreign Office to Certain Missions, 6 August 1966. 63. Shaykh Shakhbut spent a couple of years in London. Thereafter, he returned to live in retirement in a special palace at al-′Ayn, where he continued to be regarded as an honoured personage. He was visited occasionally by members of his family, and at times returned to the capital for short visits. See Khadduri, Arab Personalities, p. 310. 64. PRO, FO 371/185578, Political Agency, Abu Dhabi to H. G. Balfour-Paul, Bahrain Residency, 14 August 1966.

12

The Iraqi Kurds: Hour of Power? OFRA BENGIO

Since the end of the 2003 Iraq war, and for the first time in Iraqi modern history, Kurdish leaders have left their strongholds in Kurdistan and moved to Baghdad to establish a presence there. The two most influential leaders, Mas′ud Barzani and Jalal Talabani, took advantage of the political vacuum that followed the war and occupied buildings in Baghdad, turning them into ‘headquarters’. Uncertainties vastly outnumber certainties in the stages to come, but one thing does seem certain: these Kurdish leaders will play a major role in the dialogue between the Americans and the other political forces, as well as in the establishment of the interim government. This could be the Kurdish hour of power. With the overthrow of Saddam Hussein, Iraq’s Kurds stand on the brink of a new era. Since 1991, they have enjoyed autonomy in northern Iraq. If a federated government is now established, they will not only continue to enjoy their autonomy, but they could well take a major share of the central government in Baghdad. Yet looming over the Kurds is the possibility that post-war politics and diplomacy could set them back. The United States could shift its favours to other Iraqis; the Kurds could divide against themselves; or Turkey could intervene to prevent Kurdish aggrandisement. Any assessment of what is likely must begin with an analysis of the past.

THE KURDISH SETTING

The Kurds represent a case of partial and belated nation-formation. The Kurds, living in remote mountains, with their own distinct languages and customs, have always been divided. What is sometimes called Kurdistan, stretching across northern Iraq, eastern Syria, south-eastern Turkey and north-western Iran, is really a patchwork of tribes, ethnicities and languages, reminiscent in many ways of the Caucasus. The closest the Kurds came to a national centre was in the Ottoman vilayet (province) of Mosul, where Kurds formed a majority, and which the British conquered and occupied in 1918. But in the peace settlements that followed the First World War, the Kurds did not win adequate international

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recognition as a nation worthy of independence. Instead, the Mosul vilayet became a bone of contention between British-controlled Iraq and independent Turkey, primarily on account of its oil. Between 1918 and 1925, the Kurds enjoyed a brief autonomy while the powers struggled over their future. But in 1925, Britain put all its weight behind Iraq’s annexation of Mosul vilayet. The inclusion of Mosul vilayet in Iraq left Turkey with a lingering feeling of historical injustice, and shattered the Kurdish dream of autonomy. The Arab nationalist regime installed by Britain in Baghdad regarded the inclusion of Mosul vilayet in Iraq’s borders as an imperative. In 1924 King Faisal I, the British-designated monarch of Iraq, said, ‘I consider it impossible … both strategically and economically, for a government in Baghdad to live if Mosul is detached.’1 ‘Mosul is to Iraq as the head is to the rest of the body.’2 But even in these statements, Faisal made it clear that Mosul vilayet was important to Iraq, first for its oil and location, and only secondarily for its people. The Kurds among them, as non-Arabic speakers, were often a burden to Baghdad, and a community that the central government sought to keep in a state of submission. But the Kurds were not always prepared to submit. Tribal unrest simmered through the 1920s and 1930s. During the Second World War, nationalist Kurds under the leadership of the charismatic Mullah Mustafa Barzani rose up against the central government in Baghdad, and cooperated with the short-lived, Soviet-backed Kurdish Republic of Mahabad in neighbouring Iran, where Barzani held the title of ‘field marshal’. On the collapse of the Republic of Mahabad at the end of 1946, the Iraqi army suppressed the Kurdish uprising, and Barzani sought refuge in the Soviet Union, with some 400 of his supporters. The cause of Kurdish nationalism was eclipsed. This forced exile lasted until the 1958 coup of ′Abd al-Karim Qasim, who summoned Barzani and his followers back to Iraq with the goal of achieving national reconciliation. But this honeymoon ended in 1961 when the Kurds initiated a new round of insurrections that continued until the fall of Qasim in 1963, and from then on intermittently until 1970. The 1960s decade of Kurdish insurrection brought about surprising results. In 1970, the Ba′ath regime, at the initiation of its strong man, Saddam Hussein, agreed to autonomy for the Kurds, for the first time in Iraq’s history. The government recognised the existence of a Kurdish nation, as one of two nations constituting Iraq. A Kurdish region was to be formed in the north, Kurds were to enjoy proportional representation in parliament, and there was to be a Kurdish vice-president.3 But the agreement turned out to be a tactical manoeuvre, aimed at gaining time for the government. The autonomy was never fully implemented, and in 1974 the Kurds took up arms yet again. This time, Iran offered support to the Kurdish uprising, which lasted for a year until the Shah of Iran abruptly reached an agreement with Saddam over disputed

