International Migration and Sending Countries: Perceptions, Policies and Transnational Relations

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International Migration and Sending Countries Perceptions, Policies and Transnational Relations

Edited by Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

International Migration and Sending Countries

Also by Eva Østergaard-Nielsen TRANSNATIONAL POLITICS: Turks and Kurds in Germany

International Migration and Sending Countries Perceptions, Policies and Transnational Relations Edited by

Eva Østergaard-Nielsen Marie Curie Research Fellow Migration Research Group Department of Geography Autonomous University of Barcelona

Editorial matter, selection and Chapters 1, 4 and 10 © Eva Østergaard-Nielsen 2003 Chapters 2–3 and 5–9 © Palgrave Macmillan Ltd 2003 All rights reserved. No production, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2003 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 1–4039–0251–8 This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data International migration and sending countries: perceptions, policies and transnational relations/edited by Eva Østergaard-Nielsen. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–0251–8 1. Emigration and immigration. 2. Transnationalism. I. Østergaard-Nielsen, Eva, 1969– JV6032.I573 2003 325’.2—dc21 2003045692 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne

Contents Preface

vii

Notes on the Contributors

viii

List of Abbreviations

Part I 1

3

4

5

Introduction

International Migration and Sending Countries: Key Issues and Themes Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

Part II 2

x

3

From Exit to Voice?

Los Olvidados Become Heroes: The Evolution of Mexico’s Policies Towards Citizens Abroad Jesús Martínez-Saldaña

33

Dominicans Abroad: Impacts and Responses in a Transnational Society David Howard

57

Turkey and the ‘Euro Turks’: Overseas Nationals as an Ambiguous Asset Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

77

Overseas Filipino Workers: Sacrificial Lambs at the Altar of Deregulation Mary Lou L. Alcid

99

Part III

Old Homelands, New Policies

6

Mother India’s Forgotten Children Marie Lall

7

Courting a Diaspora: Armenia–Diaspora Relations since 1998 Razmik Panossian v

121

140

vi

Contents

Part IV 8

9

Long-Distance Nationalism and the Responsible State: The Case of Eritrea Khalid Koser

171

Priming the Diaspora: Cyprus and the Overseas Greek Cypriots Madeleine Demetriou

185

Part V 10

Sending Countries in Conflict

Conclusion

Continuities and Changes in Sending Country Perceptions, Policies and Transnational Relations with Nationals Abroad Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

209

Bibliography

225

Index

236

Preface This volume originates in a workshop organized at the London School of Economics and Political Science in July 2000. The result of this workshop and subsequent discussions between the editor and the contributors is a volume that focuses on eight sending countries, from the Americas, Europe, Africa and Southeast Asia. Drawing on the expertise and recent research of the eight contributors, the volume’s primary aim is to highlight sending countries’ role and influence on migration management and relations with emigrants or established diasporas, in particular the extent to which these countries facilitate overseas nationals’ engagement in the national economy and political sphere. It shows the differences and parallels between sending countries previously involved in labour export but now trying to include these emigrants in the national polity from afar; homelands who, after gaining independent statehood, struggle to find the right balance between support from and interference by already established diasporas; and sending countries in conflict who may or may not turn to their overseas nationals for support. Some of the original contributions to the workshop are, for various reasons, not included in this volume, but have been replaced with other chapters by authors joining the project at a later stage. I am grateful to all contributors for their enthusiasm for this volume and for going through several rounds of revisions so carefully. I would like to thank the Economic and Social Research Council’s Transnational Communities Programme and the International Relations Department at the London School of Economics for their financial and logistic support during the initial stages of this project. I am grateful to those colleagues and friends, in particular William Wallace, Rebecca Golbert, Alisdair Rogers and Christian Thune, who have provided thoughtful comments on earlier versions of the general chapters of the volume. EVA ØSTERGAARD-NIELSEN

vii

Notes on the Contributors Mary Lou L. Alcid is Assistant Professor at the Department of Social Work, College of Social Work and Community Development at the University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City. She is also the Executive Director of KANLUNGAN Centre Foundation, a nongovernmental organization that works for the promotion and protection of the rights and welfare of overseas Filipino workers, especially women, and their families, and President of the Network Opposed to Violence against Women Migrants (NOVA). She has been involved in issues relating to international labour migration as a social worker and activist since 1986. Her published articles include ‘Remittances: the new empowering tool of overseas Filipinos’ (co-written with Andres G. Panganiban), in Helping Build Local Economies: A Framework for Microfinance Practitioners (New Rural Bank of San Leonardo, 2002); ‘The impact of the Asian economic crisis on women migrant workers’, and ‘Trends in the overseas employment of Filipina workers four years after the Asian financial and economic crisis’, in Carrying the Burden of the World: Women Reflecting on the Effects of the Crisis on Women and Girls (J. Illo and R. P. Ofreno (eds), University of the Philippines, 2002). Madeleine Demetriou received her PhD from the Department of Politics and International Relations at the University of Kent in Canterbury in 2002. The thesis was entitled ‘Politicising the Diaspora: Contested Identities Among the Greek Cypriot Community in Britain’. On diasporic politics, she has published: ‘Beyond the nation-state? Transnational politics in the age of diaspora’, ASEN Bulletin, no. 16, 1999. David Howard is Lecturer in Human Geography at the University of Edinburgh. His principal research and teaching interests focus on the social and urban geographies of Caribbean and Latin American societies, with a particular emphasis on issues of international migration, racism and multicultural policies. Recent publications include Cities of the Imagination: Kingston (Signal Books, 2003) and Coloring the Nation: Race and Ethnicity in the Dominican Republic (Lynne Rienner, 2001). Khalid Koser is Lecturer in Human Geography at University College London, and a member of the Migration Research Unit. He is co-editor viii

Notes on the Contributors ix

of The New Migration in Europe (Macmillan, 1998), The End of the Refugee Cycle? (Berghahn, 1999) and New Approaches to Migration? (Routledge, 2002). Marie Lall is a research associate at the Social Science Research Unit in the Institute of Education, London. She finished her PhD at the London School of Economics in 1999. Her thesis was published by Ashgate under the title India’s Missed Opportunity in 2001. Since then she has undertaken a study on the Punjab and the Punjabi Diaspora and has worked and published on a variety of issues relating to diaspora/ migration studies, education policy and social exclusion. The focus countries have included Britain, Portugal and India. Jesús Martínez-Saldaña is Assistant Professor at the Department of Chicano and Latin American Studies at California State University, Fresno. A native of Michoacán, Mexico, he belongs to a family with a strong and old tradition of migration. He received a BS in Political Science from Santa Clara University, an MA in Latin American Studies from the University of California at Berkeley, and a PhD in Ethnic Studies from the same institution. His works on Mexican immigration have been published in Mexico, the United States and Europe. His most recent work is La dimensión política de la migración Mexicana (The political dimension of Mexican migration) (Mexico: Instituto José María Luis Mora), co-authored with Leticia Calderón Chelius. Eva Østergaard-Nielsen is a Marie Curie Research Fellow at the Migration Research Group, Department of Geography, at the Autonomous University of Barcelona. She is author of Transnational Politics: Turks and Kurds in Germany (Routledge, 2003) and has published several articles on the issue of migrants’ political participation, transnational networks and international relations. Razmik Panossian teaches at the Department of Government at the London School of Economics. He has published a number of articles on Armenia–diaspora relations, and his forthcoming book is on Armenian nationalism and the diaspora.

List of Abbreviations AK Party AMEND

Justice and Development Party (Turkey) Alliance of Migrant Workers and Advocates for the Amendment of RA 8042 (The Philippines) ANAP Motherland Party (Turkey) ARF Armenian Revolutionary Federation BJP Bharatia Janata Party (India) CDU Christian Democratic Union (Germany) CFO Commission of Filipinos Overseas CHP Republican People’s Party (Turkey) DoLE Department of Labour and Employment (The Philippines) DSP Democratic Left Party (Turkey) ELF Eritrean Liberation Front EPLF Eritrean People’s Liberation Front ERA Eritrean Relief Association EZLN Zapatista Army of National Liberation (Mexico) FERA Foreign Exchange Regulation Act (India) GNP Gross National Product HPSA Hawaii Sugar Planters Association IFE Federal Electoral Institute (Mexico) ILO International Labour Organization IMF International Monetary Fund IOM International Organization for Migration IRCA Immigration Reform and Control Act (USA) JCE Central Electoral Board (Dominican Republic) KLA Kosovo Liberation Army MHP National Movement Party (Turkey) MIT Turkish Secret Service NAFTA North American Free Trade Agreement NRI Non-Resident Indian OECD Organization for Economic Cooporation and Development OWWA Overseas Workers Welfare Administration (The Philippines) PAN–PVEM National Action Party–Green Ecological Party of Mexico PFDJ People’s Front for Democracy and Justice (Eritrea) PIO Person of Indian Origin x

List of Abbreviations xi

PIO PLD POEA POMAK PRD PRD PRI PRSC PSEKA RBI SG SP SPD SRE TRNC UNCTAD ZfT

Press and Information Office (Cyprus) Dominican Liberation Party Philippine Overseas Employment Administration World Federation of Overseas Cypriots Dominican Revolutionary Party Party of the Democratic Revolution (Mexico) Institutional Revolutionary Party (Mexico) Christian Social Reform Party (Dominican Republic) International Coordinating Committee Justice for Cyprus Reserve Bank of India Secretary of Governance (Gobernación) (Mexico) Happiness Party (Turkey) Social Democratic Party (Germany) Secretariat of Foreign Relations (Mexico) Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus United Nations Conference on Trade and Development Zentrum für Türkeistudien

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Part I Introduction


1 International Migration and Sending Countries: Key Issues and Themes Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

This volume offers a comparative study of the policies of sending countries (and homelands) towards their nationals abroad. In so doing it bridges a gap in comparative research on migration and integration politics on the one hand and the rapidly emerging research field of transnational communities on the other. Within migration studies, research has favoured the policy choices and constraints on receiving countries’ immigration control and migrant incorporation. Comparative research has traced the particular historical, structural, political and socio-cultural factors in different receiving countries in order to account for similarities and differences in immigrant identification and incorporation. But such studies rarely include the policies of sending countries in a similar systematic way. Sending countries are viewed in the context of the migration problems that they are thought to pose for recipient countries. Indeed, sending country governments are often presented as pawns rather than players in issues of migration management, since the receiving countries are decisive in formulating the rules for visa policies, asylum or return of clandestine migrants. By contrast, sending countries (or homelands) stand central in the rapidly burgeoning literature on transnational communities and diasporas which examines the ties and relations between these groups and their country of origin. Still, there are few comparative studies that allow us to understand differences and similarities in the perceptions and policies of sending countries beyond the Americas. Nonetheless, throughout the world, sending countries, an increasing number of which are now also receiving countries, are emerging as complex and significant actors in migration politics. International migration 3

4


has the effect of making territorial and personal boundaries incongruous (Bauböck 2001). In response, most sending countries seek not only to tap into the economic resources of citizens abroad but increasingly also to incorporate them in their domestic and foreign policy and to appeal to their love for, and sense of duty towards, their country of origin. Their three main interests are usually considered to be (a) to secure continuous inflow of economic resources, (b) to mobilize political support and control subversive political dissidence and (c) to promote the upward social mobility of overseas nationals (see among others, Guarnizo 1998; Portes 1999; Itzigsohn 2000). In this way migration provides sending countries, both centrally and, in particular, peripherally positioned in the global economy, with new options for reconfiguring the reach of the nation-state through transnational economic, social and political ties with nationals abroad. However, observations like this raise more questions than they answer. First, we have little comparative understanding of why some sending states are more reluctant than others to engage in sustained dialogue with citizens abroad and to involve them in their economic development or domestic or foreign politics. Second, by no means all examples of sending countries trying to engage nationals abroad in homeland affairs are successful. So why do some sending states succeed in these endeavours while others fail? In part, as will be discussed in greater detail in the Conclusion, the answer to both these questions lies in the particular constellation of the country’s emigration trajectory, domestic resources and position in the global system. Importantly, the opening up of the ‘black box’ analysis of states as unitary actors highlights the domestic controversy which often is crucial to the formulation and implementation of sending country policies towards nationals abroad. This volume on sending country policies therefore raises the general issues of state ‘responsibilities’ and ‘capabilities’ in the transnational spaces between migrants and their country of origin. To what extent and for how long does a sending country have any responsibilities towards its citizens abroad? While sending countries are quick to call for their expatriate population’s economic and political contribution to development in the country of origin, it is clear that most expatriates and their representative organizations expect this to be a two-way deal. Emigrants want their country of origin to support their struggle for equal rights and against discrimination in the labour market. More established migrant and diaspora groups demand more transparency and good governance in order to feel that their remittances and foreign direct investment are spent in the best possible way. And if migrants are expected to be good

Eva Østergaard-Nielsen 5

representatives and to do some lobbying for their country of origin abroad, then they would often like some influence on the homeland policies that they are expected to represent. The other dimension worth looking into is the issue of sending country capabilities, that is, the extent to and conditions under which sending country rhetoric of inclusion of overseas nationals is translated into actual policies. At many a congress of overseas nationals, leaders from the country of origin have linked calls for economic and political support with promises of extended rights and benefits. However, the socalled ‘capability gap’, launched to describe the discrepancy between goals and outcomes of receiving countries’ migration control in the early 1990s (see Cornelius et al. 1992), can also be applied to sending countries’ efforts to reach out to nationals abroad. Only to some extent does this have to do with the balance of power between the government in the country of origin and the overseas migrant or diaspora community. In particular, promises of overseas citizens’ right to vote and stand in elections of their country of origin have often proved difficult to push through national parliaments, because some domestic actors see more disadvantage than advantage in allowing this or it simply proves too difficult and costly to implement in practice. Thus, closer scrutiny of sending country capabilities to implement their promised policies of inclusion may prove an important reality check on the idea of sending state institutions as key mobilizers of transnational relations between migrants and their countries of origin. It is relevant to explore issues of sending country willingness and ability to formulate and implement policies towards citizens abroad from not only an academic but also a public policy point of view. Relations between sending countries and overseas migrant and diaspora communities go to the heart of two major current debates on migration and public policy. On the one hand, migrants’ transnational links with their country of origin are central to migrants’ social and political incorporation in their countries of settlement, an issue high on the agenda of Western receiving countries (Guarnizo 1998: 57; Østergaard-Nielsen 2003a). On the other hand, levels of migration and migrants’ remittances are increasingly linked to concerns with development aid and humanitarian relief to less developed countries. Recent studies argue for increased attention to the developmental potential of migrants’ economic and social remittances as well as foreign direct investment in their country of origin (Nyberg-Sørensen et al. 2002). Reports from important international agencies such as the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) indicate that this argument is being

6


taken increasingly seriously.1 However, one must be careful not to gloss over the relations between citizens and their country of origin, not to assume a mutual level of trust between migrants and their country of origin, and not to take sending countries’ policies and incentives for granted. It is therefore important to understand these migrants’ level of engagement, their sense of commitment and their confidence in local and national authorities. And it is also essential to explore the other side of the equation, the extent to which sending countries feel that emigrants and citizens abroad are truly committed to the well-being of their place of origin. Sending country governments may question if emigrants are just interested in personal economic gain or – even worse from the perspective of the sending state – are looking to support a change of political regime. A more nuanced and textured understanding of relations between sending countries and their emigrants and diasporas is relevant for both academic and public policy debates on issues of migration control and development and the wider issues and implications of cross-border membership, dual allegiances, and the interaction between migrants’ transnational practices and state policies. In the rest of this introduction we locate the comparative study of sending countries in its empirical and theoretical context through discussions of the relevant key concepts and dynamics, and we introduce the common themes and questions addressed in the subsequent case studies. We argue for a reconsideration of the role of sending countries in international migration that includes but does not overestimate their role in creating transnational economic, social and political spaces and in turning emigrants and diasporas into a part of national development and democratization.

Types of sending countries Sending countries, by no means a uniform category, are as different as their various emigration trajectories and policy-responses. Indeed, there seems to be no consensus on the terminology used to describe migrants’ place of origin. Emigration states, sending states or countries, countries of origin, source countries and homelands are often used interchangeably, although there are clearly huge differences between those countries which have engaged in emigration management and those homelands without sovereign governance with whom stateless diasporas may identify. In this volume three main groups of sending countries are included: labour exporting countries, countries which have gained independent statehood after a major exodus of nationals, and sending countries ‘in conflict’.


The first category, labour exporting countries, is perhaps the most conventional. The term ‘sending countries’ is ambiguous since few states actually ‘send’ or ‘export’ their citizens abroad through unilateral policies or bilateral labour ‘exchange’ programmes such as those set up between Southern and Northern or Eastern, and Western European countries in the 1960s or the so-called Bracero Programme set up to regulate Mexican migration to the US in 1942. Instead, the vast majority of migration takes place largely independent of sending country emigration policies (see below). While many migrants eventually return home, a significant proportion stays abroad or continuously moves back and forth. Consequently sending countries have added a set of policies aimed at reaching out to their overseas communities to their policies of migration management. A second category consists of countries whose post-colonial independent state has come into existence after out-migration and settlement of parts of the population elsewhere. These countries are more accurately referred to as ‘homelands’ or ‘countries of origin’ than as sending countries. Countries like Israel or Armenia never sent those nationals abroad who form the backbone of their established diasporas. Similarly, their overseas nationals more accurately fit the definition of a ‘diaspora’ as a group of emigrants or exiles among whom ‘a fiction of congregation’ has taken hold (Levitt 2001a: 203).2 The transformation from a ‘homeland’, with which the overseas diaspora had an emotive attachment and perhaps a state-building agenda, to a state with a policy agenda of its own certainly impacts relations with nationals abroad.3 Relations are often ambiguous as new and perhaps democratically and economically fragile states find themselves at the weaker end of relations with their overseas nationals. Few such countries can ignore a politically and economically powerful diaspora, but to get the balance right of attracting economic support without undue political interference is not easy. Close to this category is the set of states which existed before, but whose radical regime change either alienates emigrants in the diaspora or means that a previously alienated diaspora now wants to lend its support to democratization and development. Several Eastern European countries after the end of the Cold War are cases in point. A third category consists of sending countries in conflict. In these countries, independence movements, which claim but do not yet represent statehood, draw on either settled diasporas or recently exited refugees in gathering domestic and in particular international support for their right to self-determination. Governments try to curb overseas opposition and instead mobilize support to settle an international dispute

8


or, as is increasingly the case, an intra-state conflict. For instance, the 1911 revolution in China was primarily financed by overseas Chinese (Esman 1986: 132). Factions of the Irish diaspora in the United States supported the Irish Republican Army (IRA) financially. Croats in Germany were known to smuggle weapons to support Croat dissidents in former Yugoslavia, and Albanians in Western Europe to use proceeds of crime and pressures on the expatriate community to support the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) (Adamson 2002: 166). Overseas groups of contemporary refugees, especially those who have recently fled, are often much less resourceful than more established diasporas or migrant communities. Still, even groups with very limited means, such as Bosnian and Eritrean refugees residing in Western Europe, go out of their way to extend political and economic support to their countries of origin in order to intervene in an ongoing conflict or help in post-conflict reconstruction work (Al-Ali et al. 2001). In some cases these groups can further democratization in their country of origin (Portes et al. 1999), but they can also prolong or even worsen conflicts through support for parties that reject negotiation and settlement (Collier 2000; Maney 2000). In either case the diaspora can be difficult to control and satisfy by fragile opposition groups or new governments. These three groups of sending countries are not clear-cut categories but overlap in various ways. One sending country may be both labour exporting, have a large overseas diaspora which settled before the country gained independence, and have a domestic or international conflict which serves to mobilize nationals abroad. India and Armenia are both cases in point, as will be fully explored in the two chapters on these countries in this volume. Moreover, in all three groups of sending countries we can find examples of countries which create institutions aimed at orienting migrants towards return, and countries which seek to encourage migrants to stay abroad but stay in touch (see R. Smith 1997). The latter, Smith argues, engage in ‘global nation policies’ offering various types of extra-territorial membership to citizens and former citizens abroad. A whole host of countries, including Mexico, the Dominican Republic and Turkey, have been observed to make the transition from ‘export and return’ policies to ‘global nation policies’. Moreover, several countries may engage in both types of policies at the same time, not least those who have both short-term workers and more established diasporas abroad. In the following section, we will take a closer look at these different types of policies in which sending countries may engage, and then return to the three types of sending countries at the end of the chapter.


Migration management, protection of overseas workers and return policies The number of migrants, or people living outside the country of their birth, doubled from 75 million in 1965 to 120 million in 2000. Previous eras have witnessed larger-scale migrations, such as European migration to the New World, but what is new is the global nature of migration.4 One major change is that the number of sending and receiving states in the world has grown. Equally important, the number of countries which are both suppliers and receivers has increased as well. By 1990, 15 countries, including Mexico, Thailand, Indonesia and South Africa, were both major suppliers and receivers of international migrants as opposed to only 4 in 1970. Any analysis of migration systems has to take this complexity of migration patterns into account.

Migration management In theory, of the neoliberal kind, migration should be a win-win situation. It is therefore in the interest of sending countries to control who leaves and who does not, to ensure that migrants return with skills that are relevant to developing the local economy or that their flow of remittances and investment continues. One of the factors contributing to the increase in migration in the last five decades is the liberalization of exit rules first from post-colonial countries and later from postcommunist states (Zolberg 2001: 11). Yet, sending countries, argues Mahler (2000), ‘patronize rather than interdict the movement of people across borders’ (Mahler 2000: 200). Sending countries may use emigration as a safety valve to defuse political unrest as those critical of the regime are encouraged to improve their livelihood elsewhere (Shain 1989: 147–9). More commonly, sending countries have promoted labour export as a means to alleviate unemployment rates, receive foreign currency in the form of the remittances and later benefit from the human capital and skills that migrants bring back with them. For these reasons sending countries are often pro-emigration, developing administrative tools to regulate the outflow of workers, or even, as has been found to be the case in Bangladesh, to pursue active export policies by exploring markets beyond those traditionally receiving Bangladeshi migrants (Shah 1998: 24). Yet, sending countries may also wish to halt labour migration because they fear ‘brain drain’, which taps from the labour market those with a costly and useful education, who will rarely return once they experience better and more

10 International Migration and Sending Countries

challenging working conditions abroad. It is, for instance, estimated that one-third of the most highly qualified African nationals live outside their country of origin – indeed, outside their continent of origin, as they have settled in Western Europe and the USA (Ammassari and Black 2001: 15). Although migration pressures lie mostly within emigration countries, migrants rarely take off because sending country policies encourage them to do so. Nor is migration a function of a straightforward economic imbalance between poorer and richer countries meaning that the poorer the country the higher the out-migration. Instead, migrants have been found to leave when the economic situation is within the so-called ‘migration hump’. This term refers to the observation that in the short run migration is more likely when economic and social development in a country is undergoing rapid improvement as it is being incorporated into the global economy. This means that migration does not stem from lack of development but from development itself (Martin and Taylor 2001: 105–7).5 The political economy of north–south (or west–east) disparities, colonial or so-called ‘near colonial’ ties between countries, has tended to determine the direction of migratory flows, although, as mentioned, the flows of migrations have become truly global in the last two decades, including migration flows within the developing world and among countries with parallel levels of development. The logic of migration is closely tied to the micro, meso and macro networks between countries. This explains why so few migrate out of so many places while so many migrate out of so few places (Castles 2000; Faist 2000). Once a migratory system has started, it is virtually impossible for democratic nations with respect for human rights and international law to stop it (Massey et al. 1998). Worker export policies designed to alleviate unemployment and bring in foreign currency, even to train workers while they work abroad, were strongly promoted by international institutions such as the IMF and OECD in the postwar era as part of a broader liberal strategy of expanded exchange of goods and finances (Faist 2000). However, the influence of the sending country in both formulating and implementing these programmes is limited by the often asymmetric power relations between sending and receiving countries (Fawcett 1989). There can only be export as long as a country wants to import. Moreover, migration may reinforce already existing asymmetric interdependence between sending and receiving countries (Adler 1977; Faist 2000). When part of the source country’s labour force is employed abroad, domestic income and


welfare are subject to income and employment conditions in the host country (Hatzipanayotou 1991: 50). Finally, it is important to emphasize that migration is increasingly irregular, a term that refers to illegal, undocumented migration including trafficking and smuggling of migrants. Sending countries, so it is felt at the receiving end, must be seen to make a genuine effort to curb this type of migration. Furthermore, migration, in particular after 11 September 2001, has been linked with transnational crime such as money laundering, drug smuggling and terrorism. As a consequence, sending countries are under increasing pressure to review their visa policies, introduce fingerprint databases and control exit and entry points on land and in sea lanes to increase the regulation of cross-border movement.6 Yet, as noted by Ghosh (2000a), the general attitude of sending countries to migration management is one of ‘indifference and neglect’ (Ghosh 2000a: 17).

Protection of emigrants’ rights Migration policy stands out as a policy area because it is a transnational issue which spans the borders between states, blurs the distinction between domestic and foreign policy, and goes to the heart of the twoway relationship of obligations and rights between state and citizens. One of the central issues in that respect is the protection of overseas migrant workers. The vast majority of migrant workers end up in ‘3D employment’ (dirty, dangerous and difficult). Moreover, migrants and their descendants may experience discrimination in countries with antimigrant sentiments. Domestic and illegal workers, those employed in the informal economy, have few protections and rights and in the case of illegal workers lack the possibility of trade union membership. Accordingly, migrants and their organizations repeatedly call for the authorities in the country of origin to aid them in their struggle for equal rights in the labour market. Sending countries have occasionally responded to such calls. Policymakers may be concerned with the exploitation of citizens working abroad, in particular if the issue is also the concern of a substantial part of the domestic electorate (see Alcid, this volume). Discrimination and mistreatment of citizens may also hurt sending countries’ post-colonial national pride, as international asymmetrical power relations are mirrored in mistreatment or stereotyping of migrants as backwards and unwelcome (Adler 1977; see also Østergaard-Nielsen, this volume). However, the ability for sending countries to protect workers abroad is


relatively limited, as it is mainly the receiving country authorities that implement and enforce such protection. Sending countries have sought to include protection of overseas workers in bilateral labour exchange programmes, such as those between Turkey and EU member states or Mexico and the USA. But in both cases migrant workers have been suffering due to the lack of enforcement of these provisions (see Walraff 1988; Martínez-Saldaña, this volume). Similarly, more recent efforts clearly aimed at already settled emigrant groups, such as the Mexican ‘Programme for Mexican Communities Abroad’ or the Turkish ‘Council for Turkish Citizens Living Abroad’, suffer from the sending country’s lack of ability to impose its will within the host country (see ØstergaardNielsen, this volume). In any case these provisions do not include the vast number of migrants who work in the informal economy.

Assistance in return Migrants’ return is usually cited as highly beneficial for sending countries. Return halts remittances, but in theory migrants bring home with them human capital in the form of education and new skills, financial capital in the form of accumulated savings and professional capital in the form of professional and personal contacts which may useful for new enterprises (Ammasari and Black 2001). In practice these benefits clearly depend on who returns and how successful their migrant experience was.7 Many migrants who have worked as unskilled labourers abroad do not bring back any qualifications or find those skills acquired difficult to put to use after their return. Still, in those cases where migrants have to return as part of a labour exchange agreement or as part of repatriation of de facto refugees, it has repeatedly been found and advocated that the better organized the return the better the impact on development as sending countries make use of economic and human capitals that migrants bring home (Ghosh 2000b: 224). Unfortunately there are few available examples of such policies emanating from sending countries as compared to the policies on migrants’ return formulated by receiving countries, particularly in the West. Indeed, Rogers (1991) argues that in Europe ‘return programmes … were established unilaterally without serious consultation with the sending state’ (Rogers 1991). Among the exceptions in this volume is the Mexican Paisano Programme, which aimed to improve the treatment that returning migrants receive at the hands of the Mexican officials by reducing corruption and abuse (de la Garza et al. 2000).


Among the main reasons for this lack of sending country return policies are, first, that it is not really in the interest of sending countries to welcome back migrants, in those cases where migrant remittances are crucial to national and local economies. Instead it is in the interest of these governments to promote the continued inflow of remittances. Second, sending country governments increasingly recognize that many migrants, if they return, may not return for good. Return is no longer necessarily the end of the migration cycle but a step in a continuous movement back and forth (Ammassari and Black 2001: 18).

The transnational perspective Migration is no longer observed to be a one-way journey. Migrants do not go abroad to start a new life elsewhere but to better the one they already have back home (Kyle 2000). Nor is migration necessarily a twoway journey. Instead, migrants bridge here and there by continuously going or coming, or by engaging economically, socially or politically in their region or country of origin while residing abroad. In both cases migrants or refugees do not make a sharp break with their homeland. So-called ‘trans-migrants’ have been found to ‘forge and sustain simultaneous multi-stranded social relations that link together their societies of origin and settlement’ (Glick Schiller et al. 1995: 48).8 The focus on migrants’ transnational practices has become more prominent in migration research throughout the last decade although mainly in the West (Rogers 2000). In particular, US-based studies have revealed how migrants from Latin and Central America and Southeast Asia engage in cross-border activities (Smith and Guarnizo 1998; Portes 1999; 2001). The significance of migrants’ transnational practices has not been understated. In one of his several contributions to the field of study, Portes (2001) predicts that although the number of migrants engaged in transnational practices is limited at present, then: ‘In the future the number and scope of such activities can be expected to expand significantly because … immigrant transnationalism is not driven by ideological reasons but by the very logic of global capitalism’ (Portes 2001: 187). It has been argued that research on migrant transnationalism does not establish the scope of the research field. Most research consists of case studies, which ‘sample on the dependent variable’; that is, they document why and how some migrants are involved in transnational practices but not why most migrants are not (Portes et al. 2002). Indeed, those studies which try to address this criticism have found that only


a small proportion of migrants engage in consistent transnational practices, so-called ‘narrow’ or ‘core’ transnational practices (ibid; Itzigsohn et al. 1999; Guarnizo 2000). A second objection is that migrant transnationalism is not a new phenomenon. A rereading of European migration to the United States at the turn of the twentieth century shows how then-migrants also used migration as a strategy to improve their livelihood in both their country of immigration and their country of origin (Foner 1997; Gjerdes 2001).9 Yet, as has repeatedly been pointed out in the literature on migrant transnationalism, one of the key differences between now and then is that the revolution of electronic communication, air travel and globalization of media render geographical distances relatively insignificant. Air transport costs per mile had dropped to 20 per cent of their 1930 level in 1990. The cost of a three-minute telephone conversation between London and New York fell from US$300 to US$1 between 1930 and 1996.10 Migrants and refugees may therefore retain or develop links with their country of origin with greater intensity than previously. And it is exactly the intensity of the field which makes migrant transnationalism more interesting for other actors, in particular those in the sending countries, which therefore show greater interest in and involvement with their emigrants and diasporas than before. Indeed, while sending country policies are hardly given a prominent place in analyses of migration management or protection of migrant workers’ rights, political actors from sending countries, as mentioned, stand central in the literature on migrants’ transnational relations with their country of origin (Portes et al. 1999). Again, such measures have historical precedents (Shain 1989; Glick Schiller et al. 1995; R. Smith 1997), but the greater involvement of the various institutions of the sending countries means that they are seen as the main non-migrant actors engaged in shaping the field of migrants’ transnational ties and practices (Itzigsohn 2000; Mahler 2000; Levitt 2001a). Government, state-bureaucracies, political parties and religious institutions engage in transnationalism ‘from above’, that is, they attempt to promote migrants’ transnational practices and align those transnational practices which are already happening ‘from below’ with the various national interests in the country of origin (see Guarnizo and Smith 1998). In practice, as the contributions in this volume clearly illustrate, the distinction between migrant transnationalism ‘from above’ and ‘from below’ is difficult to impose on the complex empirical dialectic between sending countries and emigrants or diasporas.


This dialectic can be observed in three main policy areas in which sending countries engage in dialogue with their citizens and diasporas abroad: economic, socio-cultural and political fields of interaction.

Incorporating migrants in the national economy Economics is usually the most important dimension in sending countries’ relations with emigrants and diasporas. Indeed, migrant remittances and foreign direct investment are considered the raison d’être for sending countries’ interest in their migrants and diasporas. In terms of foreign investment, sending states may try to use their overseas communities as an alternative to dependency on multinational corporations or international lending agencies (Lessinger 1992: 109). But more importantly, remittances to developing countries more than doubled between 1988 and 1999 to an official total annual estimate of US$65 billion (Gammeltoft 2002). Official estimates of remittances suggest they surpass the overall development assistance, and unofficial estimates claim that they may be double the size of development aid (NybergSørensen et al. 2002; Olesen 2002). The growth in remittances to developing countries (low-income as well as lower-middle-income) is not distributed equally across regions. Sub-Saharan Africa’s share of global remittances has been halved from 8 to 4 per cent in the last decade, and South Asia’s share has fallen from 34 to 24 per cent. By contrast, Latin and Central America, the Caribbean, and Eastern Europe and Central Asia have increased their share of global remittances (Gammeltoft 2002). Consequently a growing number of economies, in particular lowincome countries, are growing more dependent on the monetary transfers sent by their migrant populations working overseas. The income from remittances represents more than 10 per cent of the GDP in six Latin American countries – Haiti (17 per cent), Nicaragua (14.4 per cent), El Salvador (12.6 per cent), Jamaica (11.7 per cent), the Dominican Republic (10 per cent) and Ecuador (10 per cent).11 In countries such as Mexico – the receiver of the largest amount of remittances – this may not represent such a large portion of the national income but it is still among the top three sources of foreign currency.12 Most official reports on remittances and their part of national economies only give a ‘tip of the iceberg’ picture of their significance (Puri and Ritzema 2000). First, remittances sent through informal channels, such as self-carry, handcarry by friends or family members or in-kind remittances of clothes and other consumer goods, are considerable in countries such as Pakistan and the Philippines, where it is estimated that remittances would at


least double, possibly triple official figures. Most remittances are reportedly not sent through official channels because migrants seek to minimize transaction costs or perhaps do not possess the required identification required by banks in the case of opening an account or transferring money. Second, within national economies there may be huge variances with regard to the impact of remittances at local level. Some local regions with high rates of out-migration are more developed than others because of remittances, as in the case of Fuijan and Guangdong in China (Bolt 1996; Thunø 2000). These regions may, however, also be more dependent on remittances than others. Finally, remittances can also have wider impact than their immediate financial injection into local communities. They can sustain war efforts, they can restructure local status hierarchies and transform gender relations (Vertovec 2000). Studies conducted in different parts of the world have produced quite contradictory interpretations of the migration–development nexus, which makes it difficult to draw any general conclusions. The impact of migration differs according to the unit of study (remittances may benefit the individual household but harm the national economy), the longitude of study (migration may be beneficial in the short run but not in the long run) and, most importantly, according to the type and volume of migration (Ammassari and Black 2001). Thus some studies concluded that remittances are beneficial (Stahl and Arnold 1986), while others find that migration leads to development distortion, which overshadows the temporary advantage for a fortunate few (Keely and Tran 1989). For sending countries in conflict such as Sri Lanka, remittances are, according to van Hear (2001), particularly important as they sustain families during time of hardship. They also, however, reinforce the inequality between those families with emigrant kin and those without. Moreover, remittances seem to do little to alter fundamental weaknesses in local and national economies (van Hear 2001). In practice, remittances have gained a more favourable reputation of fuelling local economic activities through so-called multiplier effects. Recently, important international agencies such as the IMF and the World Bank have started proposing measures to channel remittances more effectively into development at local level and, in the long-term, also national level.13 They support reforms in sending countries, which can reduce the cost of money transfers and thereby maximize the amount received by the originally intended recipient (Nyberg-Sørensen et al. 2002). Sending countries are urged to encourage remittances and foreign investment through reforms of the local and national financial


sector and warned not to ‘kill the goose that laid golden eggs by hounding their migrants with taxes and squandering the revenue on ill-conceived projects’.14

(Re)including migrants in the nation Migrants and refugees’ relationship with their country of origin is ever changing. Loyalists may become dissidents and dissidents stark defenders of the homeland regime. In both groups the sense of and attachment to the place of origin may disappear over time, although, as studies of diasporas and trans-migrants show, this is by no means always the case (Portes et al. 2002). Sending countries reach out to their citizens or former citizens in order to remind them of their national or ethnic heritage and evoke loyalty to the government and state. A range of activities serves to connect emigrants with their origins such as celebration of national days, teaching programmes, religious education and services, and the like. An interesting and well-researched example of its kind is China which, except during the Cultural Revolution, has illustrated an unrelenting official preoccupation with the retaining of Chinese identity among Chinese living outside China. Traditionally aimed at the ethnic Chinese, these policies lately also include the so-called ‘new migrants’ (see Thunø 2000; Nyiri 2000). The Chinese attempt to forge cultural and national patriotism is full of intriguing examples. Thunø (2000) reports how a World Overseas Chinese Cemetery has been laid out just one kilometre from the historically significant area of Qing Dynasty Emperor Guang Xu’s Grave. Also the construction of an overseas Chinese Museum is meant to symbolize the PRC’s (People’s Republic of China) concern with its ‘lost kin’ (Thunø 2000). And investors who return to their ancestral villages are received as heroes, sometimes with greetings ‘by several hundred school children, a parade, and fire-crackers’ (Bolt 1996: 479). Similarly, other countries try to redefine the role of migrants in their country of origin. Shain (1989) describes how the fascist Italian government in the 1930s tried to redefine the image of Italians abroad as pioneers, and several examples in this volume document how sending country governments re-brand previously expendable emigrant labour as a valuable part of the nation, even as heroes (see Martínez-Saldaña; Alcid; and Østergaard-Nielsen, this volume). There are several explanations for this type of identity politics within the literature (see below). Beyond the evident need for economic and


political support, these policies and activities are related to sending countries’ interest in what Bauböck (2001) has called the ‘social capital upgrading’ of citizens abroad. This is not just because emigrants’ social mobility increases their scope for economic and political support but also because this process in and of itself reflects well on the image of the country of origin. Migrants become good ambassadors for their country of origin. In any case, this type of identity politics of the various sending countries should, as the case studies in this volume amply illustrate, be located in the way that nationhood enters in the country of origin’s domestic political processes.

Tying migrants into foreign and domestic policy processes Closely linked to the policies trying to evoke loyalty and a sense of obligation among emigrants, refugees and diasporas, sending countries seek to align the political transnational practices of nationals abroad with the policy agenda of the government in the country of origin. Sending states may wish to have a supportive lobby among their nationals abroad. Latin American countries, for one, want their nationals abroad to play the same role in relations with the US that Irish, Greek and Jewish minorities have played regarding US policies towards their respective home countries (de la Garza et al. 2000). Several chapters in this volume address such aspirations. This can take the form of promoting an actual lobby organization, but it can also amount to encouraging overseas nationals to consider their homelands’ interests when voting in elections in their new country settlement, to write letters of opinion against critical articles about their country of origin in the press and, in general, to be good ‘ambassadors’ for their sending country. Similarly, sending countries usually want to counter long-distance intervention by dissidents. The transnational political practices of migrants is not usually viewed as a challenge to the political regime and order of the country of origin. Admittedly migrants’ transnational support can strengthen local community institutions which again may challenge more central authorities (Portes 1999: 473–4), but the emancipatory or ‘counter-hegemonic’ character of migrants’ transnational practices, including their economic support, should not be overstated (Guarnizo and Smith 1998: 7; Mahler 1998; Itzigsohn 2000). Those exiles who return to be part of the political leadership in their country of origin usually blend into already existing power hierarchies (Østergaard-Nielsen 2003a), or assist in the process of political and economic transition as in the case of ex-Communist states of the Baltic


countries, Croatia or Serbia. Still, in terms of exiles or migrants turned dissidents, history is full of examples of regimes overthrown with the aid of such groups (Esman 1986; Sheffer 1986; Shain 1991). No sending country is interested in having its overseas nationals use their abroadness as a platform for critical information campaigns about the country of origin, or perhaps even as a stepping stone for direct subversive intervention in the political affairs back home. But sending states have few means to counter exile dissidence. Withdrawal of citizenship, or denationalization, has been repeatedly used to punish citizens abroad for dissidence or simply not fulfilling their duties towards their country (Shain 1989: 147). A central issue in that respect is the failure to carry out military service – indeed, avoidance of military service, traditionally one of the key obligations for (male) citizens, has been a motive for emigration, and an inhibitor of return, throughout history. However, it is the extension rather than withdrawal of citizenship which is the trend among sending countries. Offering dual nationality or citizenship is a way for sending countries to kill two birds with one stone. They encourage their emigrants to seek naturalization, integration and increased political influence in their country of settlement, and they offer a set of rights promoting their engagement in the sending country. Jones-Correa (2001) in his survey of dual nationality in Latin America reminds us that although the terms of dual citizenship and dual nationality are often used interchangeably they are not the same. Nationality is the formal legal status of state membership, while citizenship denotes the specific character of a member´s right and duties within the national policy. That is, dual nationality does not include access to all the rights and benefits of national citizenship, such as voting and the right to hold office ( Jones-Correa 2001: 998). At least ten Latin American countries (and several countries from the Caribbean basin) have introduced dual nationality. Dual nationality is recognized in several southeastern countries such as Thailand and Indonesia, and in 15 African countries with more to follow (such as Ghana).15 Moreover, the change of regimes throughout Eastern and Central Europe, and the many diaspora, exile, and emigrant communities has resulted in an inconsistency between nationalities and state borders which means that these countries continuously debate the pros and cons of dual citizenship. Russia, for example, does recognize dual citizenship as a way for the Russians in the near abroad to gain citizenship; most other post-Soviet states like Ukraine reject dual citizenship for precisely this reason: that many Ukrainians might seek Russian citizenship and allow Russia to meddle with internal politics.


However, granting dual nationality does not mean that emigrants’ or diasporas’ participation in domestic politics of the sending country is necessarily welcomed. A range of countries do allow for absentee voting. In the case of Peru it is even required by law for non-resident citizens to vote, and somewhat uniquely, Croatia until recently allowed for non-resident nationals to stand for office in Croatian elections.16 Nonetheless, in the majority of cases, even sending countries that already allow for dual nationalities are more restrictive when it comes to actually extending citizenship rights such as overseas voting or the right for non-resident citizens to run for public office. The reasons for this reluctance are multiple and will be further discussed in the conclusions of this volume. For now it should be noted that emigrants and diasporas find many other ways to participate in politics in their country of origin even if overseas voting is not allowed. For instance, in countries such as Turkey and Israel, certain political parties are known to fly in voters for national elections. In the 1999 Israeli election, both President Netanyahu and Ehud Barak organized cheap flights from at least eight major US and Canadian cities.17 Similarly, the Turkish Welfare Party (closed in 1999) has been rumoured to fly in voters for the 1995 election in Turkey (see Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b: 156). In other cases emigrants and diasporas play a role in homeland elections through economic support to political parties in return for consultative meetings on how these parties can help further the interests of the diaspora. Such incidents illustrate how states or governments are by no means the only sending country actors trying to reach for support among citizens and former citizens abroad. Although the following chapters focus on government policies mainly, they also show how political parties, religious organizations and movements, NGOs and hometown associations may precede and provoke state action in the field of transnational relations with emigrants (see also Guarnizo and Smith 1998; Levitt 2001a).

Sending countries as de-territorialized nation-states? The decoupling of territory, nation and citizenship (in the broader sense of ‘state membership’) brought about by migration is seen as a challenge to the nation-state as we know it. For instance, based on the way that receiving countries treat their newcomers, post-nationalists argue that because ‘rights’ (including migrants’ rights) are guaranteed by human rights regimes across national borders, the convergence of nation and state is challenged (Soysal 1994; Jacobson 1996). For post-nationalists, transnational movements of people ‘unpack’ the nation-state and allow


a supranational legal and political order based on human rights to take over ( Jacobson 1996). Human rights regimes and discourse certainly underwrites both immigrant political and diaspora political campaigns, as in the cases of Oaxacans of Mexico or the Kurds of Turkey (see Soysal 2000; R. Smith 2001: 33; Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b: 80, 130), but at the same time the nation-state is still the main, if not the only, guarantor of citizenship rights and obligations, and participation in politics still mainly takes place within state boundaries. In contrast to the post-nationalist discourse, sending countries are observed to ‘recouple’ territory, nation and citizenship in the face of international migration. In one of their often-cited articles Glick Schiller et al. (1995) have used the term ‘de-territorialized nation-states’ to describe those states that claim their dispersed emigrant populations as part of not only the nation but even the state (Glick Schiller et al. 1995: 50). State boundaries are defined in social rather than geographic terms, and sending states engage in what is perhaps more adequately termed ‘reterritorializing’ (Louie 2000) their overseas citizens by launching policies which re-include them not only in the nation but also in the national economy and political life of their country of origin. Two main points temper the use of ‘de-territorialized’ in the description of sending state reaching-out policies towards nationals abroad. R. Smith (2001) argues that the concept of ‘deterritorialized nation-state’ is inadequate because it equates the relationship between a state and its extra-territorial migrants with territorially bounded state–civil society relations. Migrants possess a different palette of resources from those of their homelandbased co-nationals and the state command a much more limited, although not insignificant, power over extra-territorial citizens compared with those residing within the geographical state boundaries (ibid: 34). Equally important, while sending states may perceive themselves as ‘de-terrorialized’ nation-states, their efforts to develop constructions that encompass migrants should not be overestimated. As the chapters in this volume demonstrate, these types of sending country policies are still in their early stages and are not always as successful as intended. Thus, to some extent the question of whether we are witnessing processes of de-territorializaton (or re-territorialization) depends on how we evaluate the incorporation efforts of sending states in the face of growing migrant transnationalism. In any case, issues of migration management, dual citizenship, expatriate voting, and migrant and refugees’ involvement in and influence on processes of democratization in their homelands are central to the wider


debate on the scope and powers of the state in a period of globalization. As literature on other non-state actors (including anything from NGOs to multinational corporations) and transnational forces in international relations is growing in leaps and bounds (see Keck and Sikkink 1998; Josselin and Wallace 2001), it seems timely to pursue the interests, aims and policies of sending countries towards their nationals abroad.