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borders. Iran then withdrew its support, the rebellion collapsed, and Mullah Barzani fled into exile again, this time never to return. Many Kurds fled into Iran and other countries. The experiment in autonomy ended in a catastrophe. There was yet greater catastrophe to come, as Iraq and Iran waged a bitter war between 1980 and 1988. The Kurds were drawn willy-nilly into the war, and some of them sided with Iran against Baghdad. The regime exacted a cruel price in return, when it launched the infamous Anfal campaign against them in the summer of 1988. Iraqi forces used chemical weapons against the Kurdish town of Halabja and other places, destroyed hundreds of Kurdish villages, and killed 50,000 people. Many thousands more became refugees.4 The Kurds had not recovered from this blow when Iraq invaded Kuwait in 1990, followed by the USA-led coalition’s defeat of Iraqi forces in Kuwait in the winter of 1991. In response, the Kurds (and also the Shi′ites) rose in rebellion against the central government. Once again, however, the Kurdish population paid a heavy price: the Iraqi army drove perhaps a million Kurds to the Turkish and Iranian borders. Yet unlike previous disasters that had befallen the Kurds, this one had positive consequences, being ‘on America’s watch’. In the past, the Kurds had often relied for support on Iran, which gave it and withdrew it in ways that left the Kurds even more vulnerable. But in 1991, the United States embarked on a sustained effort to wear down and remove the Ba′ath regime. As part of the US effort, it established a safety zone in northern Iraq, compelled the pull-out of the Iraqi army, and encouraged the formation of the Kurdish Regional Government (KRG). When Saddam decided to withdraw the Iraqi army from Iraqi Kurdistan at the end of 1991, he thought it would be only a temporary departure, for two reasons.5 First, he believed that the Kurds would not be able to function without the central government, and so would rush quickly back into his arms. Second, he thought that the world would grow indifferent to the fate of the Kurds, as had been the case after the chemical attacks against them in 1988. Saddam thus expected to return to Iraqi Kurdistan at the invitation of the Kurds themselves. He was wrong. As a result of Saddam’s own actions, the Kurds won something that had eluded them throughout their history: international awareness and recognition. Admittedly, it came at a cost. The United States and international human rights groups gave the Kurds their sympathy only after witnessing the genocide in Halabja, and the poignant flight of perhaps a million Kurds after the 1991 intifada. But these catastrophes effectively internationalised the Kurdish cause and made it a magnet for enlightened world sympathy. The concrete result was the US creation of an effective no-fly zone in the north (in contrast to the ineffective one in the south) – an internationally enforced barrier behind which the Kurds were free to chart their own course.

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During the 1990s, then, the Kurds enjoyed and maintained effective autonomy for the first time in this century. What did they make of it?

KURDISH ACHIEVEMENTS

For the Kurds of Iraq, the last decade has been their longest period of autonomy in the twentieth century. The informal autonomy that prevailed after the First World War lasted for some seven years, and the truncated autonomy of the 1970s lasted only four years. There is hardly room for a comparison between the 1990s and those past instances. The early 1920s contributed very little to Kurdish identity or to the creation of autonomous socio-economic and political infrastructures. The autonomy of the 1970–74 period, negotiated with the central government, was partial and too short to leave any trace. Also, during that short interregnum, the Kurdish autonomous authority was in constant conflict with the Ba′ath. No less important, the Kurds’ previous experiences of autonomy did not evolve under an international umbrella. On the contrary: in the 1920s, Britain used its air force to subdue the Kurds and defend the central government against them.6 During the exceptional decade of the 1990s, the most important achievement has been the forging of stronger Kurdish identity. This has been made possible through a combination of Kurdish maturity, born of bitter experience; vital support from the outside world; and the complete disappearance of the Iraqi central government from its region. Growing Kurdish self-identity has taken many real and symbolic forms. First, there has been the development and usage of the Kurdish language in the public sphere, including schools, universities, the administration and the media. Second, there has been widespread use of national symbols, such as Kurdish flags (alongside or instead of the Iraqi flags), a Kurdish hymn, and even public statuary of Kurdish heroes such as Mustafa Barzani. (The Kurds even experimented for a while with a new calendar, with the year 2001 paralleled to the year 2700 of the Kurdish calendar.) Another important boost for Kurdish identity and self-rule has been the development of the socio-economic infrastructure. Under Baghdad’s control, the region’s infrastructure had been entirely dependent on the central government, and much of it was later destroyed in war. The fact that the Kurds have managed to build this infrastructure almost from scratch, albeit with outside support, augurs well for their aptitude for self-government. Last, but not least, the Kurdish region created a political framework that functioned independently of the Ba′ath regime. This framework has included the management of local government in different parts of Kurdistan by Kurdish officials; the open and free activities of Kurdish political parties; and the institutionalisation of a Kurdish parliament,

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whose delegates were chosen in the more or less free elections of May 1992.7 These elements have come together to constitute a kind of Kurdish government. This authority, its many mistakes and weaknesses notwithstanding, has given the Kurds the sense that they are masters of their fate for the first time since the establishment of Iraq. And in fact, a new political language has emerged, referring to these institutions in the terminology of statehood: Kurds speak of the ‘government of Kurdistan’, the president, the cabinet, and so on. This ‘government’ also came to enjoy a remarkable degree of de facto recognition, for the first time in history. Before that, no Western government openly accepted Kurdish delegations from Iraq. The Iraqi government was far too influential, and it used that influence to block Western–Kurdish contacts. Such contacts, when they existed, took place under cloaks of secrecy. For example, when Mullah Mustafa Barzani came to Washington for treatment of his fatal cancer in 1979, he was treated under total anonymity.8 But over the last decade, Iraq’s Kurds have had quasi-official representation in Turkey, Iran, France, Britain and – most importantly – the United States. This at a time when Baghdad itself had no ambassador or other representative in Washington. It is true that the Kurdish representatives abroad lacked formal diplomatic status. Nevertheless, they managed to advance the Kurdish cause in key capitals, and influenced major policy decisions before and during the most recent war. The fact that so many world capitals welcomed Kurdish delegations reflected the centrality of the Kurds in the long-term struggle to remove Saddam: Kurdish goodwill was crucial to keeping the pressure on Baghdad from the north. The Kurds succeeded in translating their geo-political centrality into an unprecedented degree of international recognition.

KURDISH WEAKNESSES

The last decade has also had its share of crises. The Kurdish national movement has always suffered from a lack of cohesiveness; tribal and sectional interests at times overshadow national ones. The fault line of Kurdish politics runs between Mas′ud Barzani’s Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) and Jalal Talabani’s Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK). The KDP tends towards a conservative nationalism, whereas the PUK once drew upon Marxist ideas of liberation struggle. The KDP is strong in the north of Iraqi Kurdistan; the PUK is strong in the south. Different forms of Kurdish are spoken in northern and southern Iraqi Kurdistan. The KDP and the PUK also had different foreign alliances, the KDP relying on Turkey, the PUK seeking support from Iran and Syria. Long historical enmities between the two groups came to a head over sharing power in the new parliament and cabinet, and disagreements

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over oil revenues. The latent power struggle erupted in May 1994, when fighting broke out between the two factions. It lasted until October 1996. The fighting resulted in a high number of Kurdish casualties.9 In August 1996, the KDP called for help from the Iraqi army – the same army that was responsible for the Anfal campaign eight years earlier – while the PUK looked for support from the United States. The autonomous region became divided into two rival zones, informally known as ‘Barzanistan’ and ‘Talabanistan.’ There were two administrative units, two cabinets, two paramilitary organisations (the peshmergas), and two flags. The opportunity for a unified autonomous region seemed to have been lost, this time because of Kurdish infighting. Restoring peace between the two groups required the mediation of the United States, Britain, Turkey, Iran and several Arab countries. The trend since then has been towards reconciliation and even cooperation, and both parties participated in the opening of the legislative council in October 2002. Some might even argue that the rivalry between the KDP and the PUK has facilitated the development of a nascent democratic and pluralistic system, as opposed to the one-party model of the Ba′ath. But the two groups are militias as much as they are parties, and their differences, ostensibly over politics, have an element of blood feud. The freewheeling atmosphere that has prevailed in the Kurdish autonomous region also allowed the rise of new political forces that could hamper Kurdish unity in the future. These elements include the Turkeybased Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), various radical Islamist groups, Turkmen factions and other smaller groupings. The PKK poses a special problem, given that its activities could provoke Turkish intervention. Clashes between the KDP and the PKK erupted in 1992, shortly after the establishment of the regional government, and continued intermittently for the greater part of the 1990s. These clashes helped the KDP to establish a working relationship with Ankara, which looked to the KDP to prevent the PKK from establishing bases in Iraq. The PUK, which was initially sympathetic to the PKK, also moved against it towards the end of the 1990s, mainly with a view to improving its relations with Turkey. Iraqi Kurdish Islamist groups are a new development, and one of particular concern to the United States, which fears that they might prove to be a channel for Al-Qa′ida infiltration into Iraq. The radical group Ansar al-Islam, which operates from PUK-controlled territory, has been the main threat. Since 1993, Ansar al-Islam and the PUK have waged a war of attrition. Similar tension and latent power struggles developed between the Kurds and the Iraqi Turkmen. The latter were supported or even instigated by Turkey.10 Needless to say, this mushrooming of rival groups and interests invites outside intervention and threatens Kurdish self-rule.

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So the experience of Kurdish autonomy has not been without its crises and problems. But overall, the balance sheet has been a positive one. Indeed, the Kurdish autonomous experiment has become a possible model for Iraq as a whole – and Iraq, in the mind of some, is destined to become a model for the Arab world.

KURDS AT THE CROSSROADS

With the removal of Saddam Hussein, the Kurds have an opportunity to build on the achievements of the past decade. But the war’s aftermath could also turn into another disappointment. In the war itself, the Kurds played a unique and important role. It was the first time in the modern history of Iraq that they had fought alongside a non-Muslim power, and for a purpose beyond their own autonomy. Moreover, the Kurds made their contribution not in secret but in broad daylight. And it was not a trifling contribution, either. Without Kurdish help, the United States could not have opened a northern front simultaneously with the coalition’s opening of the southern front. Because of Turkey’s last-minute decision not to allow the passage of US troops through its territory, the coalition had to launch the war without troops in Iraq’s north. This put the burden of the ground fighting upon the Kurdish peshmergas. In most cases, Kurds played the major role in the battles, while the United States provided air support and intelligence. The Kurds also departed from their habitual mode of fighting close to their strongholds in the mountains. They moved into the plain and occupied the two major northern cities of Mosul and Kirkuk. The PUK (and to a certain extent also the KDP) have proven their usefulness to Washington in another way as well, namely by fighting their common enemy, the Islamist Kurdish group Ansar al-Islam, which the United States believes to have ties with al-Qa′ida and maybe even the Ba′ath. In battles that followed the main war against Iraqi forces, US forces and PUK peshmergas launched a combined air-and-ground assault to eject Ansar al-Islam from their village bases. Indeed, the uniqueness of the Kurdish role lies precisely in the fact that Kurds fought. The United States and Britain did not invite other Iraqi opposition groups to do so. Thus, the Iraqi National Congress (INC) and the Supreme Assembly of the Islamic Revolution in Iraq (SAIRI), which Washington and London also contacted before the war, were not given any actual fighting missions. The Kurdish performance during the war is an important Kurdish asset vis-à-vis Turkey. Kurds proved to Washington their mettle and their loyalty, two characteristics magnified by the policy of Turkey, which left the United States in the lurch. The US stance towards the Kurds of Iraq has always been influenced by consideration for Turkish sensitivities.