Structure and content of this volume Perceptions, policies and transnational relations In the context of the preceding general discussions and analyses, the chapters in this volume seek to identify the main developments and changes in eight sending states’ discourses on and policies towards emigrants and emigrés. Each chapter addresses questions concerning the changes and continuities in perceptions and policies and transnational relations with nationals abroad, and the contributors have therefore been invited to consider the following issues: (a) Perceptions: How have sending country perceptions of emigrants and diasporas transformed over time? How do these overseas nationals feature in their homelands’ domestic and foreign policy considerations? Are they perceived as a threat to the reputation or security of the current political regime or as a valuable or potentially valuable economic and political support? (b) Policies and activities: How have migration policies changed or not changed? To what extent does the sending country engage in the plight of its citizens or former citizens abroad? Which activities and political measures have been launched to introduce new ways of belonging and political and economic engagement in homeland affairs among migrants and diasporas? These include socio-cultural activities (such as celebration of national days and sponsoring of educational programmes) aimed at fostering continued loyalties among citizens abroad; political activities (such as extending political rights to citizens abroad, transnational electoral campaigns, establishment of overseas political organizations); and economic activities (such as introducing favourable investment schemes). Through which institutions (media, party political, traditional diplomacy, religious institutions) does the sending country try to reach its citizens abroad? (c) Transnational relations: To what extent have these policies and activities managed to promote and channel economic, socio-cultural and


political relations between sending countries and their nationals abroad? Do migration and migrants’ transnational practices take place independently of these efforts? Is there a sustained dialogue between the sending country and its nationals abroad on issues of concern to both the emigrants and the sending country?

Why the different responses? The comparative scope of this volume also aims to uncover some of the national and international structural factors relevant to understanding the changing perceptions and policies of sending states in general and the extent to which they reach out to their nationals abroad in particular. Importantly, the chapters open up the ‘black box’ analysis of sending countries by presenting them as a more complex set of actors – often with diverging perceptions of and policies towards nationals abroad. Several studies have traced common points in the responses of sending countries in Latin America and the Caribbean (Guarnizo 1998; de la Garza et al. 2000; Itzigsohn 2000), and also the very different responses of Bosnia and Eritrea (Al-Ali et al. 2001) and the remarkably similar responses of Mexico and Italy (R. Smith 2001; see also Shain 1989; 1991). While some conclude that there is no clear pattern in the complexity (de la Garza et al. 2000) or stop short of a systematic comparison of sending countries (Al-Ali et al. 2001), several studies point to more generally relevant structural or historical factors. Previous migration system theory correlated state capability with the state’s position in the world capital system (Schmitter Heisler 1985). More recent analyses, however, agree that there are many more and multi-level factors to consider in the analysis of the particular sending country’s relationship with and policies towards emigrants and citizens abroad. These include the sending country’s particular emigration trajectory. Descriptions of ‘bottom-up transnationalism’ or ‘grassroot transnationalism’ ascribe certain changes in sending country policies to the influence of overseas migrant or diaspora organizations (Guarnizo and Smith 1998; Jones-Correa 2001: 1000–1). It is therefore relevant to ask if emigration is a long-standing or recent phenomena. Did emigration begin before or after national independence or a radical regime change? Did citizens leave for political or economic reasons or a mixture of both? In particular, the relative and absolute size of the emigrant community is likely to be significant for relations with the country of origin, as is its economic, social and political capital in its country of settlement (see Shain 1999; Itzigsohn 2000).


Among the features at the national level, the domestic economy is rendered most important in the literature on emigration countries. As already outlined above, the central questions are to what extent the national and local economy depend on a continued inflow of the foreign currency remitted by migrants or the foreign direct investment which an established diaspora is potentially able to undertake. This economic ‘dependency’ is not just related to the particular country’s proactive policies to attract remittances and foreign investment by nationals abroad, but to the general palette of activities aimed at consolidating relations with citizens abroad. The other main feature at the national level is the type of political regime. Put crudely, the question is to what extent migration policies and transnational policies depend on whether the sending country is ruled by a democratic or totalitarian regime. Itzigsohn (2000) argues that while totalitarian regimes may simply seek to capture remittances, those countries with competitive party politics cannot do so without also opening the political field (Itzigsohn 2000: 1149, see also Levitt 2001a). In the Americas, Cuba is a case in point, but there are many other examples. The Kingdom of Morocco, which is certainly very keen to attract economic support from its 1.2 million large overseas community in EU member-states, does not engage in any real dialogue on extending political influence to citizens abroad.18 From this follows the notion that democratization – in particular, the increased scope for popular input to decision-making and the emergence of competitive party politics – serves as an incentive for sending country political actors to engage with overseas nationals (Itzigsohn 2000; R. Smith 2001). One way of nuancing the issue of domestic political regime is to add questions regarding the stability of the sending country political regime, its policies towards ethnic and religious minorities, and its location in the nation-building processes. What difference does it make if a country is at war or not? Do sending countries in conflict turn to their overseas nationals for economic and political assistance? How do domestic minority policies affect policies towards and relations with citizens abroad, many of whom may belong to these minorities? Indeed, do a sending country’s policies towards inflows of migrants have an impact on their relations with their own citizens abroad? To what extent are overseas diasporas allowed to participate in nation-building processes? How are homeland–diaspora relations a reflection of conceptions of national and cultural identities in the country of origin (see also Shain 1989)? It has also been argued that the particular type of national membership in the country of origin is decisive for a sending country’s perceptions of, policies towards and transnational relations with


overseas nationals (see Shain 1989). However, as discussed above, national membership has proven to be a dependent and not just an independent variable in relations between states and nationals abroad. International factors include the sending country’s position and participation in the world economy and its bilateral and multilateral relations with host-countries. The central question is to what extent sending countries consider bilateral and multilateral relations in their emigration policies and policies towards citizens abroad? Do former colonial/metropolitan links or current asymmetric power relations with receiving countries influence sending country attitudes to emigration and relations with overseas nationals? Are emigration policies largely determined by the receiving countries? Are sending governments aware of fifth-column accusations against their nationals abroad if they offer them dual nationality or try to exercise control over them? For instance, the Chinese policies towards overseas Chinese were facilitated by changes in the international environment initiated by the US recognition of the People’s Republic of China in the early 1970s. This meant that China no longer had to subordinate policies towards Chinese abroad to ward off accusations, particularly by host countries in Southeast Asia, of expansionist fifth-column policies. The Chinese now adhere to principles of non-interference and react with caution in matters of discrimination against ethnic Chinese living in Southeast Asia (Thunø 2000). Another example is that in 1999 Korea tried to offer dual nationality only to those overseas Koreans not living in China out of fear that Chinese authorities would think of it as promoting separatist tendencies among its Chinese minority.19

Outline of the book The chapters in this volume, researched within a variety of social science disciplines, are geographically spread out over the continents of the Americas, Southeast Asia, Africa and Europe. The list of countries that it would also have been relevant to include in this volume, is long. Israel, China, Portugal and Italy, among others, are all countries with interesting and significant policies towards and relations with citizens abroad (see Shain 1989; 1999; Gabaccia 2000; Nyiri 2000; Thunø 2000). The following chapters present a mix of well-known and lesser-known sending countries grouped in three main categories according to their history of migration and the main themes pervading their relations with nationals abroad: ‘From Exit to Voice?’; ‘Old Homelands, New Policies’; and ‘Sending Countries in Conflict’.


‘From exit to voice?’ The chapters on Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Turkey and the Philippines present cases of more ‘classic’ labour-exporting countries. In some of these cases, relations between sending countries and citizens abroad are changing ‘from exit to voice’; that is, overseas communities are increasingly engaging themselves in the economic, social and political life of their country of origin, while the sending state and other political actors are trying to channel this engagement to their own advantage. However, all four case-studies, each in their different way, show the limits to sending country capability and responsibility towards nationals abroad. The trend is particularly evident in the case of Mexico. In Chapter 2, Jesús Martínez-Saldaña carefully locates the development of Mexican migration policies and policies towards Mexicans abroad in its historical, political and international context. Since the late 1980s, Mexican authorities have reached out to the estimated 23 million people of Mexican origin in the US. In particular, Mexican President Vincent Fox has called migrants ‘our heroes’ and declared their plight as well as migration in general a policy priority. Martínez-Saldaña shows how these developments are brought about by a number of factors including the importance of migrant remittances, pressure from US Mexican organizations, and processes of democratization in Mexico. The author is, however, cautious in his final evaluation of the reforms of Mexican migration policies and policies towards citizens abroad. The same rhetoric of more inclusive policies towards nationals abroad can be observed in the case of the Dominican Republic, albeit on a much smaller scale. David Howard describes in Chapter 3 how the migration of Dominicans to the United States has dramatically shaped the country’s development over the last four decades. However, despite the enormous impact and the economic, political and demographic dependence which migration entails, the Dominican government has not been very active in tapping into these resources. Although the Dominican government has employed a supportive attitude towards emigration, and there has been a transnationalization of electoral campaigns in recent years, actual policies are largely laissez-faire. By contrast, Dominican initiatives and policies towards especially Haitian immigrant workers in the national economy are restrictive and interventionist. The next two chapters deal with sending countries outside of the Americas. Eva Østergaard-Nielsen (Chapter 4) presents the case of Turkey and its policies towards its citizens in EU member-states. The case


of Turkey is in many ways remarkably similar to that of Mexico, although the scope of migration, the intensity in Turkey–migrant relations, and, not least, the institutionalization of these relations is much smaller than in the case of Mexico. While political parties and religious movements have been active in mobilizing the Turks abroad for decades, the Turkish state and governments are latecomers to this type of transnational engagement. Turkish authorities are certainly aware that the more than 3 million Turkish citizens who have migrated to, or have been born in, the EU since the 1960s occupy an increasingly important part of Turkish–European relations. Yet, legislative changes and activities aimed at reaching out to these ‘Euro Turks’ have proved difficult to implement in practice. Chapter 5, on the Philippines, contrasts with the other three chapters in this section in that it is more focused on the ‘exit’ than on the ‘voice’ of emigrants – that is, the chapter focuses on the Philippine government’s export of Filipino workers to labour markets throughout the world. Currently, an estimated 7.29 million Filipino workers abroad are spread out in more than 180 countries and destinations, and their remittances are crucial to the Philippine economy. For this reason Filipino migrant workers have been heralded as heroes by several presidents, but the promises of political rights remain at the level of electoral rhetoric. Indeed, the case of the Philippines provides a ‘reality check’ to that literature which views sending countries as offering their overseas nationals rights in exchange for remittances and investments. Mary Lou Alcid critically examines the recent policies of deregulation and argues that these policies leave recruitment procedures and the protection of often very vulnerable overseas workers to market forces and foreign governments. ‘Old homelands, new policies’ The cases of India and Armenia deal with issues similar to those of the previous chapters, but at the same time present very different responses of homelands dealing with diasporas settled before their homeland gained independent state-hood. Homeland–diaspora relations in these two cases are inseparable from the homeland’s processes of nationbuilding. In Chapter 6, Marie Lall argues that India is a very unusual case when it comes to state–diaspora relations. Only very recently has the Indian government begun a serious campaign to woo Indians abroad. Previously such efforts faltered on domestic opposition, unmanoeuvrable bureaucracy, corruption, red tape and, importantly, a post-independence


ideology deeming diasporic support unwelcome. The fact is, this author argues, India has pushed its diaspora away since independence, and despite recent changes (with the 1991 reforms and the current BJP government) the reality is still not very much different from 50 years ago. While there are strong transnational family relations and private interests, the actual dialogue between the central government and the diaspora as a whole is still influenced by the old ideals of non-interference and suspicion. The relationship between Armenia and its diaspora has also historically been marred by tensions and difficulties, although relations have eased after the coming into power of president Robert Kocharian in 1998. Razmik Panossian (Chapter 7) uses the first ever Armenia–diaspora conference organized by the Armenian government in 1999 and its followup in 2002 as lenses through which to analyze the complicated relationship between Armenia and its diaspora (the two fundamental entities which make up the Armenian nation). The Armenian state has historically seen itself as the patron of the diaspora whose existence it has traditionally viewed as a regrettable historical ‘aberration’ due to unfortunate events. The diaspora largely rejects this approach and insists on the unity of the homeland and the diaspora, and that the politics and policies of the former should to a greater extent reflect the interests and views of the latter.

‘Sending countries in conflict’ Sending countries in ‘conflict’ highlights the way in which states such as Cyprus and Eritrea seek to engage their emigrants and diasporas in domestic or international conflicts, or post-conflict reconstruction. In Chapter 8, Khalid Koser describes how the Eritrean government has vigorously sought to mobilize refugee and other migrant communities abroad to support and fund the conflict with Ethiopia. The government has included overseas nationals in the political process, established formal representations within the major host countries and facilitated a variety of ways for the diaspora to make economic contributions. Yet the author warns that these short-term processes of ‘inclusion’ may serve to alienate, or ‘exclude’, the diaspora in the long term, as the Eritrean government exacerbates political differences, and intensifies economic strains within the diaspora. Madeleine Demetriou (Chapter 9) presents the more long-standing case of how Cyprus has engaged its overseas communities in a formidable campaign to boost the Cypriot state’s efforts to convince world opinion of


what Greek Cypriots see as the injustice of the 1974 Turkish ‘invasion’ of the island. The chapter goes beyond the carefully cultivated image of intimate ties presented to the outside world to expose some of the chronic difficulties that mark Cyprus–diaspora relations. It identifies mutual misperceptions and strains experienced over the years between the overseas Greek Cypriots and their respective governments. The author concludes that the engagement of overseas Cypriots in the national question is dwindling as younger generations are not motivated by the conflict and also because the Cypriot government has failed to offer any practical support to aid the diaspora in their lobbying efforts on behalf of their homeland. Finally, in Chapter 10 Eva Østergaard-Nielsen reviews some of the major findings of the contributions, with a view to providing answers to the questions outlined earlier in this present chapter. Among the conclusions reached are that the variety of responses among all three ‘types’ of sending countries serves to underscore the importance of employing a more complex analytical framework for the understanding of sending countries’ new role and policies, which moves beyond functionalist analyses concerning attempts to maximize the continued flow of remittances and fifth-column political representation abroad.

Notes 1 Peter Bate, ‘A river of gold’, IDBAmerica, Magazine of the Inter-American Development Bank, October 2001. 2 It is beyond the scope of this introduction to refer to the lengthy debate regarding which migrant groups constitute diasporas and which do not. For summaries of these debates, see Cohen (1997) and Østergaard-Nielsen (2003b: 13–15). 3 The term ‘homeland’ is even more ambiguous. Often found in literature on diasporas, exiles and transnational communities, a ‘homeland’ does not necessarily refer to a state but to that region of origin to which the emigrants are emotionally attached – and in which the diaspora may support nation and state building processes (Shain 1987a; Cohen 1997; Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b). 4 ‘World migration tops 120 million, says ILO’, Press Release, 2 March 2000, http://www.ilo.org/public/english/bureau/inf/pr/2000/2.htm. See IOM (2000) for the more generous estimate of 150 million. 5 Olesen (2002) introduces the term ‘migration band’ as an aggregate expression of the migration hump for individual countries with the income bracket US$1,500–1,800. Below this band the population is too poor to move, and above they are rich enough not to need to move (Olesen 2002). 6 Traces, no. 18 (2002), edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www.transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces.

30 International Migration and Sending Countries 7

8

9

10 11

12 13

14 15 16 17 18

19

Indeed, Ammassari and Black note that the only recently booming literature on return migration lacks common methodology and that the general picture of return migration is still very incomplete (Ammassari and Black 2001: 17–23). Some scholars have argued that so-called ‘methodological nationalism’, that is, ‘taking the nation state society as a natural social and political form of the modern world’, is so intrinsic to social science theory and methodology that it long blocked the view of the scope, durability and importance of migrant transnationalism (Wimmer and Glick Schiller 2001: 1–2). For instance, Italian and Eastern European migrants in New York at the turn of the (last) century engaged in the same transnational economic, social and political activities as today (Foner 1997). They sent back remittances, they maintained transnational networks with family and friends, and they engaged in diaspora political lobbying on behalf of their country of origin or tried to influence politics back ‘home’. Even Scandinavian migrants, whose rates of return migration were among the lowest, made significant imprints on their homelands through their remittances and ‘diffusion of foreign ideas’ (Gjerdes 2001). See ‘World migration tops 120 million, says ILO’, Press Release, 2 March 2000, http://www.ilo.org/public/english/bureau/inf/pr/2000/2.htm. These figures are estimates by the Multilateral Investment Fund, an autonomous fund administered by the Inter-American Development Bank, quoted in Traces, no. 14 (2001), edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www.transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces. Peter Bate, ‘A river of gold’, IDBAmerica, Magazine of the Inter-American Development Bank, October 2001. The formalization of remittance transfers has received unexpected support after the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington on 11 September 2001. To prevent funding of terrorist organizations, US authorities are clamping down on underground banking systems and trust-based networks which are used by migrants to send home remittances, in particular those linked with Islamic countries (Susan Sachs, ‘Immigrants facing strict new controls on cash sent home’, New York Times, 12 November 2002). Peter Bate, ‘A river of gold’, IDBAmerica, Magazine of the Inter-American Development Bank, October 2001. Traces, no. 12 (2000), edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www.transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces. Traces, no. 5 (1999) and no. 10 (2000), edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www.transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces. Traces, no. 6. (1999), edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www.transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces. Author’s observations based on reading of Arabic News transcripts of speeches of the Moroccan King and government (see Arab News, http:// www.arabicnews.com). Traces, no. 3 (1998) and no. 16 (2001), edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www.transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces.

Part II From Exit to Voice?


2 Los Olvidados Become Heroes: The Evolution of Mexico’s Policies Towards Citizens Abroad Jesús Martínez-Saldaña

Mexican policies dealing with the millions of people who migrate to the United States have left much to be desired, making migrants feel they are los olvidados, a forgotten social sector whose needs, interests, and rights do not matter much to the authorities of their home country. At present, we are witnessing what appears to be a new phase in the evolution of this relation. This change has historical precedents but it became more evident at the end of the 1980s, when Mexican political developments stimulated intense migrant activism in various parts of the US. A more recent factor has been the arrival of Vicente Fox to the Mexican presidency. Fox has sought to redirect Mexican foreign policy and relations with citizens abroad, declaring that migration is a policy priority. His arrival to power and the courting of nationals abroad has had repercussions and forced opposition forces to escalate the competition over real and potential migrant support. The stakes are not insignificant: at present there are an estimated 23 million people of Mexican origin in the US, including the native and foreign born.1 Mexico’s National Population Council estimates the number of the Mexican-born in the US totalled 8,173,689 in 2000. The estimate for the year 2030, assuming constant rates of migration, is 16,885,995 people (CONAPO 1999: 45). The economic influence is also considerable. The Bank of Mexico reports migrant remittances to Mexico were US$8.895 billion in 2001, while the Inter-American Development Bank estimated the amount at US$9.23 billion, making it the third source of foreign capital, only behind oil exports and foreign investment.2 33

34 Mexico’s Policies Towards Citizens Abroad

This migration of Mexicans to the US does not take place in a vacuum. The asymmetrical nature of the bilateral relation establishes the broader context in which migration occurs and national governments find the latitude to develop and implement desired policies. As a factor, the unequal character of the bilateral relation helps to explain the Mexican government’s position but is also insufficient. Another factor to take into account is the character of the Mexican regime, which for most of the past century was authoritarian and presidentialist, subordinating citizen concerns to the national interests, as defined by the forces in power. The response of the Mexican government towards nationals abroad corroborates the arguments of scholars like Castles and Miller (1993), who suggest that ‘governmental obligations’ towards migrant populations ‘are shaped by the nature of the political system’ of the nation in question (Castles and Miller 1993: 263). In the case of Mexican migration, it may be more appropriate to argue that the policies are defined by the nature of the political systems in both the sending and receiving nations, as well as by the nature of the relation between them. In addition, the Mexican case allows us the opportunity to see the successes and failures of migrants seeking to redefine the relations with the political system of the sending nation.

The creation of the heroic migrant On 22 March 2002, Vicente Fox travelled to Fresno, California, to hold his first presidential encounter with a large Mexican immigrant community. Thousands of immigrants gathered at the city’s new convention centre to see the man who had put an end to 71 years of continuous rule by the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI). After being welcomed by thunderous applause and moving testimonies by immigrant women, Vicente Fox delivered a speech that produced cheers and ovations from the crowd. The applause was particularly intense when he referred to them as ‘heroic countrymen’ and declared support for the right of Mexicans abroad to vote in future presidential elections (Fox 2001). An article by California journalists captured the essence of the historic encounter: Fox told them he admired their dignity and the quality and productivity of their work. If in the past they had been made to feel like turncoats for grabbing a chance on this side of the border, Fox said, he regarded them as the finest ambassadors of Mexico’s culture and work ethic. ‘You are the cultural engine, the permanent ambassadors of Mexican culture,’ he said. ‘You are important, believe me, you are

Jesús Martínez-Saldaña 35

very important. In addition to missing you, we are very grateful to you.’3 The construction of the heroic migrant contrasts with a long tradition of neglect, disdain, and denial that historically characterized the policies of the Mexican government towards emigrants and their US-born descendants (Mexican Americans or Chicanos). This practice was reflected in the words and actions of authorities, as well as in the views expressed by notable sectors of Mexican society.

Immigration, emigration, and revolution Migratory flows to the north began and evolved during periods of Mexican history when the nation suffered the absence of democracy. Massive movement to the north came about during the military dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911), it increased during the violent stages of the Mexican Revolution (1910–17), and was perpetuated and magnified by the policies of the authoritarian, presidentialist, and stateparty regime established in the post-revolutionary era (1929–2000). In the absence of democracy, the respect for the rights of migrants and the nation as a whole was a frustrated ideal. Holding authorities accountable to citizens was also largely a dream, continuously undermined by corruption and the imposition of candidates and authorities representing the state-party (PRI). Mexican emigration became a massive phenomenon due to the growth of the American market economy, its demand for foreign labour, and the availability of Mexican workers who were being affected by the economic modernization policies and political repression of the Díaz dictatorship, or Porfiriato. Ironically, the massive emigration took place in an era when many considered Mexico an under-populated nation that actually required immigration, preferably from Europe, in order to achieve the level of economic development suggested by its abundant resources. According to the census of 1895, there were only 12.7 million Mexicans (Inegi 2002: 1), far below the 30 million people some demographers estimate lived in Mexico before the arrival of the Europeans (Meyer et al. 1999: 85). The modernization of Mexico carried out during the Porfiriato produced an exacerbated concentration of land. Domestic and foreign investors received favourable treatment, while the rural communities saw their possessions fall under the control of a few individuals and corporations. Cordova (1988) reminds us that in 1910 small property owners possessed only 2 per cent of all land in Mexico, while only 1 per cent of the total land


surface belonged to the predominantly indigenous rural communities. In contrast, 9 per cent of all land was under the control of haciendas and ranchos. Ninety-six per cent of the rural population was composed of peons but 40 per cent of the total land area in the country was distributed among half a dozen large landholdings (Cordova 1988: 64–5). European immigrants were actively recruited by the government through colonization policies that offered them access to extensive grants of ‘public lands’. As Cardoso (1980) indicates, these lands were actually the common lands of peasants but were confiscated by the government and offered to foreigners as part of a grand design to modernize the countryside (Cardoso 1980: 6). Despite such generous policies, Mexico never became as attractive a destination to Europeans as the US or Argentina. Instead, Mexico was on its way to becoming a nation of emigrants. At this time, thousands of Mexicans were gradually incorporated into the American labour market thanks to favourable US immigration policies, the active recruitment by employers and their agents, and the establishment of a railroad system that linked the more densely populated central region of Mexico with the expanding economy of the American Southwest. The construction of the railroads facilitated the movement of people and goods between the two nations, intensifying the economic and socio-cultural ties across the international border. Cardoso (1980) indicates that Mexican emigration during this period ‘was largely one of rural people’, the social sector that suffered the most under the Porfiriato. He estimates that 80 to 92 per cent of the Mexicans who entered the US at the end of the nineteenth century and first decades of the twentieth were agricultural and household labourers (Cardoso 1980: 2, 82). Gamio (1971) reveals that the majority of migrants originated in a few states, mostly located in the central-western region (Michoacán, Jalisco, Guanajuato) and along the border with the US (Sonora, Chihuahua, Coahuila, Nuevo León). In the US they found employment in agriculture, mining, railroads, industry and also a variety of urban service occupations. They were primarily concentrated in the Southwest (Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and California) but were also found in Illinois, Indiana, Kansas and other midwestern states (Gamio 1971: 13–19, 23–9). While the migration to the US was largely economic in nature, the repressive policies of the Porfiriato also added a political dimension that became more significant in the years immediately preceding the 1910 Revolution. Critics of the Díaz regime who wished to avoid jail or a worse fate fled across the border, seeking haven in the growing Mexican


communities. Díaz responded by creating an elaborate system of espionage that relied on the work of the consulates, private detective firms, informants, and the collaboration of US authorities. From 1906 to 1911 Enrique Creel headed the Díaz espionage efforts carried out on American soil, targeting exiles such as the anarcho-syndicalist Flores Magón brothers (Ricardo, Jesús, and Enrique), as well as the liberal Francisco I. Madero (Raat 1981: 175–99). Despite the impressive system of espionage, Madero succeeded in generating widespread support among Mexicans on both sides of the border. On 20 November 1910 he and his followers crossed from Texas into Mexico to lead the armed struggle against the Díaz dictatorship. Six months later, on 25 May 1911, Díaz resigned and fled to Europe. After Díaz left, Mexico elections were held to select a new president. Madero won easily and assumed office at the end of the year. However, he was unable to complete his term because in 1913 a counterrevolutionary military coup toppled him from power, carried out his assassination, and made the ruthless General Victoriano Huerta Mexico’s new dictator. A key participant in the plot against Madero was the US Ambassador, Henry Lane Wilson, an arrogant figure whose opinions carried weight in Washington and influenced President Howard Taft (Meyer 1985: 104). While it is generally believed that the ambassador’s participation in the plot did not have official approval from the White House, he nevertheless became a symbol of everything that the American government could do wrong in Mexico during and after the revolutionary era. The ambassador believed Mexico was not ready for democracy and set out to abort a democratically elected government. The opposition against him grew and by July 1913 he was removed, leading to a shift in US policies towards Mexico. This and other serious forms of US intervention in Mexican affairs became an important contributing factor in the adoption of an ideology of revolutionary nationalism, which is a defensive version of nationalism, designed to promote national unity to ward off foreign threats, particularly from the US. It is a vision of the world that is embodied in the Constitution of 1917. It reached its climax during the nationalist administration of Lázaro Cárdenas, who expropriated foreign-owned oil companies and distributed land to peasants, thereby promoting important ideals of the Revolution of 1910. Revolutionary nationalism reached a crisis of legitimacy in the 1980s due to economic and political instability, as well as the adoption of neoliberal policies by the technocrats who had gained control of the national government. According to Bartra (1989), revolutionary nationalism became nothing more than a catchphrase to the new political elite that held power at the


end of the twentieth century because they were anything but suspicious of the US government (Bartra 1989: 55–85). As an ideology and interpretation of political reality, it continues to play a role in contemporary Mexico, rising and declining in significance with the ebbs and flows of political change. At present, in light of the PRI’s defeat in the 2000 presidential election, some (but not all) elements within this and other opposition parties have returned to rely on such a discourse in an attempt to regain popular support lost to Fox. The new president is depicted by opponents as being pro-American and willing to sacrifice national sovereignty in order to promote greater integration with the US. Fox’s migration policies are regarded as part of this process of yielding to the interests of a powerful neighbour that requires exploitable foreign labour and has a shameful history of interventionism in the domestic affairs of Mexico and other countries. Jorge G. Castañeda, head of the Secretariat of Foreign Relations (SRE), has been a preferred target of the attacks by opposition party members, who have called for his resignation on repeated occasions.4

Migrants and the constitution of 1917 During the Revolution many people fled to the US. The exodus was also influenced by another factor: the First World War American demand for foreign labour. This demand was institutionalized by a unilateral US programme to import Mexican labour. According to Alanís Enciso (1999), during this period 72,000 workers went to work in the US, attracted by favourable immigration policies and the efforts of labour recruiters operating in Mexico (Alanís Enciso 1999: 7). This project established a historical precedent for another labour recruitment policy that was negotiated by both national governments in 1942 and lasted until 1964, when the US ended it unilaterally. The First World War migration was opposed by the Venustiano Carranza presidency (1914 and 1915–20), which organized publicity campaigns warning of the abuses and racial discrimination the migrants would face north of the border. According to Alanís Enciso (1999), for example, in 1918 the federal government advised the authorities in the central region of Mexico to avoid, ‘to the extent possible’, the departure of workers to the north (Alanís Enciso 1999: 70–5). To accomplish this, governors were asked to impede the exodus ‘by all means possible’, including the denial of passports. Campaigns to repatriate migrants and offer them the protection of consulates were also carried out but the migration continued.


The increasing xenophobia found in the US during the First World War and the recurring discrimination against Mexican migrants caused alarm among other sectors of the Mexican nation, including the revolutionary forces gathered to draft a new national constitution. In an attempt to protect potential migrants, the authors of the Constitution of 1917 wrote section XXVI of Article 123, which stipulates that all contracts between a worker and a foreign entrepreneur require the approval of the proper Mexican municipal authorities and the consulate of the foreign nation. It also indicates that the costs of repatriation of the worker are the responsibility of the contracting party (Constitución 1998: 68). The application of this article proved problematic. A major reason was an incompatibility with American immigration legislation. While Mexican law required a contract before departing, ‘American laws forbid the entrance of workers who had been previously contracted. In other words, those who wished to leave the country in compliance with Mexican law violated American legislation’ (Alanís Enciso 1999: 68). Notwithstanding the wishes of Mexican authorities and the creators of the 1917 Constitution, migration to the north continued and grew. The demographic changes brought about by a continuing exodus transformed the Mexican-origin population in the US. According to one estimate, at the time of the 1846–8 war there were some 84,000 people of Mexican origin in the Southwest. By 1900, the combined figures of the native and foreign-born Mexican Americans totalled 463,000. In 1910 the figure rose to 718,000, then to 1.21 million in 1920 and 1.729 million in 1930. In contrast, Mexico’s total population was 15.1 million in 1910, 14.3 million in 1920, and 16.5 in 1930 (Díaz de Cossío et al. 1997: 300–1).

The increasing US demand for Mexican labour The US immigration laws adopted at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth contributed to making Mexicans the principal foreign labour force in the American Southwest. Mexican labour was attractive because it was abundant, cheap, and located next door. The demand was altered during the Great Depression, when the economic decline was accompanied by strong nativist policies. When this occurred, Mexicans became scapegoats. Approximately half a million Mexican immigrants and US-born Mexican Americans were repatriated, most of them forcibly (Massey et al. 1987: 42). The deportations were justified by the arguments that the Mexicans took jobs from American citizens and also represented a fiscal burden to the government.


In Mexico, the migration policies were guided by the General Population Law of 1936, which reflected the official belief that the nation was still under-populated. However, instead of promoting immigration as in the past, the new law suggested that the solution to under-population was ‘the reduction of mortality and the promotion of marriage and large families’ (García y Griego et al. 1990: 206). The government also sought to promote repatriation and the deterrence of additional emigration to the US ‘by dissuasion and by application of fines against labour recruiters who smuggled Mexican workers out of the country without recording labour contracts with Mexican authorities’ (ibid: 206), as had been determined by the Constitution of 1917. The American demand for Mexican workers returned with a vengeance during the Second World War. As the war effort unfolded, farm interests lobbied for the passage of a new labour importation programme that was originally designed to fill a purported war-time shortage of workers in agriculture. The project, popularly known as the Bracero Programme, was formulated in conjunction with the Mexican government and went into effect in 1942. This bilateral accord underwent several revisions but survived until 1964. While bilateral at its inception, recurring disputes by the two national governments led to its degradation into a unilateral US policy. During its 22 years of existence it awarded some 4.6 million seasonal contracts to Mexicans willing to work in American agriculture and railroad industries. At its height during the mid-1950s, there were over 400,000 braceros hired per year (Cross and Sandos 1981: 44). The programme is significant because it incorporated an unprecedented number of Mexicans into the process of migration to the US, and because the majority of the participants came from the same regions where migration had originated in the late nineteenth century. The institutionalization of these flows deepened the tradition and matured already present social, cultural, and economic ties between sending and receiving communities. In addition, Cross and Sandos (1981) suggest that the Mexican government deliberately selected regions that had played an important role during the 1910 Revolution and still constituted sites of potential rural unrest (Cross and Sandos 1981: 42–3). A key target was the Sinarquista movement, which combined conservative Catholicism and fascism with a critique of the rural impoverishment created by the Revolution. By the mid-1940s the Sinarquistas generated much support in Guanajuato and Jalisco states, mobilized thousands of supporters in a series of rallies, and attempted to create a political party.


As commented by Cross and Sandos: While the Mexican government moved to deny the party national juridical existence, it had simultaneously worked to destroy the movement’s base by exporting its manpower. The labour contracts for braceros … heavily favored the sending region, the area of greatest Sinarquista support. Unable to provide rural opportunity for the braceros in Mexico, the government sought that opportunity in the United States. (ibid: 42) The accord established wage, housing and working standards for the migrants. It indicated that they would not be used to displace domestic workers, nor utilized in states where Mexicans suffered discrimination. The latter stipulation was particularly applicable to Texas, where continuous offences led to the blacklisting of several counties by a Mexican government unwilling to certify contracts for those regions (Galarza 1964: 46–51). Once the war ended, employer demand for its continuation led to the first of several extensions of the accord. Despite the initial optimism, the programme was plagued with problems and contract violations that harmed the workers. Migrants were mistreated, cheated in payment, offered less than the contracted work days, given poor housing and food, and faced other abuses. They were also unable to join unions and there was inadequate governmental supervision of employers. A leading critic of the programme was Ernesto Galarza, a Mexican immigrant scholar and activist who researched the programme extensively and found that Mexican consular enforcement was characterized by serious shortcomings: Of the seven consular districts in California, one, that of Sacramento, had jurisdiction over 18 counties. The San Diego and Calexico consulates were assigned much smaller areas but neither was small enough to permit a single official to supervise effectively the thousands of men hired at the peak of the harvests. The consulates did not receive special appropriations for bracero protection. Consuls sometimes referred complaints to the associations or to the Bureau of Employment Security. Some used form letters and check lists to refer grievances. Unannounced field and camp visits were discouraged by the American authorities, who preferred that they be arranged in advance. By and large the idea of a Mexican consul acting the part of a truculent and self-assured business agent of an American union was a fanciful one. Consuls were persuaded that this was not their role under the law. (Galarza 1964: 232)


Another fundamental criticism of the migration policies during the era of the Bracero Programme is that unregulated migration increased dramatically, encouraged by the desire of employers to hire them and, at times, even put them to work alongside the braceros. When the accord was terminated by the US due to the pressures of unions and groups concerned with the exploitation of the migrants, the Mexican government lobbied unsuccessfully for its extension. The end of the programme did not bring about a reduction in Mexican migration. Instead, many of the former braceros crossed the border without the benefit of documents and found jobs with eager employers. The passage of the 1965 Immigration Act by the US Congress permitted the legal migration of thousands of Mexicans, who also benefited from the family reunification goals promoted by the law. During the following decades, the perpetuation and growth in the number of undocumented Mexicans became the principal point of discussion in the American debate over immigration. After the Bracero Programme ended, Mexico was unable or unwilling to negotiate a bilateral accord that would ensure fair treatment of the migrants who were incorporated into the growing American economy. The US debate reached a milestone with the approval of the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA). The new law created sanctions against employers who knowingly hired undocumented workers, extended amnesty to those unauthorized immigrants who had resided for a defined period, and created special programmes to continue to recruit much desired seasonal agricultural labour. IRCA legalized a total of 2.9 million immigrants but its overall success was only limited. As Portes and Rumbaut (1996) indicate, employer sanctions did not end undocumented migration ‘but merely rechanneled it into new forms’ (Portes and Rumbaut 1996: 278–80). In addition, the reform did not take into account the social dimension of migration, leaving many relatives of the legalized migrants without possibility of regulating their status. To address this flaw, the Immigration Act of 1990 established a visa category designed to benefit the forgotten family members. Even this reform was inadequate, leaving millions of Mexicans with an irregular status in the US. The policy of not having a policy After the passage of IRCA the debate in the US over Mexican immigration actually became more fierce and polarized. It included the expression of extremist views, the consideration of restrictionist immigration policies,


and an increased militarization of the border. In this context, Manuel García y Griego published a study that called attention to the serious limitations of the Mexican approach to migration policy. The study found that since the mid-1970s the Mexican government had followed a strategy of not having a clear and explicit policy on the emigration of nationals to the US. According to García y Griego (1988), the policy of not having a migration policy may have had some success in the early years but by the late 1980s was facing an assortment of new challenges that made it decreasingly viable (García y Griego 1988: 145–52). The Mexican government’s position at the time was guided by the official interpretation of the principle of non-intervention established in Section X of Article 89 in the Constitution of 1917 (Constitución 1998: 76). Mexico relied on this principle to guide foreign policy and to try to limit US involvement in Mexican domestic affairs. In the late twentieth century, the principle of non-interventionism was also utilized to justify Mexico’s unwillingness to enter the US internal debate over IRCA or any other proposed law. The fear of endorsing an American law that could have adverse effects on migrants made the decision to not express an explicit position on migration attractive to policy-makers at the time. An historic opportunity to formulate innovative approaches and solutions to the issue of migration was deliberately missed by Carlos Salinas de Gortari during his term as president (1988–94). Salinas made the approval of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) with the US and Canada the priority of his administration. In interviews with American journalists and during visits to the US to lobby for NAFTA’s passage, he stated that his government wanted to export goods, not people. Nevertheless, instead of addressing migration issues directly and incorporating the issue into the agenda, Salinas agreed to omit labour flows from the trilateral accord, fearing that the inclusion of migration would lead to NAFTA’s defeat in the US Congress. The negative, although indirect, consequences of this decision did not take long to materialize. On 8 November 1994, only eleven months after NAFTA went into effect, the California electorate passed Proposition 187, an initiative created to deny access to public services (including education and health) to undocumented immigrants and their children. California’s governor, Pete Wilson, was a leading proponent of the initiative. Proposition 187 received 57 per cent of the vote and polarized the state electorate along racial lines, as reflected by the fact that it was supported by 64 per cent of whites, 57 per cent of Asian Americans, 56 per cent of African Americans, and 31 per cent of Latinos (Martin 1995: 259).


The post-NAFTA anti-immigrant hysteria affected documented and undocumented Mexican immigrant families. They responded by participating in established or newly created organizations to defeat the initiative, but even among the mobilized sectors there was a feeling of abandonment by the Mexican government and organizations and leaders who claimed to represent Latinos. For example, Francisco Ortiz, a resident of Long Beach, declared that Proposition 187 harmed immigrants like himself. To him, it also revealed that ‘we really don’t have anyone to represent us’. He questioned the role of established organizations and leaders: ‘Where are they? What else are they waiting for? When are they going to intervene?’5

Migration: attitudes and policy implications The feeling of abandonment manifested by Ortiz has been shared by many Mexicans in the US. Remarkably, the tradition of neglect and disdain for migrants is not limited to Mexico’s authorities. It is also found in other sectors of society, including the most enlightened intellectuals, whose works shape national culture and influence the formation of generations of leaders and policy-makers. A case in point is Octavio Paz, the winner of the Nobel prize for literature in 1990. In his landmark Labyrinth of Solitude, Paz examines the Mexican character and ventures into philosophical and sociological discussions. The noted writer begins his analysis in a peculiar way: by looking at Mexicans in a foreign context, specifically the US. Paz examines mexicanism, the manifestation of the Mexican character, in Los Angeles, California, in the aftermath of the Second World War, at a time when he was serving in the local Mexican consulate. He offers an interpretation that depicts the Mexican-origin population as a social group that has lost its language, culture, identity and spirit, becoming a marginal and alienated group. The Mexicans one sees in the streets of the city, wrote Paz, ‘have lived in the city for many years, wearing the same clothes and speaking the same language as the other inhabitants, and they feel ashamed of their origin; yet no one would mistake them for authentic North Americans’ (Paz 1985: 13). Paz is also implying that such people have also ceased being ‘authentic’ Mexicans. This unflattering portrait reinforced pre-existing stereotypes in Mexico about the Mexican-origin population in the US, influencing national policies and social perceptions for decades to come. To many people in Mexico, but obviously not to remaining family members dependent on remittances, the migrants and their descendants were traitors who abandoned the homeland to live in the US. Following this


logic, the inability to retain the Spanish language and other national cultural traditions transformed migrants and Mexican Americans into pochos, individuals who reject their Mexican culture and roots, preferring instead to become assimilated Americans. Other notable Mexican interpretations of the migrants can be found in the works of Gilberto López y Rivas and Jorge A. Bustamante, two scholars who contributed to the development of academic and political interest in issues related to Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants. López y Rivas (1979) is the author of a book, first published in 1971, which offered a serious interpretation of the growing Mexican-origin population in the US. Reflecting the trends of the time, the book portrays Mexican Americans as a ‘national minority’ that is exploited due to its national origin. The exploitation has its roots not in race but in the economic base, in the capitalist structure, which on the one hand makes impossible the integral development of the Mexican people and on the other conditions the existence of a ferocious economic exploitation and a politics of discrimination in all aspects of life. (López y Rivas 1979: 113) López y Rivas finds revolutionary potential in the Chicano movement of the 1960s and early 1970s and calls for the establishment of unity with other exploited groups. Overall, it suggests that real solutions are only possible with the substitution of capitalism by another, presumably socialist, system. The studies produced by Bustamante exhibit the influence of Marxist thought and revolutionary nationalism. His perspective changes in some ways with the passage of time, surviving during populist, conservative, and neoliberal administrations. Nevertheless, he consistently points out both the benefits that the US obtains from the use of migrant labour from Mexico and the role that the America nation has played in deliberately promoting the importation of workers. He argues that US policy towards Mexican immigration has been ‘the politics of supplying a labour force to meet the requirements of economic expansion, particularly in the Southwest of the United States’. However, it is not just the supply of any labour force, but only that ‘which permits the reduction of the costs of operation to its maximum expression’ (Bustamante 1976: 20). From this perspective, migrants appear as exploited and exploitable workers, victimized by capitalism. Migrants require the assistance of the Mexican government to defend their rights in the US and reduce their exploitation at the hands of employers. While much of Bustamante’s attention has been focused on what needs to be done in American territory, the continuing abuses of migrants when they return to Mexico


eventually drew his attention as well. In his capacity as president of the Colegio de la Frontera Norte, the noted scholar promoted studies that documented extortion at the hands of Mexican authorities and other problems. He has claimed authorship of projects such as the Paisano Programme, which emerged from a campaign promise made by Salinas in order to reduce official abuses against returning migrants (Bustamante 1994: 259–60). Despite these accomplishments, the existence of the Paisano Programme confirmed the arguments of scholars who claim that during the PRI era decisions were created by political elites with little or no citizen participation, reproducing the authoritarianism of the presidentialist regime. Decisions may be influenced by interest groups or power brokers, but ‘the president himself is the key initiator and shaper of all major public policies’ (Craig and Cornelius 1989: 351). An additional perspective, which gained influence in recent years, considers migrants a cultural and political threat. People holding such views believe that when migrants return home, they carry with them an assortment of questionable beliefs, values and habits acquired in the US. A representative example is Jorge Carpizo, a leading scholar with an expertise in constitutional law who served as director of the Mexican Commission on Human Rights and, subsequently, became Attorney General in the Salinas administration. Carpizo emerged in the late 1990s as a leading opponent of the migrant demand for the right to vote while residing abroad. He considers the migrant vote dangerous for many reasons, including the belief that they may become the decisive factor in a presidential election. He argues that many migrants have severed ties to Mexico and constitute a vulnerable group subject to the influence of the America mass media and the potential pressures of anti-Mexican employers. Allowing them to participate in the national electoral process paves the way to the degradation of Mexico and the loss of independence. Mexico can conceivably become a territory under the control of the US (Carpizo 1998). In other words, the formal political participation of Mexicans abroad in the affairs of their homeland represents a threat to Mexican society, national culture, the electoral process and national sovereignty.