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But given the wartime record of the Kurds as compared with Turkey, it now seems very unlikely that the United States would forsake the Kurds to satisfy Ankara. But the Kurds’ situation now is more paradoxical than ever. First: only if the Kurds are united can they face internal and external challenges, but it is exactly this unity that frightens the surrounding countries and provokes their intervention. Second: in order to mobilise the Kurdish population, the leadership has to set clear-cut goals, but once such a goal is declared, it immediately unites the Kurds’ enemies against them. The way around these paradoxes has been Kurdish adherence to the idea of a democratic and unified Iraq. Only if they unite for that purpose can the Kurds defuse the fears of their enemies and find necessary allies in Iraq and abroad. The Kurds have accepted this idea, with the caveat that Iraq should become a federal state. The Kurds raised this goal as early as October 1992, after long deliberations between the KDP and the PUK. At that time, the Kurdistan National Assembly stated the unanimous commitment of Iraqi Kurdistan ‘to determine its fate and define its legal relationship with the central authority at this stage of history on the basis of a federation (al-ittihad a-fidirali) within a democratic parliamentary Iraq’.11 The Kurds, having enjoyed effective and autonomous self-government for a decade, are not willing to give it up. And because Kurdish independence is not feasible, they would like a self-governing unit within an Iraqi federation. The problem is that a federation requires two or more units, and Iraq at present has only the embryo of one, in the form of the Kurdish Regional Government. The north is the only part of Iraq that does not require American or British military administration. Elsewhere, an immense amount of political reconstruction is required to create the other constituent units of a federation. Nor is it clear what would be the guiding principle behind the formation of such units. Turkey actively opposes it, for fear that northern Iraq would become a Kurdish state, to all intents and purposes. For these and other reasons, the United States has refrained from supporting the idea of federation. The danger now facing the Kurds is the one that has led to their defeat more than once in the past: the temptation to overplay their hand. For example, the Kurds have raised the stakes by demanding the inclusion of oil-rich Kirkuk in the Kurdish-governed areas.12 It is not only the oil that the Kurds value. They assume that since the removal of Saddam, the strategic value of northern Iraq to the United States has diminished. Since oil has been the main incentive behind US support for other small states in the Gulf region, the Kurds hope to lay their hands on an important oil-producing region. But looting followed the entrance of the peshmergas to Kirkuk in early April, and street fighting between Arab tribes and Kurds has plagued the city. So far, US forces have contained the

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clashes. But a major Kurdish–Arab or Kurdish–Turkoman conflagration, or expulsions of Arabs in the name of restoring lands and homes to dispossessed Kurds, could undercut the Kurdish demand for federation. By setting off a flood of Arab refugees towards Baghdad, or Turkoman refugees to the Turkish border, the Kurds could quickly lose the sympathy they have acquired over the last decade. That in turn would serve as an invitation to the surrounding countries with Kurdish minorities – Turkey, Syria and Iran – to join forces to frustrate the Kurdish enterprise in Iraq. Turkey, which has been a lifeline for the Kurdish autonomy for a decade, might decide to cut that line. In such circumstances, would the United States endanger its strategic alliance with Turkey for the sake of its tactical one with the Kurds? Would it fight another war on behalf of a federation that only the Kurds desire? If there is a lesson the Kurds must learn from the past decade, it is the paramount importance of close co-ordination with the United States. Were the Kurds to act outside its framework, they would make themselves vulnerable once again. Despite the removal of Saddam, the Kurds still have immense value to the United States, as a counterweight to the Shi′ites of the south. In 1924, when King Faysal I insisted on including Mosul vilayet within the borders of the Iraqi state, one of his objectives was to balance the Shi′ite south. In the new realities of post-war Iraq, and the emergence of strong Shi′ite Islamism coupled with sentiments of anti-Americanism, the USA might revert to the Kurds in the fine balancing game between Iraq’s different communities. Until Iraq is reconstituted on a new basis, the Kurds are the best buffer against the demands of some Shi′ites for an Islamic state, which could easily combine anti-Americanism and despotism. As Jalal Talabani has said, ‘The psychological state of the Iraq people will not accept replacing Sunni rule with Shi′ite rule – which is in effect what having Islamists in power would mean.’13 If the Kurds are wise, they can parley this American dependence upon them into a share of the central government itself, when it is reconstituted. The Kurds, after a decade of separation from the Iraqi state, are about to join it once more. What sort of relationship will they forge with it? Much of the answer will depend upon regional and international players, especially the United States. But it will depend even more upon the Kurds themselves. If the Kurds manage to act in a cohesive, wise and prudent manner, they stand a good chance of avoiding the kind of catastrophe that has always befallen them during or after wars. But they must remember that there is no such thing as a fait accompli in Iraq, and that a sharp sense of geopolitics is the best guarantee of survival. The reward is within reach: a new order, in which the Kurds gain international and Iraqi recognition as masters of their own fate.

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Community, Identity and the State NOTES

1. League of Nations, ‘Question of the Frontier Between Turkey and Iraq’, Commission of Inquiry Report, 16 July 1925, p. 7 (thanks to Fred Wehrey for this reference). 2. Quoted by C. J. Edmonds, Kurds, Turks and Arabs, London: Oxford University Press, 1957, p. 398. 3. For this short-lived autonomy, see Michael M. Gunter, The Kurds of Iraq, New York, St Martin’s Press, 1992, pp. 14–19. 4. Middle East Watch, Genocide in Iraq: The Anfal Campaign Against the Kurds, New York, Human Rights Watch, 1993, p. 13. 5. Ath-Thawra (Baghdad), 12 March 1992. 6. Stephen H. Longrigg, Iraq, 1900 to 1950, Beirut: Libraire du Liban, 1968, pp. 144, 146, 152, 194. 7. Agence France Presse, 22 May 1992; Le Monde, 24, 25 May 1992. 8. David Korn, ‘The Last Years of Mustafa Barzani’, Middle East Quarterly, June 1994, pp. 13–27. 9. The PUK claimed that in that summer alone, 15,000 PUK members lost their lives – L’Unità, 3 September 1996. This figure seems to be highly exaggerated. Another source quoted eyewitnesses who spoke about 1,000–2,000 dead in Irbil – International Herald Tribune, 4 September 1996. 10. The number of Turkmen is inflated by Turkey, which claims 2,500,000. In reality they number no more than 500,000. According to the Iraqi census of 1932, the Turks represented 2 per cent of the population. Gabriel Baer, Population and Society in the Arab East, London, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960, p. 105. 11. Voice of the People of Kurdistan Radio, 5 October 1992. 12. Christian Science Monitor, 14 March 2003. 13. Interview with Jalal Talabani, Middle East Quarterly, Winter 2002, p. 20.