Migrant activism and the context of political change in Mexico As Daniel Cosío Villegas (1974: 22–35) argued in a seminal work, the federal executive enjoyed broad legal and extralegal powers that made all other authorities subordinate to the presidential will. In recent years,


no president became as powerful as Salinas. He took office in a difficult environment due to the unprecedented showing of opposition candidates in the presidential race. In fact, many national and foreign observers were unconvinced that he had actually defeated Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas, son of the revered former president Lázaro Cárdenas. Once in power, the new president proved to be a quick learner and within a few months elevated his popularity with arrests of public figures accused of corruption. He also embarked on an ambitious plan to gather foreign support, particularly from the US, through the pursuit of projects promoting economic liberalization and free trade. NAFTA became his principal priority and he devised an innovative approach to influence the US Congress. This included hiring top lobbyists and courting the support of prominent Mexican American leaders and organizations. The cultivation of relations with Mexican Americans also had the objective of undermining the support that Cárdenas had found among Mexican immigrants established in the US. The migrant cardenistas developed intensive campaigns in key American cities, calling attention to the fraudulent 1988 presidential election, the abuses carried out by Mexican authorities against returning migrants, the inadequate services offered by consulates, the accumulating deaths of opposition sympathizers in rural and urban Mexico, and the migrant desire to vote in future presidential elections. They found Cárdenas supportive of their demands, leading to the strengthening of relations and the eventual incorporation of migrant activists into the formal structure of the newly established Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD) (Martínez Saldaña 1993: 223–85). Salinas de Gortari’s response also included the extension to the migrant communities established in the US of corporatist practices through projects such as the Programme for Mexican Communities Abroad and Solidaridad Internacional. The Programme for Mexican Communities Abroad was created to develop the relations with organized migrants, particularly home town associations from Zacatecas, Jalisco, and other states with migration traditions. In the case of Solidaridad Internacional, the bonds with migrant groups were constructed on the basis of governmental matching grants for public works projects in sending communities. Simultaneously, representatives of the PRI, including people employed in consulates, set out to explore the possibilities of creating chapters of their parties in the US. When this began to cause alarm among conservative American sectors, and possibly affecting the passage of NAFTA, the establishment of the PRI in the US was scaled back, practically


disappearing from the public eye. Nevertheless, the consulates were perceived as maintaining a strongly partisan character, generating much mistrust among politically active migrants. Migrant activism and criticism of the Mexican government entered a new phase with the emergence of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) in Chiapas on 1 January 1994. The Zapatista demands for political change and better treatment of the indigenous peoples were seen favourably by many migrants, including those ideologically opposed to the neoliberal policies, human rights advocates, union leaders critical of NAFTA, sympathizers of opposition parties, and indigenous Mexicans from Oaxaca and other states. Impressive mobilizations and organizational efforts took place in many American cities, overshadowing the upcoming 1994 presidential election but often converging with the growing migrant demands for the right to vote. Zapatista supporters extended the US-based networks of support for change in Mexico, incorporating religious, human rights, and indigenous rights advocates. Like the cardenistas before them, the EZLN supporters in the US proved effective in drawing attention to their cause, creating a public relations nightmare for a Mexican government which had attempted to portray Mexico as an emerging first world nation. A solution to the political and economic crises that Mexico faced after 1994 was to reduce political pressures by negotiating with the opposition parties represented in Congress the approval of a package of electoral reforms. Negotiations continued until 1996 and in the summer of that year the reforms received unanimous congressional endorsement. Surprisingly, one of the reforms included in the package at the insistence of the PRD was designed to permit Mexicans abroad the opportunity to vote in presidential elections. The new reforms made the migrant vote legal, although Congress left for another occasion the approval of secondary laws to make the electoral participation of migrants a reality. According to Transitory Article 8 of the new federal electoral code (COFIPE), the migrant vote was conditioned to the existence of a new voters registry, a new national identity card, and a study delegated to the now independent Federal Electoral Institute (IFE) in order to define the necessary electoral reforms (Instituto Federal Electoral 1996: 301–2). The first two tasks were assigned to Gobernación (Secretary of Governance or SG), the powerful cabinet office in charge of domestic politics. Many migrant vote advocates believed their long struggle for suffrage rights, which dates back to at least 1929, had been won and expected to be able to vote in the 2000 presidential election. However, SG failed to carry out its tasks and, as time passed, launched a campaign criticizing


the migrant vote. By 1998 the head of SG, Francisco Labastida Ochoa, was declaring that the costs of implementing the migrant vote would be one billion dollars, prohibitively high for a nation like Mexico. The political rights of migrants were also attacked from another front. On December 1996, at the insistence of the presidency and the PRI, Congress approved a reform to permit the non-loss of Mexican nationality, a concept that in Mexico is differentiated from citizenship and is meant to refer to membership in the national community. The reform was drafted to promote among Mexicans in the US the idea of becoming naturalized American citizens. To encourage them, the new law allowed such migrants to retain economic and cultural rights in Mexico, thus remaining a part of the nation they left behind. However, the law’s proponents consistently opposed the idea of including the enjoyment of political rights in Mexico, including the right to vote or to run for public office. Critics argued it was a measure designed to create confusion among migrants and reduce their political influence by shrinking the potential electorate abroad. As an alternative, migrant activists had proposed the idea of a dual citizenship law that would allow them to enjoy political rights in both nations. The migrant right to vote movement initiated a new phase of its development in February 1998, when a delegation of activists travelled to Mexico city to put pressure on the federal government, national political parties, and the IFE, urging them to make it possible for Mexicans abroad to vote in 2000. The group succeeded in drawing public attention to the issue, as they managed to receive widespread coverage in the Mexican and American media. They also obtained support from opposition figures, designed a strategy to continue lobbying, and adopted a name, Coalition of Mexicans Abroad Our Vote in 2000. In the next year and a half, the coalition pioneered activist efforts to influence the Mexican government. Other groups followed the example and even co-sponsored conferences and activities on both sides of the border. Concrete results of the coalition included proposing a citizen petition in Congress to have the lower house (Chamber of Deputies) agree to begin to move on the issue by calling for reports from involved agencies, including IFE and SG. Also, thanks to the initial visit by the delegation, the IFE created the commission of experts stipulated by Transitory Article 8 of COFIPE, in order to study the viability of the migrant vote. The study was completed and released to the public on 16 November 1998. The results were far more positive than the activists even anticipated. The commission of experts found that the migrant vote was technically viable, that there were dozens of possible ways to carry it


out, and that the cost was reasonable: the most expensive option cost 356 million dollars and the least expensive only 76 million. Moreover, in a survey conducted by the commission it was found that 83 per cent of all migrants interviewed expressed a desire to vote from abroad if they were permitted to do so. In addition, the experts estimated that the total potential electorate residing abroad during the 2 July 2000 presidential election was 10.787 million people, 99 per cent of them living in the US. Surprisingly, among those included in this estimate were migrants who had naturalized in other countries because, in the opinion of the commission, the 1996 non-loss of nationality was written in such a way that it did not actually exclude political rights for those people who had adopted another citizenship. Overall, the commission estimated that the potential electorate abroad represented 15.38 per cent of the national electorate for the 2000 presidential election (IFE 1998: 8–16). Only two months earlier, in his 1998 state of the nation address, President Zedillo proclaimed to the nation and the world: Mexico already lives in a democracy. Democracy in Mexico is already lived authentically and actively in bodies of representation and decision-making, in the public plazas, in the social and political organizations, in the mass media; above all, in the conscience and attitudes of the citizens. Never before had democracy been so present in the life of the country as it is today. (Zedillo Ponce de León 1998: 1) At the same time, key members of his cabinet, including the head of SG, were working to undermine and discredit the migrant right to vote. The much-celebrated democratization of Mexico that the Zedillo government promoted within and outside of Mexico proved exclusionary of the migrant population, thereby continuing a tradition over a century old. Partly as a result of unprecedented lobbying by migrant groups, the opposition-controlled lower house of congress approved a very modest extraterritorial suffrage reform, as it was designed to benefit only those migrants already possessing voter identification cards, a subgroup estimated by the IFE to number about 1.5 million people (IFE 1998: 18). Yet, even this limited proposal was fiercely opposed by the PRI, which, following the logic of individuals like Carpizo, vowed to reject this and two other reforms in the PRI-controlled Senate. On 1 July 1999, the scheduled day for the Senate vote, and the constitutional deadline for electoral reforms applicable to the 2000 election, the PRI senators displayed their disregard for the electoral rights of migrants by not even showing up at the legislative chamber. The constitutional deadline


passed, eliminating any possibility for migrant Mexicans to enjoy a basic citizenship right already guaranteed by dozens of other countries to their respective citizens residing abroad. Activists vowed to punish the PRI by supporting the two principal opposition candidates, Cárdenas of the PRD and Vicente Fox of the National Action Party–Green Ecological party of Mexico (PAN–PVEM) coalition, and by working to persuade their relatives and friends in Mexico to vote against the PRI. Both opposition candidates visited Mexican immigrant communities in the US as part of their campaigns, endorsing the right to vote and other measures. The Fox candidacy, in particular, began to draw unprecedented support. This was reflected in symbolic elections carried out in a few US communities on the same day (2 July 2000) elections were held in Mexico. In these modest mock elections, Fox received 10,985 out of the 16,318 votes cast. In turn, the PRI candidate, Francisco Labastida Ochoa, received 1,759 votes and Cárdenas 2,673.6

Migration and the new axes of Mexican foreign policy According to Jorge G. Castañeda, the arrival of Fox to the presidency permitted a much-needed change in foreign policy. The new international strategy emphasizes two axes: a strategic relationship with the US and a more active participation in the international system. With respect to the US, there are three major objectives: ‘the inclusion of new issues on the bilateral agenda; second, the incorporation of new political actors and, third, the establishment of a new general framework for the long-term relationship’.7 Within this context, Castañeda indicates that the priority in the bilateral agenda is the ‘comprehensive negotiations on the migratory phenomenon.’ From his perspective, migration has always been part of the relationship, but it was never part of the agenda of negotiations. Even in the case of the 1942 ‘bracero agreement’, which some consider to be the precedent in this area, it can be argued that this was really an agreement designed by the United States to obtain cheap labor during the Second World War, in which Mexico’s room for negotiation was quite limited. In contrast to that ephemeral precedent, currently both governments have recognized the need for an orderly framework for migration that guarantees humane treatment, adequate legal protection and dignified working conditions for the migrants. Today both governments conceive of the migratory issue as a source of challenges and opportunities, as one of the principal links that join our nations.8


The change in direction pursued by Fox after becoming president yielded results. He found the George W. Bush administration receptive to the call to redefine bilateral relations. The legitimacy of Fox’s electoral victory brought the new president international prestige due to the advances made in moving Mexico towards a democratic regime. The victory also provided Fox with a political capital unmatched by any of his predecessors. It proved useful in the attempts to establish a bilateral agenda with the American government. In a joint statement made after Bush’s visit to the Fox ranch in Guanajuato state in February 2001, the leaders declared the beginning of a new era in US–Mexican relations: We believe our two nations can now build an authentic partnership for prosperity, based on shared democratic values and open dialogue that bring great benefits to our people. We want to move beyond the limitations of the past and boldly seize the unprecedented opportunity before us. In order to achieve these goals and follow up on the commitments we made today, we have agreed to meet frequently, as necessary, over the course of our respective terms of office. We will do so as friends, in a spirit of mutual trust and respect.9 The era of the American bogeyman seemed to be approaching its end in Mexico, while the era of an unreliable Mexican neighbour appeared to be receding in the high circles of power in Washington. As a result of Bush’s visit, the two governments created a high-level working group on migration, including the heads of SG and SRE of Mexico and the Secretary of State and the Attorney General of the US. Unlike other administrations that avoided negotiations over migration or regarded it as a problem, the Bush and Fox governments claimed to view the bilateral negotiations in the area of migration as ‘an exercise of shared responsibility, with a long term perspective, to ensure that migration of Mexicans to the United States is of mutual opportunity and benefit’.10 The Fox government also contributed to recasting the image of the Mexicans abroad, seeking to make them an integral and welcome component of the national community. Fox himself mentioned repeatedly that he represented 123 million Mexicans, 100 million at home and 23 million in the US. In addition to the work performed by the SRE, the Fox government’s relations with the migrant population and Mexican Americans were to be carried out by a newly created Presidential Office for Mexicans Abroad, headed by Juan Hernández, a native Texan born to a Mexican father and an American mother. This office was symbolically set up within the presidential house to reflect Fox’s commitment to


migrants. To further symbolize his desire to establish ties with Mexicanorigin people, Fox invited some 200 Mexican Americans to his December 2000 presidential inauguration in Mexico City. The intensity of the Fox relations with migrants and Mexican Americans, as well as his historic electoral victory, has been accompanied by important changes in other political forces and institutions, which now appear to be competing to see who outdoes the others in proposing policies favourable to the Mexicans who participate in the process of international migration. The most dramatic case is that of the PRI. Since Fox’s victory, the PRI has repositioned itself, proclaiming to be the staunchest defender of migrant rights and national sovereignty. The PRI’s newly expressed concern for migrant interests and rights has contributed to the on-going consideration by Congress of key reforms, including those dealing with the migrant right to vote as well as their formal representation in the federal legislature. However, the discourse has yet to translate into tangible results, leading to renewed disappointment among migrants activists who see Congress and the Presidency as unproductive and perpetually engaged in partisan confrontations that results in legislative paralysis. In its new role as an opposition force, the PRI has often resorted to the discourse of revolutionary nationalism and joined the left-of-centre PRD in expressing constant criticisms of the Fox government’s foreign policy, particularly in the areas of relations with the United States and the defence of migrant rights. The Fox government is portrayed as subservient to the White House and feeble in the protection of the migrant population. Moreover, in light of the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks, the opposition forces fear the Fox government is willing to endorse the US government’s anti-terrorist policies, which includes increased militarization of the border shared with Mexico. Tension between the legislative and executive branches escalated to the point that on 9 April 2002, the opposition-controlled Senate denied Vicente Fox permission to travel to Canada and several US states, including Texas. Among the key reasons presented for the historic denial of a presidential trip abroad was the argument that the Fox government had not responded in a dignified manner to a decision by the US Supreme Court, which found that an undocumented Mexican immigrant who had been fired by his employer after attempting to unionize at his workplace had no right to receive back pay due to his irregular migratory status in the country. PRI Senator Genaro Borrego spoke in favour of the denial of permission to President Fox, declaring that the federal executive had been completely passive and condescending


‘before the imminent risk of massive violations of the labour rights of undocumented immigrants’.11 Migrants, including those actively involved in campaigns for the right to vote and related causes, have taken positions on both sides of the debate, at times allying with the political force that is closer to their particular preference, on other occasions criticizing all parties and authorities equally for the lack of progress in the development of key migrant reforms or acceptable bilateral accords. Renewed concerns over Mexico’s policies towards citizens abroad surfaced in August 2002, when the presidency formally announced the disappearance of the Presidential Office for Mexicans Abroad, the transfer of its responsibilities and projects to the SRE, and the creation of a new National Council for Mexican Communities Abroad that would make policy recommendations. The decision, considered by some to be the outcome of an internal power struggle with the SRE, was not well received by important migrant activists, who argued that it represented a historical regression and the loss of priority of migration in the Fox agenda. It was pointed out that Fox had acted without consulting migrants, recalling the authoritarianism of the past. Migrants who expressed these views feared that migration would once again be lost in the bureaucratic labyrinth of the SRE. Moreover, it was not clear what actual powers the new council would have, nor was there confidence in the process by which members would be selected. Newspaper reports and accounts of migrants who accepted an invitation to travel to Mexico City to hear the announcement reflected the lack of clarity in the new decision. More dramatically, a newspaper published in Los Angeles by immigrants from Oaxaca state recognized Fox’s good intentions but proclaimed his new immigration project had ‘no future’.12 The official portrayal of migrants as heroes appeared increasingly hollow to many observers at home and abroad. Desperate to save face and present proof of his government’s commitment to the promotion of human rights and the defence of migrants in the US, the Fox government responded to criticisms by calling attention to its defence of Javier Suárez Medina, a Mexican immigrant prisoner awaiting execution in Texas for killing an undercover police officer. President Fox personally became involved in the much-publicized campaign, taking a stance in favour of a confessed murdered based on Mexico’s opposition to the death penalty. He asked the governor of Texas and also President Bush to commute the sentence or delay the execution in order to present additional evidence of trial irregularities that violated international accords. The efforts proved futile and Suárez


Medina was executed on 14 August 2002. That same day, Fox cancelled a planned visit to Texas that included a meeting with President Bush. He also cancelled other trips to the US programmed for later in the year. On this occasion, Fox received widespread support from opposition figures, who expressed indignation at the execution of another Mexican citizen by US authorities, although other observers pointed out he had wasted valuable political capital on a lost cause. In any event, it was evident that domestic reforms and bilateral accords dealing with migration now seemed more distant than when Fox took office.

Conclusion Despite some significant developments, Mexico, a major sending nation with a tradition of emigration over a century old, has not yet developed a clear, coherent, strong, democratic, and viable state migration policy. The existence of an undemocratic regime for most of the last century, the current paralysis in advancing much needed reforms, as well as an asymmetrical and often conflictive relation with the principal receiving nation, the US, are factors which help to explain this historical failure. In addition to their economic and numerous other contributions to Mexico, migrants have played an active role in the transition to democracy, combated offensive stereotypes, and managed to insert their demands into the national agenda. Yet, their role and influence are destined to remain limited and dependent on the irregular goodwill of authorities until they are able to exercise their citizenship rights in the Mexican polity. When Mexico’s international migrants are allowed to formally participate as voters and candidates to public office a qualitative leap will have been made to make the emerging Mexican democracy, and the national definitions of citizenship and nationality, finally reflect the long-repressed fact that Mexico is a nation of emigrants. More than heroes, Mexico’s international migrants deserve to be treated as citizens.

Notes 1 C. Avilés, ‘Prevén que en este sexenio 2 millones emigren a EU’, El Universal, 19 March 2002. 2 F. Robles, ‘Remesas de mexicanos establecen nuevo record’, La Opinion, 9 March 2002. 3 J. F. Smith and M. Arax, ‘Fox barnstorms across state’, Los Angeles Times, 23 March 2001. 4 J. M. Venegas, C. Pérez, and R. Garduño, ‘Frena Fox demanda de diputados de que renuncie titular de SRE’, La Jornada, 3 May 2002.

56 Mexico’s Policies Towards Citizens Abroad 5 6 7 8 9

10 11

12

F. Robles, ‘Nace un espontáneo intento de oposición a la iniciativa 187’, La Opinion, 6 October 1994. Coordinadora Nacional de las Elecciones en EU, ‘Resultados finales de las elecciones ciudadanas en los Estados Unidos’, 3 July 2000. J. G. Castañeda, ‘The axes of Mexico’s foreign policy’, document posted in 2001 on the Secretary of Foreign Relations website, http: //www.sre.gob.mx Ibid. The White House, ‘Joint statement by President George Bush and President Vicente Fox towards a partnership for prosperity’, 16 February 2001, Washington. State Department, ‘Joint statement of US–Mexico working group on migration’, 5 April 2001. ‘Discurso del senador Genaro Borrego Estrada sobre la negativa del PRI a que viaje el Presidente Fox.’ Statement from G. Borrego Estrada distributed via email 9 April 2002. ‘Sin futuro, proyecto de Fox para migrantes’, El Oaxaqueño, 17 August 2002.

3 Dominicans Abroad: Impacts and Responses in a Transnational Society David Howard

Migration has been the hallmark of Caribbean societies and remains so today. The inflow of peoples from the mainland during the first millennium, and subsequent invasion by European colonists since the late fifteenth century, accompanied by enslaved Africans and indentured labour, created societies that were clearly products of immigration. Movement of people, capital and culture between and beyond the islands has similarly dramatically shaped regional economic and social structures. Following emancipation and the evolution of free labour economies during the nineteenth century, migration within and between islands and the mainland became not only a significant economic and demographic factor, but a statement of individual and national progression: Migrating away for wages, although the earliest destinations were often other plantation islands, was an assertion of independence. It was not a complete escape from the larger plantation sphere, but neither did it represent a docile willingness to accept local conditions dictated by former plantation masters. (Richardson 1983: 6) The latter half of the nineteenth century witnessed a notable increase in labour circulation among Caribbean populations. Steamboat passages brought labour from the islands to mainland banana plantations or to the canal building efforts in Panama. The large sugar plantations of the Dominican Republic and Cuba attracted significant numbers of workers from within the Caribbean, and confirmed the importance of flexible and mobile labour markets for a region that had developed in an externally 57

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driven, dependent framework. By the middle of the twentieth century, with thousands heading for the United States and Europe, emigration was established as an economic necessity by governments and workers alike: ‘Leaving home in order to return with enhanced means had become an accepted turn in the life course – and perhaps even an expected life experience – for millions of Caribbean people’ (Martínez 1995: 31). This chapter focuses on the realities and expectations concerning migrants from the Dominican Republic.1 The scale of Dominican emigration to the United States has grown particularly during the last four decades as the country emerged from a dictatorship and has actively sought integration into regional economic organizations and trade agreements. Migrant remittances constitute the country’s largest source of externally derived income, accounting for at least 10 per cent of the annual Gross National Product since the 1970s. Proximity and the expanding web of transnational familial, social, political and economic ties facilitate an array of linkages that play an important part in everyday lives (Levitt 2001b). Most families in the Dominican Republic have some experience of emigration, either directly or via relatives. While disputing the commonly projected notion that the majority of Dominicans are in a constant state of airborne flux, commuting regularly between households and countries, the connections between Dominicans on the island and those Stateside clearly form a crucial backbone to Dominican society.2 These networks, however, fall outside the remit of current government policy, despite the enormous impact and economic dependence which emigration entails. Although the Dominican government has employed a supportive attitude towards emigration, its policies are largely laissez-faire. By contrast, Dominican initiatives and policies towards immigrant workers in the national economy are restrictive and interventionist. The following pages describe the impact of both emigration and immigration on Dominican politics, economy and society and address Dominican governments’ consistent contradictions between their laissez faire emigration policies and restrictive immigration policies.

The history of Dominican emigration to the United States Expanding mercantile links during the late nineteenth century incorporated Dominican commodities and trade more directly into the world economy, preparing the ground for the international migration of Dominican labour. While Dominican migrant communities have developed throughout the region and in parts of Europe, notably the Netherlands and Spain, the United States remains the dominant

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destination. The dictatorship of Leónidas Trujillo between 1930 and 1961 restricted emigration as a means to maintain maximum control over domestic labour, with fewer than 10,000 Dominicans going to the United States during the 1950s. Following his assassination, however, emigration restrictions were lifted and the number of Dominicans migrating overseas grew rapidly. Between 1960 and 1963, Dominican documented emigration to the United States increased from just over 5,000 to 66,919 (Georges 1990: 37). Emigration was, and continues to be, perceived by Dominican governments as a primary safety valve to relieve social and economic pressures, but one which is restricted by externally imposed entry quotas (Mitchell 1992). The demise of the dictatorship opened up political spaces during the early 1960s, but political unrest and the upheaval of a democratically elected government by a military junta led to civil war in 1965 and a subsequent invasion by the United States to restore a government sympathetic to Washington. Political violence and an accompanying ruthless secret police forced many opponents of the new government into exile. The United States consulate in Santo Domingo introduced a period of less stringent visa policies during the 1960s that further promoted the exodus of political radicals, thus reducing opposition for future conservative and United States-friendly governments, while also easing fears of ‘another Cuba’ appearing on the doorstep of the US political psyche. The number of legal visas issued in 1966 increased by 74 per cent to 16,503, compared with 9,503 during 1965 (Georges 1990: 39). Those who feared repression as a result of their opposition to the new United States-backed government paradoxically found themselves seeking exile within the Dominican community of New York. During this period the Dominican Revolutionary Party (PRD), populist opponents of the conservative government, set up an office in New York City, thus establishing a political and financial platform abroad. Although strategic decision-making remained on the island, parties increasingly looked for monetary support from the expanding New York community. The uneasy domestic political situation further promoted emigration to the United States after 1966 and 1978. Both years reflect political turning points, when a change of government provoked the emigration of political opponents. After the PRD finally gained power in 1978, many conservatives left the country fearing financial ruin. During that year, 19,458 Dominicans were admitted as residents to the United States. A deteriorating economy, the prospect of a more radical government and changing networks of patronage following three terms of the Christian Social Reform Party (PRSC) government, induced a 60 per cent increase in legal residency applications and approvals.


Between 1990 and 1998, 401,646 Dominicans were documented as entering the United States, almost double that of any other Caribbean state (Castro and Boswell 2002). In recent years it has become increasingly difficult for Dominicans to obtain any form of entry visa to visit relatives or reside in the United States. Numbers declined after 1996 when new laws raised the financial requirements to sponsor the immigration of relatives. An increase in the expulsion of non-documented migrants, usually those who have overstayed the limit of a temporary visa, has further contributed to a slight slowing of the demographic increase since the mid-1990s. Migration tallies today, however, reveal only a part of the Dominican demographic influence in the United States today. A growing proportion of the Dominican population in the United States, estimated at 43.6 per cent of Dominican residents, were born outside the Dominican Republic (Castro and Boswell 2002). With over a million Dominicans and Dominican Americans now resident off the island, the emphasis among the Dominican community abroad is increasingly one of settlement and longevity while Dominican society faces the need to reconfigure the practical requirements for a fragmented territorial nationhood. The following section considers the changing perception of and reaction to emigration within the Dominican Republic.

Perceptions of emigration in the sending society The dramatic and highly evident impact of contemporary international migration on Dominican society has frequently been described in terms of flexible and renewable transnational political, economic and social linkages, particularly with respect to the North American mainland (Georges 1990; Grasmuck and Pessar 1991; Pessar 1995; Guarnizo 1997; Itzigsohn et al. 1999; Levitt 2001b). Transnational migrants have generated new forms of consumption and investment within the Dominican economy through the flow of material commodities and hard currency, but also by influencing cultural transitions and popular opinion in the arts, music and media. Reaction among the non-migrant Dominican population has varied as the majority households in the country have become connected both financially and emotionally to the dominant impact of transnational linkages. Returning migrants have received various salutations and criticism since the beginning of large-scale emigration to the United States, through its peak during the 1990s, and now today as the island and mainland society adjust to new economic and political frameworks. Rural and urban perceptions of the returnees have

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often reflected stereotyped images of North American lifestyles and influences. Largely positive images of those Dominicans who migrated to the United States during the 1960s and early 1970s have become more mixed. Dominican governments have rarely openly eulogized the importance of international migration and communities overseas as invaluable components of national economic development, despite the obvious importance of inward capital flow. International migration provided an outlet for the movement of ‘excess’ population from a relatively frail national economy with high levels of formal unemployment and under-employment (Wiarda 1994). The labour situation on the island has been described in the context of a ‘middle-class bottleneck’ for which emigration became the means of releasing skilled workers who had limited possibilities of employment on home soil (Bray 1984). The perception of emigration as a demographic and economic pressure valve was therefore more an indirect result of government indifference to stemming the flow, rather than a clear lead of direct action or overt development policy. Nonetheless, earlier migrants were perceived in popular discourse as pioneers who had made the move to uproot temporarily and to pursue industrious lives overseas, saving and sending home a proportion of their income, before ultimately returning to the island. International migration, thus, represented the proven possibility of economic advance through the process of self-sacrifice, thrift and entrepreneurship. Concomitant with the eventual increased economic standing and improved opportunities for dependants came the assumed aspiration for, or expectation of, higher personal social status on return. Emigration to the United States, and less so to Europe, is a prominent theme in everyday life. Telephone calls, e-mails and remittances, combined with United States’ television and media awareness underpin the network of personal, business and political connections. While temporary visas or any form of permission to enter the United States are increasingly rare commodities, they are still perceived as popular and necessary travel accessories en route to personal or economic advancement. Patronising comments in the New York Times highlighted increased levels of Dominican emigration at the start of the 1970s and suggested that there were only three ways in which to escape poverty in the Dominican Republic: ‘winning the lottery, presidential patronage or a visa to travel to the United States’ (cited in Aponte 1999: 90). As the 1970s progressed, an increasingly hostile, or at least sceptical, reception awaited returning Dominican migrants whose image, having


often been slurred in the North American press, now faced a similar kind of humiliation on the island. The initial positive image of migrants waned, as the relatively rapid accumulation of wealth among a few migrants became associated directly with the growing drug trade in New York. The main Dominican neighbourhood of Washington Heights in upper Manhattan provided the vital ingredients of easy and open access via the Hudson and East River road bridges and a large pool of potential employees. Ostentatious displays of wealth by some visiting or returning migrants fuelled doubts on the island, supported by the evident involvement of a minority of Dominicans in the drug trade on the mainland. The Dominican community’s external image in the United States became increasingly intertwined with illegal activities and anti-civil behaviour, particularly during the 1980s and early 1990s in upper Manhattan. The head of the North Manhattan drug squad made an implicit correlation between the two: ‘It is unfair to assume that all Dominicans peddle drugs … although eighteen months in the drug trade will earn you enough to go back to the Republic.’3 Social problems in Dominican society, notably the rise in violent crime and guns during the 1990s, were blamed on influences brought to the island from the United States. In 1996, a change in United States migration law allowed the authorities to extradite Dominicans who had been involved in criminal activities up to ten years before. Repatriations that year numbered 2,541, of which 967 were for drug-related offences and 909 for undocumented passage, largely by boat from the Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico (Infotur-RD 1998: 28). There was a clear sense that deported criminals, ‘trained’ or forced into crime in the United States, were returning with suitable skills and contacts to continue their activities in the Dominican Republic. During the 1990s, the non-migrant Dominican elites were rivalled in economic status by a younger, similarly affluent but transnational generation of nuevos ricos. Popular rhetoric reproduced images of this emergent class as villains or ne’er-do-wells involved in illicit trading, generating inflation, promoting economic and social vices, and bringing problems back to the Dominican Republic which had not existed before. Terms such as dominicanyork and cadenú became disparaging phrases. The former refers to more recent migrants who have been ‘Americanized’, typically suggesting an upstart or someone who has lived so long in the United States that an essential Dominicanness or dominicanidad has evaporated. The latter term makes jest at the heavy gold jewellery often bought and worn by returning migrants. Additional

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studies reveal that earlier migrants separated themselves personally from the new wave of dominicanyorks during the 1980s and 1990s, who they deemed to be ill-educated Dominicans who emigrated to the United States and got drunk on that culture. They scraped around to make easy money and so spent it without any care. They live, dress and act to catch the attention of others. The dominicanyorks are discriminated against because of their scandalous behaviour and because they change quiet neighbourhoods for the worse. (Returning migrant, interviewed by Bueno 1995: 24) The negative image of affluent returnees, especially if their wealth is deemed to be flashy or pretentious by everyday standards, occasionally leads to difficulties when negotiating access to established business circles, associations or schools. Although social tensions are inevitable in many instances, it remains paradoxical that having helped to even out socio-economic or income inequalities among many Dominican households by transferring capital through remittances and savings since the 1960s, returned migrants now face a class-based or cultural rejection. There continues to be admiration for many lower-income migrants who have returned to the Dominican Republic after supporting their families and relatives throughout the duration of their transnational initiative, but the pejorative image of dominicanyorks still lingers (Guarnizo 1997). Non-migrant Dominicans interviewed by the author largely concurred with negative perceptions of the term, linking it with ‘bad news’, ‘drug peddlers’ and ‘crooks’. Many lamented the wealth inequalities that these more recent migrants highlighted, underpinned by an apparent rejection or loss of dominicanidad – they were allegedly neither Dominican nor North American. The illegal or undocumented nature of migrants’ movements between the United States, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic has contributed to the unfavourable image of dominicanyorks. To enter legally into the United States, a valid immigrant or temporary visitor’s visa is required. Since Puerto Rican nationals have United States citizenship, a well-known ploy among some Dominicans has been to attempt entry into the North America using false Puerto Rican papers. The dominance of demand over supply has made the visa a potent icon and valuable commodity, exemplified by the commonly heard phrase, ‘To have an American visa is to have a profession.’ A returned migrant in the study by Bueno commented on the importance of having residency status in


the United States, but lamented her misfortune at not ‘getting’ citizenship. A citizen has access to the benefits of welfare and pension programmes, and this provides a concrete basis for the establishment of a transnational household: We kept our residents’ visa, and I would have liked to get citizenship, but I didn’t qualify for it because during my time living there, I visited here more than I remained there. My children won’t forgive their dad for not getting residency for them. Both of them are mad to get away. For me citizenship is important – when you reach retirement age you can claim a pension. (Returning migrant, interviewed by Bueno 1995: 10) The significance of obtaining a visa to visit the United States remains as evident today as it was four decades ago during the infamous ‘Day of Grace’ on 22 November 1966 when Thanksgiving and the anniversary of President Kennedy’s assassination coincided on the same day (González 1970). Rumours emanating from a radio broadcast suggested that unlimited visas were to be issued to commemorate the day. Within the first few hours of an otherwise routine morning in Santo Domingo, over one thousand expectant Dominicans had gathered around the United States’ consulate. The queue for visa applications, swelling fivefold from normal numbers, was only slowly dispersed as reality and disappointment rifled the crowd’s hopes. While these false words had failed, myths surrounding the procurement of visas have traditionally placed heavy emphasis on networks and cultivating useful contacts. González (1970) reports that favouritism and the value of having an ‘inside’ recommendation accompanying a visa application to the consulate were important aspects to consider, although strict application procedures and the sheer pressure of numbers mean that such potential opportunities are irrelevant for the vast majority of applicants. Visas to visit or reside in the United States remain potent symbols for a better future, despite the increasing difficulty of securing legal entry. Ninety-eight per cent of all documented Dominican immigrant entries to the United States are permitted on the basis of family reunification (Martin et al. 2002). The exceedingly high improbability of being granted a visa outside these criteria has fuelled the rise of undocumented migration. Several popular films have highlighted the importance of emigration in Dominican society and brought its often precarious or dangerous nature to the attention of international audiences. El Pasaje de Ida (1991) was based on the true story of a dozen

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Dominican stowaways who hid in the ballast tanks of a Puerto Rican merchant ship, subsequently drowning when the tanks were flooded. Nueba Yol (1995), and its sequel by the same name (a colloquial Dominican pronunciation of ‘New York’), recounted the life of Balbueno, a Dominican migrant who struggled to find work, but eventually makes a successful return to the Dominican homeland. Trading heavily on stereotypes, the film nevertheless provides an engaging and highly popular portrayal of a migrant’s journey, focusing on the need to support non-migrant relatives and their expectations, the implicit stresses placed on Dominican household units, the pressures of gaining and maintaining employment as an undocumented worker, and the insecurities surrounding return. Agents, brokers and lawyers have all gained financially from the aspirations of potential migrants and their families. Formal and informal businesses in both countries have responded to the demand for legal visas or clandestine entry into the United States. In Santo Domingo, several legal consultancies now advise clients specifically on how to obtain residency in the United States. Brokers, or buscones, are paid to arrange illegal entries into the United States and false papers for aspirant migrants via Puerto Rico, making use of Puerto Ricans’ US citizenship to pass through mainland immigration control. The passage to Puerto Rico is usually by boat, or sometimes by light aircraft. Regular reports in the Dominican media tell of failed attempts, resulting in the deportation of migrants or occasionally death en route.

Policy responses: dual citizenship and migration law Despite the fundamental impact of emigration on Dominican society, few policies have explicitly addressed the nature and transition of its influence during recent decades. Instead, government legislation has focused almost entirely on the repression of immigration, primarily that of Haitian workers to the Dominican Republic. Forced expulsions of Haitian workers, people of Haitian descent and even Dominicans caught up in the military round-ups have been a regular occurrence since Haitian labour was first contracted to work on Dominican plantations in the early twentieth century (Plant 1987; International Human Rights Law Clinic 2002). Clear contradictions exist in governmental approaches to migration issues. Emigration occurs largely in a policy void, indirectly supported by the recognition of dual citizenship, while immigration, widely perceived as an economic and demographic threat, is the subject of much policy rhetoric and direct action.


Changes in the law concerning citizenship, which took twelve years to pass through the legislature, came into force in 1994 and allowed Dominicans to obtain citizenship of another country, without loss of their Dominican passport. The current and previous presidents of the Dominican Republic both have citizenship of the United States, and have suggested that all Dominicans resident in the United States should claim dual citizenship.4 Such statements, however, are infrequent and are more usually than not informal comments, rather than elements of a coherent policy framework. In contrast to the slow uptake among Dominican politicians to harness the overseas vote in a formal electoral procedure, politicians in the United States are more actively courting the vote of Dominican Americans by bringing their campaigns to the island. Recent candidates for the governorship of New York both paid visits to Santo Domingo to illustrate their solidarity with the Dominican and latino/a vote in their home constituencies.5 The importance of an increasing transnational electorate, intertwined the debate concerning dual citizenship and the introduction of an absentee voting system are perhaps the clearest issues which the Dominican government has been forced to confront in recent years. Despite political connections between Dominican parties and their support bases among communities in the United States, the links tend to be informal and ad hoc, concentrating in intensity during election periods in the Dominican Republic. In 1994, José Fernández, a resident of New York City was elected as a candidate for the Dominican Liberation Party (PLD) to the Dominican Congress. This is one of the most evident indications of the migrant community’s close involvement with politics on the island, beyond the plethora of political posters which garnish upper Manhattan sidewalks during Dominican elections, key money-raising programmes and parades and long-established political offices in New York. In this respect, the initiatives for political linkage are often derived within the overseas communities, rather than from activists on the island. Despite these political implications, it remains evident that such activities are largely developed on a local or individual basis outside government initiatives. Levitt (2001b) completes a detailed and insightful account of the interconnections between the city of Boston and the Dominican village of Miraflores by emphasizing the impact of local and migrant actors. The Miraflores Development Corporation, for example, raised funds for the provision of facilities such as a park and health clinic, but without support or involvement at the governmental level.

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In 2002, of the 4.6 million Dominicans eligible to vote in the island’s elections, almost one million lived overseas. Dominican politicians frequently make campaign visits to various parts of the United States, but the system of overseas voting is at present in stasis, despite stated intentions to introduce an absentee ballot by 2004. Constitutionally all Dominicans have the right to vote, wherever they live, even if they have never been to the Dominican Republic but have attained Dominican citizenship via their parents. There are increasing tensions between political parties who want to open up this overseas vote and the Central Electoral Board (JCE) who have spent five years delaying the introduction of overseas voting mechanisms. While the majority of political parties are largely in favour of absentee voting, there remains a strong fear that this vote would create an imbalance of power in the long term, allowing nonresident Dominicans to eventually elect the island’s government from afar. A similar concern has stalled attempts to facilitate the citizenship claims of Haitians and their offspring resident in the Dominican Republic. The Haitian occupation of what is now Dominican territory between 1822 and 1844 underpins a politically and popularly expressed anxiety that an increasing Haitian-origin population may reproduce this invasion today by ‘stealth’. The prospect of a fully enfranchised Haitianorigin population in the Dominican Republic is openly perceived by many as a severe threat to Dominican sovereignty. The context of current debates about immigration can therefore not be considered without reference to the Dominican government’s consistent stance towards Haitians and people of Haitian descent living in the country. Both Haiti and the Dominican Republic share the island of Hispaniola, although five centuries of feuding and uneven economic development have often shrouded relations at state and individual level with a cloak of enmity. Social discrimination on the basis of alleged racial and cultural incompatibilities have long marked Haitian– Dominican antagonisms. Overt racism comes to the fore especially when employment and immigration are entwined. Particular cases are evident in the sugar and construction industries where Haitian-origin labour forms the majority of the workforce, but seldom has the opportunity to reach senior managerial levels. Changes in the Migration Law (95-39) have been an ongoing source of deliberation, following a proposal first put forward in 1995 to alter the basis of Dominican nationality from jus soli (birth in the country) to jus sanguini (birth to a Dominican national). The reform aims to control the ability of children born to Haitian parents to claim Dominican citizenship, and thus to gain legal residence. The constitution previously


held that all infants born in the Dominican Republic could legitimately claim Dominican citizenship, with the exception of children born to foreigners on diplomatic service or those in transit. Of principal importance was the ability of the child to claim Dominican citizenship, regardless of the nationality of the parents. The change to the law meant that those children born on Dominican territory to foreign parents could no longer claim Dominican citizenship. The new proposal essentially widened the scope of those parents classified as ‘in transit’ and removed the birthright of children whose parents were Haitian or Haitian–Dominican. The changes to the migration law make unrealistic expectations of document provision, which include passports, health and penal certificates. Few Haitian or Dominican families of Haitian descent either have access to the bulk of necessary formal papers or the power to enforce civil and labour protection. In the case of registering contract labour, the law requires documents to be sent by the hiring company thirty days before the entry of a worker. It also demands the fulfilment of the Dominican Labour Code for all migrant workers, which includes access to social security, fair working hours and equitable conditions of payment, yet requires no individual contracts, offers no supervisory or enforcement mechanisms and details no penalties for failure to comply. The law clearly fails to protect those undocumented labourers of Haitian origin, many of whom were born in the Dominican Republic, speak Spanish and have little contact with Haiti. An international court case in 2001 brought to attention the inherent contradiction between the government’s lack of policies towards the emigration of its own citizens and the bureaucratic and often physically violent measures to restrict Haitian settlement in the Dominican Republic. The Inter-American Human Rights Court made a landmark decision against the systematic deportation of migrants and their families, criticizing the Dominican government for the de facto state policy of racism and xenophobia.

Impacts of emigration: households and remittances While emigration from the Dominican Republic has operated very much in a policy void, its economic and social impacts are evident within Dominican society. Remittances sent by migrants back to the Dominican Republic are crucial to the Dominican economy as a major source of foreign exchange and an aid to the balance of payments. Estimates placed the value of these remittances at between US$230 and US$280 million per year during the 1980s, and a greater source of export

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earnings than the once dominant sugar industry (Georges 1990). Residents of the Dominican community studied by Levitt (2001b) have been receiving financial assistance from relatives overseas since the 1950s. Today, 60 per cent of these households in Miraflores gain remitted funds from the United States. A similar study a decade earlier indicated that one-third of the selected community’s income was generated by remittances (Georges 1990). Most of the money went towards household consumption rather than investment, and remittances were often sent on a regular basis as a dependable source of household income. González (1970), again signifying the importance of citizenship, indicates that after a migrant’s death the dependants may receive benefits from the United States’ social security system if the migrant had obtained citizenship. Only income generated by tourism now challenges the importance of migrants’ money in the Dominican Republic. By 1989, remittances at the national level equalled the sum of the three traditional exports from the Dominican Republic, sugar, coffee and tobacco. The significance of this capital inflow continued to increase during the 1990s as the Dominican economy deteriorated. Throughout the last decade, money sent from abroad has been the largest source of hard currency, amounting to an estimated US$795 million per year (World Bank 1997). Remittance cheques may be cashed informally, and thus avoid the formalized investment routes of the bank system. As a result, the precise source and size of remitted capital is difficult to ascertain on a national basis. The International Labour Organization advises that although remittances selectively aid some families in the sending society, the net positive effects are debatable. A returned migrant solemnly suggested that the majority of families in the Dominican Republic depend on work in the United States, outlining the growing reliance of households on external sources of finance: ‘The Dominican Republic has always been dependent on other countries – the second city is not Santiago at all, but New York. Everything comes from there.’6 Grasmuck’s (1984) study of three sending communities in the Dominican Republic suggested that remittances provided only temporary relief for individual households. The negative effects included a growing dependency on these payments and the undermining of the productive base of communities. Inequality among household incomes has increased when those outside the remittance loop are considered, and highly unequal land tenure patterns have worsened in rural areas as more affluent households are able to consolidate and expand. Middle to large landholders, it is argued, are most likely to receive remittances,


enabling them to cut back on low-return investments in farming. The demand for occasional or seasonal labour, important for many lowincome households, is then reduced, further raising the significance of access to external funding. An alternative view is stated by Georges (1990), who argues that emigration has had little effect on the class structure in Dominican society, particularly in the rural area she studied. Remittances have maintained, rather than created, the middle class, since most migrants in her sample originated from privileged households. Emigration, thus, represents a ‘holding strategy’ for the middle strata and reinforces communities rather than promoting their breakdown. The movement of people, information and ultimately capital has undoubtedly allowed many middle-class families to maintain their status, but such a position would seem to be relatively transitory given the expansive social and economic dynamics inherent in transnational change. An irrefutable outcome of a remittance-based local economy is the growing wealth disparity between those with external funds and those without. Household structures and the ability access to external income sources are fundamentally altered by the ubiquitous impact of international migration over time. Households and extended family relations are continually restructured to incorporate the changing transnational employment and caring structures. Transnational migration has led to the formation of a special type of household, involving the spatial dispersion of the domestic unit across two or more countries and the creation of multinuclear families. Pessar (1985) argues that the social mobility of a migrant is usually achieved at the level of the household rather than the individual. Patriarchal norms are invariably challenged with the changing structure of migrant households. Household structure is therefore an important factor when assessing the effect of transnationalism on gender relations, and one of the key aspects when assessing the social impact of international migration. Women who have migrated still suffer from discrimination when compared to their male counterparts in terms of occupational and economic attainment. They still tend to assume responsibility for childcare and domestic tasks, acting out support roles essential for migration. Bueno (1995) emphasizes the sacrifices that women make for the family, working in productive and reproductive spheres to make re-migration possible. They are, however, more likely to work beyond the domestic sphere which provides the basis for a relatively more independent lifestyle (Guarnizo 1997). In migrant or transnational households, relations of patriarchy may, thus, be less restrictive, since more women work outside the household, earn separate wages and share experiences other

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than the normalized gender roles in Dominican society. Conversely, the return to the Dominican Republic for many women has meant regression to a more repressive patriarchal system. Pessar’s (1985) study showed that many Dominican women in the United States were reluctant to come back to the island. They valued the freedom to work independently and feared that return to the island would limit work opportunities. Transnational household restructuring has helped to challenge traditional domestic codes, though it has been viewed as a significant factor of reduced family solidarity – one of the most reliable sources of social capital. Stress may fracture familial bonds when expectations are placed on migrants to provide remittances for extended families, or when relatives are forced to care for non-migratory or returning family members.