Index

Page numbers in bold represent figures/tables

Abd al-Halim, Muhammad 118 Abduh, Shaykh Muhammad 119, 124 Abdu¯lhamid II, (Sultan) 125 Abu Dhabi Emirate 157–70; Al-Nuhayyan rule 158–9; British withdrawal 165, 167; chiefdoms, tribal 160–1; oil 163–8; pearl fishing 159, 163; pirate coast 158; progress/development 163–7; Shakhbut’s reign 157, 159–63, 164–8; Shaykh Zahid 157, 159, 166–8 action orientations of AGIL scheme 1, 2 Africa: ethnic clientelism 48; kin ties 57; monarchies 104; political clans see clans; post-colonial post-colonial see post-colonial Africa; unity 149, 150, 151 African: Israeli relations 151; personality 146–7 see also Négritude; pan-African discourse Africanité 147, 149, 151, 152 AGIL scheme 1, 2 agriculture intensive: and democratic character of community 23, 24; and polygyny 37 Akayev, President Askar 49, 63 al-Azhar 117, 125 al-Ghazali, Abu Hamid 127 al-Inbabi, Muhammad 117 al-Nadim, Abdallah 119 Al-Nuhayyan of Abudhabi 158–9

al-Qayatei, Muhammad 118 Albania 54 Aleppo 124 Alianza Popular Revolucionaria 75 Amman Arab Summit 137 Anfal campaign 173, 176 Anglo-American cultures 4–5, 8 Anglophone tradition 143, 147 APRA see Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Arab: African links 149–151; identity see Arabism; -Islamic relations 138; nationalism 116, 123–6; -Ottoman Conflict 96; secret societies 125; State 96–7; Summit 137; Umayyad dynasty 90 Arabism 90, 92, 93, 94–5, 100–1, 124–6 see also Arab nationalism, Fertile Crescent Arabité 151 Arafat, Yasir 61 Argentina 74–88; European culture 76; Hispanic heritage 76–83, 84; immigration policy 76; Indian culture 75; Latindad adoption 84–6; media comment 81–2; national identity 74, 77, 86 Armenia 47, 60, 61 army, towhid 134–6, 139 art, Muslim 145 Aryan European culture 144 Asad, Hafiz al- 89, 93 Asia, Central 43; ethnic clientelism 48; GDP 45; kin ties 57; political clans 47, 52–4, 64 assertiveness, religious 127–8 Auriol, Vincent 81

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authoritarian regimes, postSoviet/colonial 43, 44, 45 authority relations, comparative 2–3 Awolowo, Obafemi 53, 54 Azerbaijan 57 Azhar, al- 117, 125 Aztecs 74 Ba’ath regime 98–9, 101, 173, 174, 176 Back, Irit 142–56 back-to-Africa 146 Baghdad 90, 126; Kurdish presence 171 Bahrain 137 Bakai, Ihor 50 Balfour Declaration 89 Balkans, clientelism 48 Bani Yas tribal confederation 158 Barzani, Mustafa 172, 173, 175 Barzanistan 176 Bedouin people 164, 166 Beirut 137 Beknazarov, Azimbek 53 Belarus 45 Bengion, Ofra 171–80 Bilad al-Sham 90, 92, 94, 96; battles 90, 95 Binza Group 52 black Africa see Africa Blyden, Edward W. 143–7, 148, 153 Bondarenko, D.M. 14–41 Broderbund 52 Buenos Aires 75, 79, 81, 85 Cairo 117, 151 Caliph-Imam 133 Casablanca bloc 150 Caucasus 43 Central Asia 43; ethnic clientelism 48; GDP 45; kin ties 57; political clans 47, 52–4, 64 Chechnya 138, 140 chiefdoms, Abu Dhabi 160–1 child socialisation/upbringing (warmth/affection received): and democracy 33, 34, 36; and domestic organisation 32, 33

Christian Mediterranean region 32, 37 Christianity, pan-African 143–6, 147, 148, 153 Christians, discrimination 124 CIS see Commonwealth of Independent States 45 civil liberty 2 clans, post-Soviet/Coloniel political 46–52; centralised structures 59–64; clan-party relations 47 clientelism 47–9, 52, 53, 57; conflicts 58; corruption 45, 47, 49, 50, 55; extended structures 52–6; and ideology 54, 55, 57; Kyrgyzstan 53–5, 57, 58, 59, 63, 64; patron-client relations 53, 56; regional structures 56–9 see also Mafia; tribal chiefdoms clientelism 47–9, 52, 53; ethnic 48; functional 47–8, 57; structural 48 cliques see clans colonialism, post see post-colonial Commonwealth of Independent States 45 communal leadership 26; and democratic character 25–6; and domestic organisation 27, 28, 32, 37; and family size/structure 15, 16, 22, 23, 25; and settlement size 20, 21, 31; and supracommunal levels 19, 20, 35 communal sphere 2 communisation, definition 1 communism, post see post-Soviet states Communist Party of the Soviet union 50 community (Gemeinschaft) 1, 2, 4, 15 see also communal leadership/complexity community, criminal see criminal communities community, democratic character: and agriculture, intensive 23, 24; and communal complexity 25–6; and domestic organisation 29, 30, 32, 36, 37; and family structure/ size 15, 16, 17, 23, 26, 35, 38