Impacts of emigration: changing identities Beyond the restructuring of household and personal relationships, international migration has changed the range of migrant and nonmigrant identities. Of particular note has been the social context shaping racialized and national identities. Dominicans confront a sharper racialized segregation in the United States. Given the strong negation of African Caribbean or black identities in Dominican society, migrants who would not consider themselves as negro/a or mulato/a find themselves being considered as black Hispanics or African Americans. Racialized antagonism with Haiti has underpinned the denial of African ancestry throughout Dominican society. Dominican nationalism remains tied to territorial and racialized expressions of belonging which promoted a European bias in popular discourse, in direct contrast to the African ancestry of the Haitian nation. While over time Dominicans living in the United States ‘invariably overcome the legacy of denial regarding the African part of their heritage’ (Torres-Saillant and Hernández 1998: 145), the dynamics of transnationalism seem to have impinged little on the wider re-evaluation of racialized identities, both on the island and within the United States. Thousands of Dominicans migrated to the United States during the 1960s when issues of race and racism were at the forefront of the civil rights movement and widespread pressures existed for social change. Several scholars predicted that on encountering these tensions, a reworking of racialized concepts could ensue among Dominicans. Moya Pons (1981) contended that the ‘discovery of Dominican negritude’ might occur along two avenues. Firstly, Dominicans were meeting other


groups with similar concerns and interests within the civil rights movement. Secondly, professional and intellectual groups were allying the economic plight of many Dominican workers in the United States with the discrimination experienced by African Americans. Jiménez further predicted that more enlightened attitudes might be disseminated on the island as a result of the liberalizing influence of these intellectual and personal encounters among Dominican writers and the intelligentsia.7 Despite the dense network of social and cultural linkages and evident experiences of discrimination, many Dominican migrants retain a pejorative view of African ancestry. Dominican migrants who were interviewed in a study by Bueno (1995) tended to adopt racist stereotypes of other groups, despite their own negative experiences of racism. Of those returned migrants interviewed by the author, several migrants expressed highly racist sentiments, despite, or perhaps because of, several years of living in New York. Old antagonisms with Haiti were quick to surface. One woman vehemently protested against Haitian immigration to the Dominican Republic, despite spending several years herself as a migrant worker in the United States: ‘Each to their own place. I’m not giving away my nationality to anyone.’8 Although ready to acquire United States’ residency or citizenship, interviewees aggressively defended Dominican sovereignty, most vigorously in the context of Haitian migration to the Dominican Republic. Over a third of the returned migrants who were interviewed by the author believed that Haitians should not be allowed any form of residency in the Dominican Republic. Governmental policy contradictions over migratory flows are clearly mirrored by the migrants themselves. Among migrants who were interviewed by the author, the ability to claim dual citizenship further rattled the ambiguous relationship which they expressed with respect to Dominican–United States relations. Strident expressions of nationalism and civil responsibilities rested uneasily with personal concerns for self-advancement. The Dominican national flag was commonly used as an inanimate but provocative metaphor during conversations. One interviewee vociferously suggested: ‘The United States is the only hope for our country. We’re only missing the flag here!’9 Her friends expressed a strong conviction that the Dominican Republic should become a dependency of the United States like Puerto Rico, further enflaming a passionate discussion which traded national sovereignty for economic gain in the United States. All respondents, however, placed much pride in being Dominican. Only one interviewee, with thirteen aunts already working in the United States, had no hesitation about migrating or rejecting his citizenship by

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birth. He would burn the flag and never return to Santo Domingo if he had the chance: ‘Here, there’s no future for anyone.’ An older woman during a subsequent interview added sanguinely: ‘We’ve lost much of our dominicanidad. We’ve lost our Dominican identity. No Dominican nowadays wants to be part of this country.’10 The paradoxical standpoint which Dominican interviewees took concerning nationalism, sovereignty and migration underpinned the involuntary aspect of many migrants’ decisions. In order to survive a worsening economic situation in the Dominican Republic, economic logic consistently challenges emotional ties. The wealth of the United States is the primary factor when interviewees described the regional context: ‘It’s the biggest power (potencia) that there is – with the most money in the world.’11 Individual lives and household structures are constantly reshaped by the necessities of emigration and settlement in the United States, but the upheaval is largely expressed with resentment. The economic power of the North American market, even during signs of recession, leads to an ambiguous perception of Dominican identity for some interviewees. Years of emigration, necessitated by a failing Dominican economy, have weakened a sense of national pride in which economic realism overpowers cultural resilience. The Dominican government stands muted in the context of overwhelming economic and, by default, political servitude. The roots of economic dependency were planted at the beginning of the twentieth century when the United States government assumed formal control over the country’s finances in 1907, occupying the country from 1916 to 1924. Military occupation firmly oriented the island to the North American market. By the 1920s, 95 per cent of the sugar production was exported to the United States and twelve United States-owned companies controlled three-quarters of the sugar-producing land (Castor 1983). Since then, over a half of all Dominican imports have come from the United States.

Conclusion Compared with states such as Mexico, the governments of the Dominican Republic have made only marginal attempts to direct policy or to harness strategically the economic and political power of their overseas citizens. The introduction of dual citizenship in the mid-1990s was an important step onto the transnational policy stage, but the principal policy concerns surrounding migration have focused on immigration, in particular, the restriction of rights for Haitian labourers and their offspring.


For much of the twentieth century government policy was largely inward-looking. Not until the mid-1990s, under the presidency of Leonel Fernández (1996–2000) did the Dominican Republic effectively seek a wider role in regional economic and political organizations. Fernández himself grew up as a Dominican American, and his experiences of living and studying in the United States undoubtedly influenced the style and contents of his politics. Before gaining the presidency he looked to the positive aspects of international migration and transnational connections: ‘If I win the presidency, I will turn the Dominican Republic into a little New York.’12 The cosmopolitan outlook, focusing on outward-looking economic policies and political orientation, was not reflected in practical policies concerning emigration and Dominican communities overseas. Despite an election campaign which highlighted his own transnational roots, showing him shooting baskets in Chicago Bulls colours, he remained remarkably quiet with respect to Dominican migration to the United States (Atkins and Wilson 1998: 231). In a collection of key speeches, ostensibly addressing modernization and globalization, the former president failed to mention the Dominican community in the United States (Fernández 2000). Similarly, the current president, Hipólito Mejía, has made few statements concerning the 10 per cent of the Dominican population who are resident in North America. There appears to be an almost conscious effort to downplay the significance of Dominicans living overseas, despite courting their political favour and finances. The reluctance to formulate policies which recognize the country’s economic dependence on emigration has been maintained by Hipólito Mejía. Only the tragic crash of American Airlines flight 587 in November 2001, en route from New York to Santo Domingo, has been a momentary stimulus for the government to acknowledge the importance of emigration for the country. The overwhelming reliance of the Dominican economy on the United States’ market, most markedly as a source of employment for an emigrating workforce, pegs Dominican emigration firmly to United States’ immigration policy. This particular form of economic, political and demographic dependency has been welded to the Dominican context since the United States first laid claim to internal tax issues at the start of the twentieth century. This fiscal interest was followed up by an eight-year occupation in 1916, during which the political and economic roots for North American-led development were cultivated. Unable to control or direct emigration, contemporary Dominican government energies have pursued vigorous attempts to close off the country to immigration by restricting the settlement of Haitian workers,

David Howard 75

despite the economic demand for their presence. Media and political discourse recognize ‘foreign labour’ as Haitian, a problem for Dominican sovereignty. While reliant on remittances from Dominicans abroad, national governments have strengthened the Labour Code to limit the influence of migrants in the Dominican economy. No more than 20 per cent of the labour force in any industrial sector is permitted to be ‘foreign’, although at the time of announcing the new law, the Secretary of Public Works acknowledged that at least 60 per cent of the construction labour force was Haitian and deemed to be indispensable for the state’s building programme.13 The contradictions in Dominican society evident in personal and state responses to issues of migration look set to remain. Individual and household remittances dominate the capital inflow. Transnational initiatives funded by private investments, tied between sending communities in the Dominican Republic and specific individuals or neighbourhoods in the United States will also continue as selective forms of investment. In sum, enduring transnational ties between households and individuals have not been replicated or acted upon by Dominican governments whose policies confront the fear of a perceived demographic threat from immigration, rather than enhance the economic possibilities for migration-led development.

Notes 1 Interviews by the author with returned migrants in the Dominican Republic between 1994 and 1996, and with Dominicans living in New York City between 1999 and 2000 form the basis for much of the following discussion. For further details, please refer to Howard (2001). 2 The news media in New York, for example, have often portrayed the city’s Dominican population as a constantly mobile, entrepreneurial, and to some extent ‘unsettled’ community. Many of the reports have been ill received by Dominicans due to their negative stereotyping and sensationalism. See D. González, ‘Unmasking the roots of Washington Heights violence’, New York Times Metro B, 17 October 1993; M. Junco, ‘For Dominican immigrants the American dream lives on’, Daily News, 9 January 1997; L. Rohter and C. Klauss, ‘Dominicans allow drugs easy soil’, New York Times, 10 May 1998; L. Rohter and C. Klauss, ‘Dominican drug traffickers tighten grip on the North-East’, New York Times, 11 May 1998; D. Sontag and C. W. Dugger, ‘The new immigrant: a shuttle between worlds’, New York Times, 19 July 1998. 3 New York Times, 16 September 1991. 4 Hoy, 6 December 2001. 5 New York Times, 20 February 2002. 6 Interviewed by the author in Santo Domingo, 29 July 1995. 7 Interviewed by the author in Santo Domingo, 24 September 1995.

76 Dominicans Abroad 8 9 10 11 12 13

Interviewed by the author in Santo Domingo, 18 August 1995. Interviewed by the author in Santo Domingo, 2 August 1995. Interviewed by the author in Santo Domingo, 17 July 1994. Interviewed by the author in Santo Domingo, 9 June 1994. El Siglo, 9 August 1997. Pérez, M. M. Fernández, ‘Hay que acogerse al Código de Trabajo para la contratación de mano de obra’, Listín Diario, 11 June 1999.

4 Turkey and the ‘Euro Turks’: Overseas Nationals as an Ambiguous Asset1 Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

The export of Turkish labour in the 1960s and early 1970s was in many ways a disappointment for Turkey. Although remittances clearly benefited the individual migrant families, they did not set off the intended economic local or, indeed, national development (Martin 1991; Abadan-Unat 1995). And the guest worker experience certainly did not facilitate important foreign policy priorities such as Turkey’s quest for full membership of the EU (Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b). However, both the recent Turkish governments and the state are seeing the benefits of having an overseas community in the West. There is an increasing awareness among Turkish policy-makers that Turkish citizens who left for work in Western Europe are not going to return. From being referred to as ‘our workers abroad’, they are now increasingly called ‘our citizens abroad’.2 This awareness is reflected in more than just a change of semantics. The debates, policies, and administrative efforts towards the citizens abroad have changed from offers of temporary assistance and return programmes to support for their integration and social mobility abroad. Yet, Turkey wants its citizens abroad not to assimilate into their receiving countries, but to settle as Turks. Accordingly a range of measures has been employed in order to strengthen the economic, political and cultural ties between the Turkish citizens abroad and the homeland. Among the reasons for this is not only that a settled Turkish community in Europe constitutes an important economic resource-base, but also that it could play a role in Turkish bilateral and multilateral relations with EU member states. However, at the same time, Turkish political authorities are also concerned with groups of Turks and, in particular, Kurds, who support 77

78 Turkey and the ‘Euro Turks’

opposition within Turkey from abroad and lobby receiving country political actors with their version of domestic political conflicts in Turkey. Besides the pro-active attempts to strengthen the relationship with citizens abroad, the Turkish political authorities have taken several steps to curb such dissidence. They have put pressure on the political authorities in the receiving countries to ignore or ban such movements and organizations, and they have used their diplomatic missions and the secret service to control the dissident movements directly, sometimes bringing themselves in conflict with authorities in EU memberstates. The following pages explore Turkey’s changing although continuously ambiguous perceptions of overseas Turks and Kurds, and the way emigrants and asylum-seekers figure in Turkey’s domestic and foreign policy considerations.

Emigration from Turkey Currently an estimated 3.6 million Turkish citizens, that is, 6 per cent of the total Turkish citizenry, live outside the borders of Turkey, with just over 3 million living in Western European countries (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) 2001: 252).3 Contrary to other classic examples of mass migration from one country to another, there are no colonial ties between Turkey and EU countries, as in the case of France and the Mahgreb countries, nor are the these countries geographically close, as is the case with Mexico and the US. Instead the Turkish citizens and former Turkish citizens in EU member states originate in post-war labour recruitment, followed by family reunification, inflows of asylum-seekers and clandestine migration. In the 1950s and in particular the 1960s there was a match in expectations between labour market policies in Western Europe, in particular Germany, and Turkey. Germany needed foreign labour and Turkish leaders saw emigration as a way to solve unemployment. Close to 800,000 Turkish workers participated in the labour exchange agreements signed between these countries from 1961 to 1973 (Martin 1991; Irbec 1993: 1).4 Of these, one-quarter were women and almost 30 per cent were skilled workers (Martin 1991: 25), although the fact that so many skilled workers left was outside the plan of using labour export to educate low-skilled workers. The end of this labour exchange was imposed by the receiving countries in 1973. Turkey had not anticipated this. The 1973–7 five-year plan anticipated the export of 350,000 workers, but only 190,000 were officially recruited because of the European-wide halt to labour import (ibid: 17).


After the halt of labour recruitment, an unexpectedly large proportion of the guest workers did not, despite the intentions of most, return to Turkey (Zentrum für Türkeistudien (ZfT) 1997: 8–9). Instead workers chose to bring their families to Western Europe thereby completely changing the socio-demographic profile of Turkish citizens abroad. This practice of family reunification has continued as Turkish citizens (or former citizens) continue to recruit spouses in their regions of origin. Just over half of the 75,000 emigrants who left for the main Western European destinations in 2000 were family reunifications (OECD 2001: 251). In Denmark, a recent survey found that 80 per cent of women and 90 per cent of men from Turkey residing in Denmark for more than 10 years have married someone from Turkey (Pittelkow 2002). Besides family reunification Turkish citizens continue to emigrate in two main ways: as asylum-seekers and through clandestine migration. Between 1992 and 2001 Turkey was one of the top three source countries of origin for asylum-seekers arriving in EU member-states with a total of 283,278 first-time applications.5 Asylum-seekers have fled in connection with the 1980 military coup in Turkey, and, in particular since the late 1980s, in connection with the Kurdish conflict in southeast Turkey. It is, however, not the case that Kurdish migration is solely politically motivated while Turkish migration is solely economically driven. Many Kurds (estimated to constitute between one-quarter and one-third of everyone originating in Turkey living in EU member states) arrived as guest workers, while a number of Turks arrived as asylum-seekers. Receiving country governments, and Turkey, also argue that the increase in asylum-seekers from Turkey is related to the fact that this is one of the few ways of entering Western European countries. A second mode of migration is clandestine migration, whereby Turkish citizens either arrive illegally or become illegal immigrants by overstaying their tourist or student visas. This is by no means a new phenomenon. It is estimated that at least 20 per cent of the Turkish workers in EU member-states were illegal workers at the time of the labour exchange agreements (Martin 1991: 29). Turkey has also become an important transit country for migrants, many of whom are trafficked from countries further east. So although Turkey is no longer a sending country it is certainly a country of origin of continued emigration to Western Europe. As opposed to actively promoting migration through bilateral agreements between Turkey and EU member-states, migration from Turkey has become a highly politicized issue, both in bilateral relations between Turkey and European states and between Turkey and the EU institutions.


Migration, or rather Western European fears of massive potential migration, were among the key issues stalling the implementation of the third stage of the Ankara Association Agreement signed by Turkey and the EEC in 1963. Similarly, it played into the lack of German support for Turkey’s EU-candidacy at the Luxembourg Summit in 1997. In addition, the inflow of asylum-seekers contributes to EU’s interest in political and economic stability in Turkey and its continuous pressure on the Turkish government for further reforms. Yet at the same time the presence of a large community of Turks and Kurds (from Turkey) in Europe, the so-called ‘Euro Turks’, link Turkey with the receiving countries and provides an argument for further integration between these countries (Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b). Turkish leaders are therefore interested in the social capital upgrading of its overseas citizens so that they can represent Turkey in the best way possible. The process of settlement of Turks has, however, taken on its own dynamics over the last three decades. The term ‘Turkish migrant’ initially brought to mind the image of a factory worker catapulted from an Anatolian village to a big European city on a temporary basis. This was not just the perception within the receiving countries. The political elite in Turkey has long regarded the ‘Turkish worker’ as representing the more traditional rural Turkey rather than the more modern urban Turkey. Indeed, the Turkish guest workers have been patronized with a term such as ‘Almanc¹’, literally meaning ‘doing German’, which refers to the new rich cousins who come home to display their wealth during the holidays. Even returned migrants themselves do not see migration as an end in and of itself. In Martin’s (1991) survey among return migrants most returned migrants informed him that they were glad that their remittances and savings put them in a situation whereby their children could get education and skilled work in Turkey and would not have to work as manual labourers in an EU country. In the same survey, however, key informants estimated that 20–40 per cent of the 20–35-year-old workers in their area would migrate if they could (Martin 1991: iix–ix). Today the Turkish emigrants and their descendants have become a very heterogeneous group in terms of socio-economic status as well as ethnic, religious and political orientation. EU member-state social statistics paint a picture of slow general improvement in levels of education and employment, particularly with regard to Turkish youth. General aggregates are, however, somewhat deceptive compared to the very differentiated development among Turkish migrants. Alongside the fast-growing business community there are staggering high youth unemployment rates which in several countries are not only more than


double the national average, but also supersede those of other labour migrant descendants (ZfT 2001: 395). Alongside the increase in Turkish youth in higher education are the still high numbers of young people leaving school with no qualifications. Importantly, in the last three decades ‘Turkish migrants’ have become a more visibly heterogeneous collection of ethnic (Kurdish, Laz, Zaza, etc.), and religious (Sunni, Alevi) sub-groups. Indeed, a host of ethnic and religious, not to mention party political, associations and their European-wide federations, engage in a multi-level agenda with Turkish authorities on three inseparable issues: (a) homeland political opposition or support for Turkey’s domestic and foreign policy; (b) immigrant political claims for further rights in the countries where they reside; and (c) emigrant political demands for further influence in Turkish politics such as absentee voting rights (see Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b: 46–69). Turks and Kurds can easily keep in touch with Turkey from wherever they are. During the last two decades an extensive market for electronic communication has come about. The Turkish media is readily available in every major European city, and finally most major European cities have direct flights not only to Ankara or Istanbul but to other provinces of Turkey as well. The yearly number of planes taking off for a Turkish airport from Germany is close to 30,000 (that is approximately 80 planes a day), and the number of persons travelling to Turkey by plane every year rose from less than half a million in 1980 to 4.3 million in 2000 (German Federal Department of Statistics 1980; 1997; 2001).

Changing policies towards emigrants Turkey’s post-Second World War strategy of labour export was accompanied by political and administrative measures to accommodate the citizens working abroad and facilitate their return. Indeed, the basic principles for emigration policy are laid down in the Turkish constitution of 1982 (amended in 1995), which states: The state shall take the necessary measures to ensure family unity, the education of the children, the cultural needs, and the social security of Turkish nationals working abroad, and shall take the necessary measures to safeguard their ties with the motherland, and to help them on their return home. (Turkish Constitution §62) With reference to this, a long range of administrative measures was adopted, including the quite elaborate social security arrangements for citizens abroad via bilateral or multilateral agreements with the receiving


countries. Additionally, in particular from the 1980s, minor armies of Imams and Turkish teachers were sent out from the Directorate of Religious Affairs and the Ministry of Education, respectively. The Imams, paid by the Turkish state to serve around 775 mosques in Germany alone, are meant to accommodate the religious needs of the emigrants in general and to represent the Turkish version of secularism in particular.6 More than 470 teachers transmit the Turkish language and the Turkish version of Turkish history, state and society to Turkish children in Germany alone.7 Last, but not least, there has been a continuous introduction of measures to channel remittances back into the Turkish economy, such as investment schemes and favourable exchange and interest rates for depositing remittances in Turkish banks (see Abadan-Unat 1995). Migrant remittances constitute an important source of foreign income for Turkey, which suffers from economic instability and high inflation rates. In 1964, Turkish citizens abroad sent home a total of US$45 million. This rose to US$1.2 billion in 1973, equalling 90 per cent of the commodity exports and approximately 60 per cent of the commodity imports of Turkey in the same year. Throughout the 1990s, Turkish remittances rose steadily from US$3.2 to US$4.5 billion, making Turkey the third largest receiver of remittances in the world – with Germany as the third largest payer (IMF 2001). Added to this, money is invested, collected or transferred to Turkey for more specific purposes, such as to aid the victims of the August 1999 earthquake, to participate in Islamic banking, or to support political and ethnic movements or village associations in the home region. Thus, not surprisingly both state-run and private economic agencies in Turkey woo the Turkish citizens abroad for their spare funds. Here they are in competition with commercial banks and companies in the West. During the 1970s, the Turkish government did try to channel remittances into employment-generating activities through encouraging migrants to open foreign currency savings accounts with public banks. Moreover two development programmes, the Village Development Co-operatives and the Turkish Workers Companies, were launched. The former was meant to promote rural development but ended up being a ‘migration fee’ because membership of the Co-operatives put migrants ahead in the queues for labour at the recruitment agencies. The Turkish Workers Companies mainly opened only to fail, need rehabilitation by a Turkish bank or, if successful, abandon the migrant shareholders. Martin (1991) argues that the Turkish bureaucracy and in particular the fast declining value of the Turkish lira proved major obstacles for those


returned migrants who wished to turn their hard-earned savings into employment-generating businesses (Martin 1991: 36). These policies and activities reflected the notion of Turks abroad as temporary guest workers, whose income was, and continues to be, a valued part of the Turkish national economy. Indeed, there is a widespread perception among Turkish emigrants that for many years the Turkish authorities have merely regarded them as a ‘döviz makinesi’ (remittance machine), and have not cared about their struggle for equal rights and against discrimination in their new countries of residence. However, since the late 1980s and 1990s, Turkish authorities and policy-makers have become aware that their citizens are not going to return. Military service, traditionally one of the key obligations for citizens, has been changed for Turkish citizens resident abroad. The duration of military service has been reduced and can be further reduced in exchange for a monetary fee (see also Freeman and Ögelman 1998: 783). Yet the most important piece of legislation reflecting this awareness is the introduction of dual citizenship in 1995, as well as a range of economic and legal rights for those former citizens who have had to give up their Turkish citizenship because dual citizenship is not allowed by the receiving country. Those who have given up their Turkish citizenship with the permission of Turkish authorities can live and work in Turkey without further permission (law 4112). They can obtain a so-called ‘Pink Card’, a type of identification card introduced in 1995 which also allows for certain rights to import without duty, facilitates recognition of marriages abroad and exemption of military service. This type of quasi-dual citizenship has been questioned by in particular the Republican People’s Party (CHP) who advocates putting pressure on the receiving countries’ governments to introduce dual citizenship instead.8 This situation notwithstanding, Turkish overseas diplomatic representation in the receiving countries have clearly changed their attitude to the de-nationalization of Turkish citizens over the last two decades. Cem Özdemir, the first ‘guest worker child’ to enter the German Bundestag, describes how, when he wanted to give up his Turkish citizenship in order to obtain a German one, the Turkish consulate staff demanded that he bring his father who was then told off for not bringing his child up properly (Özdemir 1997). By contrast, consulate staff throughout EU member-states are now encouraging migrants, not least those embarking on a political career, to obtain the citizenship of their country of settlement. As commented by a representative of the