Index community structures see political community structures corruption, informal power structures 45, 47, 49, 50, 55 see also criminal communities Côte d’Ivoire 59 CPSU see Communist Party of the Soviet union 50 criminal communities, Russian 69–73; historical factors 69, 70, 71, 72; and shadow economy 70; social factors 70, 71, 72; and state privatisation 71 see also corruption cultural complexity 16: and settlement size 16, 18; and supracommunal levels 16, 17 cultural: diversity 42; orientations 10 Dakar, Islamic Institute 151 Damascus 90, 94, 95, 124 Dasuki, Ibrahim 52 Daura, Muhammad 51 democracy 1, 2; development in Mediterranean region 32, 37–8; and socialisation of children 33, 34, 36; transition to 14; Western liberal 2, 9 democratic character of community see community, democratic character dependence, family 15 development: child see child socialisation/upbringing; economic see economic development dhimmis 119 Diouf, Abdou 152 discrimination: racial 143, 145; religious 124 Dnepropetrovsk Mafia 48, 50, 57, 60–3 domestic organisation (monogamy/polygyny): and communal leadership 27, 28, 32, 37; and democratic character 29, 30, 32, 36, 37, 38; and socialisation of children 32, 33 Donetsk clans 57, 60

183

Eastern Europe 52 economic development: Abu Dhabi 163–7; and local tradition 44; theoretical models 45–6 see also agriculture, intensive economic sphere 2 Egypt: military coup (1952) 105; nationalism 126; Sunnis 125, 126; Urabi revolt 116, 117–20 Ekute Group 52 enemy concept 138–9 energy companies 61–2, 162 see also oil ethnic clientelism 48 Ethnographic Atlas (AE) 15, 16, 26, 27 European community structure 3; authority relations 9; legal 4, 8; political 4–5, 9, 10 European culture, Argentina 76 evolution, human societies: heterarchical 14, 15; hierarchical 14, 15 extended family communities 15 see also clans; family size/structure extremist groups 137 family: extended 15; organisation see domestic organisation see also clans; tribal chiefdoms family size/structure: and communal leadership 15, 16, 22, 23, 25; and community integration 24; and democratic character 15, 16, 17, 23, 26, 35, 38; and settlement size 18, 19; and supracommunal levels 16, 17 Fertile Crescent, Arab nationalism 116, 123–6 First World War 116, 126 former Soviet Union see post-Soviet states; see also clans Franco, Francisco 77, 78, 80, 81, 82 Francophone tradition 143, 148 freedom of speech 2 French: colonial era, Morocco 106–7, 108, 110, 111; independence, Syria 97 FSU see former Soviet Union Fugitive Slave Act 143

184


Garm clan 54 GDP see Ukraine Geiss, Paul Georg 1–13 GEMA 52 Ghana: independence 147; political clans 59 Ghazali, Abu Hamid al- 127 globalisation 42 Gorbachev, Mikhail 42 Graham, Thomas 69 Hafiz al-Asad 89, 93 Halabja genocide 173 Hassan II, King 150 Hatina, Meir 116–31 Hausa- Fulani clan 55, 57, 58, 59 Haya de la Torre, Raúl 75 heterarchical social structures 14; territorial communities 15 hierarchical social structures 14; extended family communities 15 Hispanic heritage, Argentina 76–80; rejection 80–3, 84 Hizbollah 137 Hokumat-e Eslami 132, 139 Holovatyi, Serhii 51 Horbulin, Vladimir 60 Horns of Hittin battle 90, 95 Hromada clan 62 Human Development Report (UN) 45 Hussein, Saddam 172, 175, 179 identity, national see national identity ie groups, Japan 6–7, 8, 10 Ikemme Mafia 52 Imama doctrine 133 Inbabi, Muhammad al- 117 Incas 74, 75 Indians, Latin American 75 individualisation of society: Europe 5; Japan 6 The Influence of Islam upon Africa 142 informal power structures see clans Iran: constitutional revolution 116, 121–3, 139; -Israeli relations 138–9; military forces 134–6, 139; national identity 126; Shi’ites 132–4, 137,

138, 139 see also Islamic nationalism in Iran Iran-Iraq war 136, 137, 140, 173 Iraq 123; anti-British revolt (1920) 126; invasion of Kuwait 173; territorial rights 89, 90 see also Kurds IRI see Islamic Republic of Iran Islam, Christianity and the Negro Race 144 Islam: definition 153; ethics 118, 119, 122–8; and national identity 127–8; pan-African 142–54 see also Muslims Islam in Tropical Africa 142 Islamic Institute of Dakar 151 Islamic Mediterranean region 32, 37 Islamic nationalism in Iran 132–41; -Arab relations 138; economic isolation 137, 140; enemy concept 138–9; foreign policy 136, 137, 138, 140; ideology 132–4, 139, 140; military 134–6, 139 Islamic Republic of Iran 134, 136–40 Islamic revolution, Iran 14, 116 Islamic universalism 136–7 Israel: -African relations 151; -Iran relations 138–9; -Syrian struggle 97–8; territorial rights 90 Istanbul 118; reforms 124 Japanese community structure 2, 3, 5–9; business 9; communal ties 6–7, 8, 10; company based 7, 8; historical/traditional factors 5–6, 11; legal 8–9; political 7–8, 9 Jews: discrimination 124; national identity 126; rights, Palestine 89 jihad (holy war) 119, 135, 137 Jordan: monarchy 105; territorial rights 89, 90 Judaism 126 Kaduna Mafia 51, 52, 55 Karabakh conflict 138, 140 Karimov, Islam 59 Kazakhstan 50, 57, 58 KDP see Kurdistan Democratic Party 175, 176, 177

Index Kenya, political clans 52, 59 Kenyatta, Jomo 59 Khamenei, (Ayatolla) 137 Khanin, Vladimir (Ze’ev) 42–68 Khatami, Mohammed 138, 140 Khedive 117, 118, 120 Khomeini, Ayatolla 133, 135, 136, 140 Kiev 48, 60, 62 kin ties, Asia/black Africa 57 see also clans; tribal chiefdoms Korotatyev, A.V. 14–41 Kravchuk, Leonid 60 KRG see Kurdish Regional Government 173 Kuchma, Leonid 49, 50, 60, 63 Kulyab clan 54, 58 Kunaev clan 50 Kurdish Regional Government 173 Kurdistan Democratic Party 175, 176, 177 Kurdistan Workers’ Party 176 Kurds, Iraqi 171–80; background 171–4; identity 174; latest developments 177–9; oil issues 172, 176; power struggles 176; self-rule 175, 176–7, 178, 179; weaknesses 175–7 Kuwait 137, Iraqi invasion 173 Kyrgyzstan 45, 49; political clans 53–5, 57–9, 63, 64 Lammens, Henry 91 Latinidad 84–6 Lazarenko, Pavel 60, 61, 62 Lazarenko, Viktor 49 leadership, community see communal leadership Lebanon: Hizbollah 137; territorial rights 89, 90 legal cultures, universalistic 4; Anglo-American 4–5, 8 Leninabad clan 54, 58 levels of hierarchy see supracommunal levels Lewis, M.L. 142 Liberia 143 living standards, post-Soviet 45

185

Mafia: Dnepropetrovsk 48, 50, 57, 60–3; Kaduna 51, 52, 55; Rostov 50 see also clans maktab 134 Mariátegui, José Carlos 75 market communities 4 Mauritania, role in African unity 149, 150 Mavrodi, Sergei 53 measuring reform see political reform, measuring media: control 50–1; freedom 2 Mediterranean: clans, political 47; clientelism 48; development of democracy 32, 37–8 Mexico 74; national identity 75 Middle East: monarchies 104; national movements 116–31 military coup, Egypt 105 military forces, Iran 134–6, 139 see also jihad Military Report and Route Book: The Arabian States of the Persian Gulf 162, 163 missionaries, Christian 144 MMM scandal 53 modern/traditional dichotomy 1, 2, 44, 64 see also economic development; tradition monarchy: Iranian 132; and national identity 104; Tunisia 104–5 see also Moroccan monarchy Mongolia 45 monogamy see domestic organisation Monrovia bloc 150 Moroccan monarchy 104–15; educational reforms 111–12; French colonial era 106–7, 108, 110, 111; historical longevity 106; nationalism 105, 107–14; political leadership 111–13; spiritual leadership 106, 107, 111 Morocco, role in African unity 149, 150, 151 Moroz, Aleksandr 57 Moscow 53, 59 Mosul vilayet 171–2, 179 Motahhari, Ayatolla 133, 134

186


Moulay Youssef, 107 see also Moroccan Monarchy Muhammad V, 105, 107, 109 see also Sidi bin Yusuf, Moroccan monarchy mujtahids 121, 122 Münch, Robert 4 Muslims 120, 124, 125, 133–4; art 145 see also Islam Nadim, Abdallah al- 119 nation states 42 national identity: Arab see Arabism; Argentinean 74, 77, 86; black African 148; ethnic 55; Iranian 126; Islamic 127–8; Jewish 126; Kurdish Iraqi 174; Mexican 75; and monarchy 104; Peru 75; and religion 126, 127; Syria see Syria, national identity nationalism: Arab 116, 123–6; Egyptian 126; Moroccan 105, 107–14; official 113–14; Persian 132, 139; Syria 95 see also Islamic nationalism in Iran Négritude 143, 147; definition 148 Nigeria, political clans 51, 53, 55, 57, 59 Nile Valley 118, 120 Nkrumah, Kwame 147 non-formal power structures see clans, political North Africa, monarchies 104 Nyerere, Julius 147 OAU see Organisation of African Unity Occidental societies 4 oil: Abu Dhabi 162, 163–8; Iraq 172, 176 see also energy companies Organisation of African Unity 149, 151 Oriental countries: ethnic clientelism 48; political clans 53, 57, 58; post-Soviet 43; tradition and modernity 64 Ottoman Empire 90, 92, 118–20, 125 Ould-Dada 150

Pahlavi, Mohammad Reza Shah 132, 139 Palestine: Arab nationalism 124; Jewish rights 89; liberation movement 126; territorial rights 89, 90 Palestinian Authority 61 pan-African discourse 142–56; Anglophone tradition 143, 147; Arab links 149–151; art, Muslim 145; Blyden on 143–7, 148, 153; and Christianity 143–6, 147, 148, 153; definition 152; education policies 146–7; Francophone tradition 143, 148; and Islam 142–54; political unity 149–53; secular 142, 153, 154; Senghor on 143, 147–52, 153 pan-Arabism see Arabism Parsons, T. 1, 2 Patriotic Union of Kurdistan 175, 176, 177 pattern variables 1, 2, 4 pearl fishing, Abu Dhabi 159, 163 perestroika 42, 43, 44, 60 Perón, Evita 79 Perón, Juan Domingo 74–86 Persian nationalism 132, 139 Peru 74; national identity 75 Petroleum Concessions 162 pirate coast 158 see also Abu Dhabi Emirate PKK see Kurdistan Workers’ Party 176 political clans see clans, political political community structures 9–11: European model see European community structure; and family structures 34; Japanese model see Japanese community structure; and traditions 6–8, 10, 11 political hierarchy levels see supracommunal levels political legitimacy 10 political reform, measuring: authority relations 2–3; cultural context 2, 10–11; historical context 2 polygyny see domestic organisation post-colonial Africa: corruption 45, 47; political clans 50, 52, 54, 58, 59,

Index 64; post-Soviet comparison 43–6; theoretical development models 45–6 post-colonial Asia, political clans 52, 54, 64 post modernity 42 post-Soviet states 42–3; authoritarian regimes 43, 44, 45; corruption 45, 47; living standards decline 45; non-formal power structures 46–52, 54, 57, 59, 64; theoretical development models 45–6; tradition and modernity 64 see also criminal communities, Russian; Russia power structures, informal see clans PPS see Syrian National Party 91 privatisation, state 71 progress see economic development PUK see Patriotic Union of Kurdistan 175, 176, 177 Qajar dynasty 121 Qasim coup (1958) 172 Qawasim tribal confederation 158 Qayatei, Muh Rabi, Uzi 157–70 racism 143, 145 Rafsanjani, Ali Akbar 138, 140 From Rags to Riches: A Story of Abu Dhabi 157 Rashidov clan 50 reform see political reform Rein, Raanan 74–88 religion, and national identity 126, 127 religious: assertiveness 127–8; discrimination 124 Rostov Mafia 50 Russia: energy companies 61–2; political clans 47, 49, 51, 61–3 see also criminal communities, Russian; post-Soviet states Sa’ada, Antoun 91, 92 Sahara desert, ‘bridging’ 149, 150, 151 Salafiyya movement 124, 125, 126 Samarkand clan 58 San Martin, General José de 81

187

satanic powers 138 Saudi Arabia 137 Seale, Patrick 101 secret societies, Arab 125 self-defence, Islamic duty 118, 119 Senegal: political clans 50; role in African unity 149, 150, 151 Senghor, Léopold Sédar 143, 147–52, 153 settlement size: and communal leadership 20, 21, 31; and domestic organisation 29, 31 shadow economy 70 see also corruption; criminal communities Shah of Iran 121–3 Shakhbut, Shaykh 157, 159–63, 164–8 Shi‘ism 121, 123, 125, 126, 128; role in Iran 132–4, 137, 138, 139 Sidi bin Yusuf see Muhammad V Sierra Leone: education policy 146–7; political clans 52, 59 slave trade 144–6 Slavs 58 Sledzevsky, Igor 69–73 socialisation of children see child socialisation/upbringing society (Gelleschaft) 1, 2 South Africa, political clans 52 Soviet, post see post-Soviet states Spain, Francoist 77, 78, 80–2 state privatisation 71 Sufism 117, 118, 150, 153 Summit, Arab 137 Sunnis 125, 126, 128, 137, 139 supracommunal levels (political hierarchy): and communal leadership 19, 20, 35; and cultural complexity 16, 17; and democratic character 26, 34; and domestic organisation 28, 30; and family structure 16, 17 Supreme Muslim Council 126 Surkis, Hrihorii 51 Sykes-Picot Agreement 89 Syria: Arab nationalism 124; Kurds 179 Syria, national identity 89–103; ancient history 99–100; Arab-Ottoman Conflict 96; Arab State 96–7; Arabism 90, 92, 93, 94–5,

188


100–1; Ba’th experience 98–9, 101; family/tribe 93; French independence 97; integration 92–3; Israeli struggle 97–8; modern history 95–6; nationalism 95; state 93–4; territorial rights 89; United Arab Republic (UAR) 97 Syrian National Party (PPS) 91 Syrianism 90–2 Tabataba’i, Sayyid Muhammad 122 Tajikistan 54, 57, 58 Talabanistan 176 Tallbout, Strobe 49 Tanzania 147 Tanzimat 124 technocratic model 50 Tehran 122 Tellbout, Strobe 49 Ter-Oganov, Nugzar 132–41 Ter-Petrossian, Levon 47, 60 terrorism 137 tobacco revolt 121–2 Tönnies, Ferdinand 1 towhid army 134–6, 139 traditional/modern dichotomy 1, 2, 44, 64 see also economic development traditions: Anglophone 143, 147; Francophone 143, 148; and political community structure 6–7, 8, 10, 11 transitology 1 see also economic development tribal chiefdoms, Abu Dhabi 160–1 see also clans; kin ties Trimingham, J. S. 142 Trucial States 158, 162, 165, 167 see also Abu Dhabi Emirate Tukur, Muhammad 51 Tunisia: monarchy 104–5; political clans 49 Turkey, Kurds 177–8, 179 Turkmenistan 45, 53 Turks, Young 125 UAR see United Arab Republic 97 Ukraine (GDP) 45; energy companies 61–2; political clans 47–51, 57, 60–4 Ulama 116–31; Arab nationalism 116,

123–6; Egypt 116, 117–20; Iran 116, 121–3, 139 Umayyad dynasty 90 umbrella organisations 50 UN Security Council Resolution No.598 137 United Arab Emirates 157 see also Abu Dhabi Emirate United Arab Republic 97 United States of America 143 universalistic community structures: Europe 4, 8; Japan 6, 9; Islamic 136–7 Urabi, Ahmad 116, 117–20 USA 143 USSR, dissolution see post-Soviet states; Russia Uzbekistan 50, 57, 58, 59 values, Western 128, 143 Velayat-e Faqih 132, 139 Volkov, Alekandr 50 war: First World 116, 126; holy (jihad) 119, 135, 137; Horns of Hittin battle 90, 95 Weber, Max 1, 5 Western liberal democracy 2; defective 2, 9 Western values 128, 143 women’s rights 123 Yakovenko, Igor 71 Yeltzin, Boris 47, 49, 70 Young Turks 125 Youssef, Moulay 107 Yugoslavia 54 Zaïre, political clans 47, 52, 63, 64 Zayad, Habib 51 Zayid: A Life of Achievement 157 Zayid, Shaykh bin Khalifa (Zayid the Great) 158–9, 161 Zayid, Shaykh bin Sultan al-Nuhayyan 157, 159, 166–8 Zionist movement 126 Zisenwine, Daniel 104–15 Zisser, Eyal 89–103 Zviahiliskii, Iukhym 60

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