municipal council in Copenhagen: Previously it was difficult to get rid of your Turkish citizenship. But today it is different. When you talk to practically any embassy staff member today he’ll say: ‘Are you a Danish citizen?’ And if you are not, he’ll say: ‘But why are you not a Danish citizen? You can easily keep your Turkish citizenship and then you’ll have more rights and all that.’9 In tandem with these changes, parliamentary and media debates have increasingly emphasized that Turkish authorities should begin actively working to understand and solve the problems of Turks abroad. For instance, in 1995, a special commission was set up in order to assess critically the situation of citizens abroad. The report, like the debates preceding and following it, places great emphasis on the economic and social situation of Turkish citizens abroad. This concern centres around two aspects. First, Turkish citizens in Western Europe, particularly in Germany, are being treated as second-class citizens, and are the targets of general discrimination and frequent outbursts of racist attacks. This concern was linked up with calls for improving the socio-economic and legal plight of Turkish citizens abroad and has resulted in a long series of recommendations by working groups and individual parliamentarians, including that unemployment among Turks abroad be eliminated, discrimination put to an end, and local voting rights granted in countries such as Germany where non-EU citizens are not allowed to participate in local elections. Such recommendations are, however, mainly gestures, as the most the Turkish government can do is to put pressure on the receiving country governments to solve these issues. Second, Turkish leaders are concerned that the ‘ties with the homeland’ are becoming weaker, and citizens abroad are ‘losing their Turkish culture’; particularly the third generation is found to be ‘wavering between cultures’ and ‘being in an identity struggle’.10 And here the Turkish government feels that it does have some scope for action. Proposals put forward in order to ensure that Turks abroad do not lose their sense of Turkish culture and national heritage include making it easier for Turkish artists to exhibit abroad, that the Turkish state TV (TRT-INT)’s broadcasting schedule should be adjusted to the customs and usage of the citizens living abroad, and that more teachers and religious officials should be sent to the receiving countries. It has been further suggested that the Turkish government should ensure the ‘economic and moral support’ of the organizations and cultural


centres of Turks abroad and strengthen their resources in terms of Turkish culture.11 However, policy recommendation is one thing, and the implementation into new policies is another. In order to ensure the implementation of and follow up on all these recommendations, the inadequacy of the current structure for implementing policies towards citizens abroad has been scrutinized. Previously, the Turkish diplomatic representation was the main point of contact between citizens abroad and the Turkish authorities. Yet there has been an uneasy feeling among Turkish leaders about the costly and large diplomatic representation in general and the relationship between the diplomatic representatives and the Turkish citizens living abroad in particular. The report of a commission set up under Turkish national assembly deputy Kamuran Inan in 1996 concluded that there is a ‘distance’ between the consulates and the Turkish citizens.12 In order to better this situation, there have been many attempts to formulate a more convincing institutional structure for coordinating aid to citizens abroad. Several ministries have their own special department for these issues, and both right and left-wing Turkish parties have nurtured the idea of a special ministry for Turkish citizens living abroad. However, there has been more in the way of a continuing debate about the inadequacies of the administrative structures than in the way of concrete institutional changes. On this background, it was widely welcomed when the 55th government of the Democratic Left Party (DSP) and the Motherland Party (ANAP) (1997–9) set up the so-called Consultation Commission (Dan¹s¸ma Kurulu) for citizens living abroad.13 The Consultation Commission consists of the state minister responsible for citizens abroad, three of his bureaucrats, politicians from each of the political parties represented in parliament, and, particularly important in this context, forty-five Turkish citizens living abroad.14 The Turkish citizens come from every country where they have settled, and the amount of representatives corresponds to the size of the community in the country. Hence, the Turkish citizens from Germany comprise more than half of the commission. The aim of the Consultation Commission is to work on the administrative and legal issues and problems pertaining to the situation of Turkish citizens living abroad. The special composition is meant to facilitate a dialogue between the citizens living abroad and the Turkish state and parliament. In terms of content the Commission hopes to help raise the education and economic standard of the citizens abroad, and to aid


their integration while preserving their national identity in their new countries of residence.15 Certainly the Commission is also used to disseminate information on the domestic and foreign policy priorities of the Turkish government. For instance, one of the later consultations took place in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus and all delegates were briefed on the Turkish government’s version of the Cyprus issue and its possible solution.16 Although the Consultation Commission includes representatives from citizens abroad, it has been criticized for its top-down approach to dialogue with emigrants, by the migrant organizations abroad. The positions on the Commission were advertised on Turkish State TV and in Turkish newspapers, and the recruitment took place through the Turkish consulates. The applicants were not to be unemployed or receiving any social aid in their countries of residence, nor could they have been jailed or condemned for ‘shameful acts’. Instead, they were to be well educated (preferably in law) and ‘outstanding among their fellow countrymen’ in their country of residence.17 Migrant organizations, which for years had called for Turkish government action to better the situation of Turks abroad, were completely bypassed when the commission was set up. Their reaction was, not surprisingly, very critical. Moreover, critical voices argue that most of the concerns of the citizens living abroad relate to the political and legal structures of their receiving country. On these matters, the Turkish government has little power to change anything and in fact little has been heard of the commission in recent years. Nonetheless, the gesture of inviting Turkish citizens living abroad to Ankara for consultations on their situation was at the time of significant symbolic value. The speeches and press-releases surrounding the first meeting of the Consultation Commission included assurances from the three top DSP leaders (then deputy prime minister Bülent Ecevit, foreign minister Ismail Cem and state minister Refat Serdarog„ lu), such as: ‘Ankara will not forget its Turkish citizens of Europe’; ‘We will teach Europe a lesson on racism.’18

Transnational participation in Turkish elections Another recent political measure aimed at reinforcing the ties between the citizens abroad and their homeland is the attempt to include citizens abroad in the electoral process. The Turkish electorate in Germany alone is approximately 1,400,000 and hence constitutes approximately 4 per cent of the total Turkish electorate, capable of electing between 20 and 25 Turkish parliamentarians.19 However,


Turkish citizens living outside Turkey cannot participate in elections in Turkey from afar. Only by returning to the homeland may they vote at the border crossings. Accordingly, the participation in elections of Turkish citizens living outside of Turkey has been low – approximately 50,000 in 1987 and 1991, approximately 85,000 in 1995, and 65,254 in 1999.20 Turkish migrant organizations abroad have demanded such rights for decades. In Turkey, one of the first long parliamentary debates on this issue appeared in 1986, and demands for voting rights for citizens abroad have frequently appeared in parliamentary debates and party political programmes since then.21 Yet any efforts to improve the situation were stalled by the fact that it was not constitutionally possible to allow voting from abroad because of the technically complicated judicial requirements in Turkish election laws. This was rectified with the amendments to the constitution in 1995, which now state that ‘necessary measures should be taken to facilitate the voting of citizens living abroad’ (Turkish constitution §67). Still, even by the time of the most recent Turkish general election in November 2002, this constitutional change had not resulted in the implementation of the appropriate legislation. This is because of the complexity involved in having such a large number of citizens vote from abroad. Most of the obstacles are technical in nature. For instance, should the citizens abroad vote by mail, in ballot boxes at the consulates, or through representatives? How is it possible to uphold the particular Turkish system, in which an independent judge presides over each constituency, in elections abroad? In this respect, the electorate in Germany constitutes the main problem because of its size. With only fourteen consulates, it is not possible for everyone to vote in ballot boxes at the consulates, and German authorities are not willing to make alternative facilities available for Turkish elections in Germany. Indeed, there is a general reservation from German political authorities regarding the potential wider effects of Turkish elections in Germany on the political integration of Turkish citizens and concerns for domestic security during the elections. Hence, in terms of technical solutions, Germany prefers voting by mail.22 Turkish authorities, on the contrary, have reservations regarding the reliability of voting by mail because pressure from family, peers, or even political or religious organizations may make independent voting difficult (see also K¹l¹ç 1996: 212). Thus, transnational voting rights have remained an electoral promise, as it is easier said than done to implement them.


Transnational party-politics One side-effect of the necessary constitutional changes to allow voting rights for citizens abroad was the legitimization of Turkish political parties’ transnational links with organizations abroad. Until 1995 it was forbidden for Turkish political parties to have any formal party-political branches abroad. With the amendment of the constitution in 1995, the first step was taken towards legalizing such transnational links, but no political party has yet formally engaged in such activity by setting up an overseas party office as such. This is in part because most parties have worked abroad since the 1970s through an intricate transnational network of ‘informal’ contacts between political actors in the homeland and various Turkish or Kurdish associations abroad along party-political, ethnic, and religious lines (see Özcan 1992; Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b). Turkish political parties have different levels of interest in and engagement with the emigrants in Western Europe. Smaller marginal parties in opposition to the Turkish state certainly use the overseas communities as a platform for uncensored political dialogue and a source of economic support, as do religious movements (Alevi and Sunni), and NGOs with a critical attitude to the Turkish state (see Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b: 46–69). The Turkish state has a narrow definition of when a political party or other actor threatens the security of the Kemalist Republic. If a party is found to do so it is shut down and its leaders possibly prosecuted. This has happened to a succession of Kurdish and Sunni Islamic parties. Among the bigger parties represented in parliament it is mainly those with a religious or nationalist political agenda such as the Justice and Development Party (AK Party), the smaller Happiness Party (SP)23 and the National Movement Party (MHP) which are most active outside Turkey. Both of these parties make explicit reference to citizens abroad in their political programmes. Leading politicians from these parties attend mass meetings of the Sunni-Muslim Milli Görüs¸ or the nationalist Türk Federasyon in order to attract economic and political support. In turn, and in some cases in exchange, leaders of the European-based organizations run as candidates in Turkish elections. Most famously, the long-standing leader of Milli Görüs¸, Osman Yumakog„ ullar¹, was elected for the Welfare Party in a safe seat in Istanbul in 1995. In addition, a number of other high-ranking supporters from Europe have stood as candidates in Turkish elections, but only a few have been elected. By contrast, the transnational dialogue of the mainstream social democratic and conservative liberal parties has mainly been initiated


and conducted through individuals with a particular background in the communities abroad. It has been these individuals, such as Ercan Karakas¸ from CHP or Bülent Arkacal¹ from ANAP, who attend meetings organized by like-minded organizations abroad and who raise questions or initiate debates regarding ‘our citizens abroad’ in the Turkish Parliament. These more sporadic practices have only lately been replaced by more comprehensive measures, such as expressing support for citizens abroad in the party programmes, or assigning special deputies with the task of communicating with citizens abroad. Most of these parties – in particular, a party like the social democratic DSP – are not as grassroots-oriented as the religious AKP or the MHP or several smaller left-wing and Kurdish parties, and this shows in their transnational reach as well. The more reserved attitude of the mainstream parties is also related to their perception of where the party political preferences of Turks abroad lie. General surveys show that the large majority of Turks abroad would actually vote for the mainstream social democrats and conservative liberal parties (Zf T 2000). Yet those who turn up for political rallies abroad or, indeed, travel to the Turkish borders to vote, are rumoured to support the religious or nationalist parties. However, the discrepancy between general surveys and voting patterns at the border may also reflect ‘long distance’ voting patterns. That is, those willing to drive or fly to Turkey to vote are not ordinary voters but those with a stronger homeland political commitment, which in this case is evoked by the nationalist or religious parties. In any case this has reinforced the perception of Turkish citizens abroad as supporters of these parties only.

Turks abroad as good representatives for Turkey The processes of administrative and political integration of Turkish citizens abroad with the homeland are generally justified as the duty of any emigration country. However, there are plenty of incentives for Ankara to strengthen the ties with citizens in EU member-states, to listen to their problems and to re-include them as part of the electorate. Like most sending countries, Turkey welcomes the continued flow of remittances and investments from citizens abroad, who, despite their high unemployment rates, are still much more affluent than the homeland. Moreover, it is not against Turkey’s interests if Turks abroad become good and loyal representatives of their country of origin. Already, citizens abroad constitute an integral part of the foreign relations with


Western Europe, in particular the EU. As expressed by one Turkish national assembly deputy: ‘Their presence is a lobby in and of itself.’24 Within this line of reasoning, there is a keen interest to support the ‘social capital upgrading’ of citizens abroad. Hitherto the Turkish workers abroad have been regarded as giving Western European countries the wrong image of Turks and Turkey. Although this is a sensitive issue, there is a widespread concern in Ankara that Turkish citizens in Western Europe do not represent the modern secular Turkey of Ankara, but rather the more traditional rural life of Anatolian villages. Therefore Ankara places great emphasis on the social mobility of the communities abroad, especially the growth of private enterprises owned by emigrants abroad, and the increase in Turkish citizens attending German universities. Thus the foreign ministry has posted on its website that: ‘Turkey encourages its citizens to do their best for enhancing their social, economical, cultural and political status’.25 This they should do first and foremost for their own sake, but it is clearly also in Turkey’s interest. Beyond the issue of emigrants as ‘good representatives’ is the more contentious question of Turks abroad as a foreign policy lobby for Ankara. ‘Everybody wants a Jewish lobby’, one national assembly deputy commented during an interview. He then continued to outline how Turks abroad could serve to counter the information campaigns of dissident Turkish and Kurdish movements abroad as well as other ‘antiTurkish’ groups including the Armenian and Greek lobbies in Europe and the US.26 Another national assembly deputy outlined how Turkish citizens abroad should mobilize firstly to defend their own rights and secondly to: Be a kind of public relations for Turkey, and if possible a lobby for their own country. This should be one of the tasks of a more efficient diplomacy – to mobilize the people abroad. If you look at antiTurkish activities by Turks in Western Europe these are developed on a large scale and also sponsored by local forces … political activity on behalf of Turkey – as usual it is very quiet and not well organized. And so this is one of the major issues, which should be on the agenda of any government and parliament in this country.27 However, the notion of a Turkish lobby in Europe – the conscious instrumental use of Turkish citizens abroad – is also treated with much caution in Ankara. Turkish citizens abroad are not viewed as very powerful because of their lack of political rights and economic power in their countries of residence. Similarly, the migrant organizations are viewed


as weak in terms of political influence in receiving country politics. It is rather the potential of Turkish citizens which is estimated to be of great value to Turkey. The more established and influential the ‘Euro Turks’ in EU-countries get, the more they may represent Turkey and Turkish interests abroad. Several measures originating from Turkey can be interpreted as intentions to mobilize citizens abroad: Diplomatic representations organize and fund the celebration of national days abroad. They meet with migrant organizations to encourage them to counter ‘anti-Turkish’ activities. More importantly, the Turkish media abroad does not just serve to report events in Turkey. Since the early 1980s, major Turkish dailies with a large distribution within the communities in Europe have run fax-campaigns urging citizens abroad to fax their protests against local and national politicians who have criticized Turkey regarding the Kurdish issue, human rights deficiencies, or Turkish relations with the EU. One columnist in the European pages of the Turkish daily Hürriyet has been named one of the most important opinion-makers in Europe.28 In particular the Turkish media has scrutinized Turkish-descent representatives in local and national parliaments to determine whether they are too critical of their homeland. The first Turkish representative in a European national assembly, Cem Özdemir, has thus engaged in a yearlong argument with the Turkish press, which has depicted him as ‘The dagger in our back’.29 Özdemir in turn has stated that he wants ‘to free Turks from the reins of Ankara’.30 Leading Turkish policy-makers have also voiced their opinion on the way Turkish-descent voters should vote in the 1998 Federal election in Germany. Several party leaders, such as the leader of the social democratic CHP, told Turks to vote for the German Social Democrats (SPD) because this party would implement citizenship reforms including dual citizenship and in general improve German integration policies. More famously, the then prime minister, Mesut Yilmaz (ANAP) stated, ‘I am sure that Turks in Germany will vote in favour of those who favour Turkish membership of the EU.’ He then proceeded to hold then Chancellor Kohl of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU) responsible for the EU failure to grant Turkey the status of candidate to EU membership at the Luxembourg Summit in 1997.31 That Ankara wishes to have a lobby in EU member-states in general and in Germany in particular is the firm conviction of most leaders of migrant organizations abroad. It is also noted by receiving country policymakers and authorities as counterproductive to the political integration of Turks. In Germany, for those against dual citizenship, interventions


by Turkish media and politicians in German elections confirm their fear of Turkey’s influence on German politics through the Turkish minority in Germany. For others, Turkey’s intervention is regretted as stigmatizing Turks in the eye of the German public and hence damaging their general and political integration. However, the influence of Ankara on its citizens abroad should not be overestimated. Indeed, more often than not, Turkey is criticized by migrant organizations for asking for something for nothing. As one leader of a migrant organization formulates it, Turkey clearly wants an Armenian or Jewish lobby, but they forget that You have to take care of your people if you want their support, and Turkey never did. People here were faced with a lot of Turkish government and state discrimination … Even here when they go to the consular departments … And this creates an atmosphere where Turkey cannot say: ‘So I did this for you and now you do something for me.’32 Turks and Kurds in Western Europe engage themselves in the political developments in Turkey and in Turkish–European relations. Many are critical of the Turkish government’s handling of domestic and foreign policy, but at the same time it is not against these associations’ interest to try to counter the negative image of Turkey in the receiving countries’ press and public opinion since this also reflects on the perception of the migrants and their descendants, themselves. Yet Turkish migrant organizations continuously emphasize that they are not the ‘tool of Ankara’. When Prime Minister Yilmaz told Turkish-descent voters not to vote for the CDU, this intervention was immediately decried by leaders of migrant organizations in Germany, in particular those organizations working more closely with the CDU. ‘We are not a fifth column’, stated one head of a migrant organization. ‘We are not remote-controlled by Ankara’, stated another.33

Perceptions of long-distance dissidence Political dissidence abroad constitutes another reason for Turkey to seek to strengthen the ties with the communities abroad. The less opposition is tolerated in a country, the more it is likely to unfold within the diaspora (Shain 1989). From the point of view of the Turkish state, there has been much concern with the activities of dissident movements among, in particular, Kurds, communist Turks and certain Sunni Islamic organizations (see Østergaard-Nielsen 2003b). Since the 1980s, Western Europe


has received not only economic migrants seeking work but also political refugees seeking asylum. The number of asylum-seekers peaked around the time of the 1980 military coup in Turkey, and then again in the early 1990s, with the escalation of the Kurdish conflict in south-east Anatolia. Turkey finds it awkward that Turkish citizens arriving in Western Europe claim to be politically persecuted and in need of asylum. Indeed, Turkey criticizes EU countries accepting asylum-seekers from Turkey for hosting anti-Turkish state forces, tolerating Kurdish separatism and disregarding Turkish territorial and political integrity. Political dissidence is furthermore not just a matter of asylum-seekers. Political identity within the communities abroad is constantly renegotiated. Some Turkish migrants become more defensive about their homeland not least because of the very critical media coverage of Turkey in Western European media. Others become more sceptical towards the Turkish political regime from afar. There is much awareness among Turkish politicians that one of the main obstacles to creating a Turkish lobby abroad is these differing homeland-oriented agendas within the community. Turkish and sometimes also Kurdish organizations have tried to come together on issues on immigrant political concern but this has often faltered on irreconcilable party-political, ethnic or religious differences. While most receiving country politicians ascribe this to the influence of Turkish politics, Turkish politicians blame the receiving country’s political authorities for the lack of unity. Indeed, there is a consensus among the representatives from Turkish political parties interviewed for this research. In particular, German authorities are said to have realized that the community is easier to handle if it is divided, and hence they are ‘playing with the ethnic and religious feelings of the community’. Importantly, Turkish politicians suggest that not enough is done to curb anti-Turkish terrorist organizations, in particular in those countries such as Denmark or the Netherlands where no Kurdish, communist or Islamic organization has yet been banned. Similarly, the financial support (in Western Europe) to religious migrant organizations is viewed with much annoyance, even suspicion, among Turkish politicians. It is, for instance, pointed out that constitutional provisions in Holland ensure state aid to religious groups, forcing the Turks to organize along religious lines. Sunni-Muslim or Kurdish organizations are by no means actively supported by Western European authorities. Their immigrant political demands are often not met. Still, Turkish perception that Western European countries wish to ‘divide and rule’ is also replicated in the argument against the ‘multicultural strategies’ of, say, Dutch or German local authorities. Multi culturalism is, in other words, only


acceptable in so far as it does not question Turkish minority policies. The fact that Kurdish, Alevi, various Sunni-Muslim, and party-political organizations are being funded through local or federal authorities is seen by Turkey as a means to compartmentalize the Turkish community.

Long-distance policing Turkish or Kurdish emigrants or refugees engaged in Turkish politics from afar may find themselves withheld for questioning and sometimes arrested when returning to Turkey if their activities are perceived as sufficiently subversive by Turkish authorities. This is one of many indications that Turkish authorities try to monitor political dissidence abroad. Yet the case of Turkey illustrates how it is not so straightforward to exert control abroad as it is at home. In order to curb political dissidence abroad, Turkish political authorities have repeatedly urged Western European governments to control the activities of opposition groups. Such pressure has been exerted on every single level of governance. Turkey voices its opinion on these issues in international meetings, meetings with heads of state, or communication with national and local governments. Besides seeking to influence the receiving state authorities, one of the means by which the homeland may seek to curb opposition movements abroad is through diplomatic representations. Embassies and consulates have attempted to influence the pattern of organizations and events organized by the movements in the diaspora. Another means by which Turkey has sought to control the citizens living abroad has been through the umbilical cord between its citizens abroad and the state: the passport. Particularly in the beginning of the 1980s (and before), there were numerous cases of Turkish citizens, who, because of their political activities abroad, lost their passport – becoming illegal aliens and sometimes being forced to apply for asylum in the receiving country where they had already been living for years. People suffering from this type of ‘passport harassment’ included trade union activists, dissidents supporting political parties and movements banned in Turkey and those whom the Turkish authorities wanted to force to return to Turkey to complete their military service. Although the ‘passport harassment’ did not take place on a large scale, it reinforced the hostility between the consulates and the left-wing movements in Germany. The suspicion with which the consulates were regarded was confirmed by the frequent rumours concerning the work of the Turkish Secret Service (MIT) through the consulates as well as the


branches of the Turkish Directorate for Religious Affairs. For instance, in 1990, a diplomatic crisis was triggered after a claim on the German television channel ARD’s programme Panorama that thirty MIT agents were working undercover in Germany as officials at the consulates. According to Panorama, two such agents had tried to force a young man in a pub in Hamburg to be an informer. It suggested further that MIT generally worked to include members of religious, nationalist, or political groups in their ranks. Fifteen Turkish diplomats were expelled from Bonn, and later Ankara retaliated by expelling eight German diplomats on the grounds that they ‘were tied up in activities not related to their mission’ – that is, they were accused of being intelligence officers as well.34 Thus, while Turkey views the work of dissident movements in Western Europe as strengthening dissident forces inside Turkey, and damaging Turkey’s image in Western Europe, the instruments and leverage with which Turkey may control political dissidence abroad are relatively limited.

Conclusion Turkish citizens in Western Europe (and the USA and Canada) are being urged to integrate and obtain the citizenship of their receiving country, but, at the same time, are being admonished never to forget their homeland. The gradual accommodation of the Turkish administration and electoral system to include Turkish citizens residing outside of Turkey follows Ankara’s realization that these citizens are no longer ‘remittance machines’ but ‘Euro Turks’, who are unlikely to return. The largely economic project of labour export on a rotational basis has been supplemented by a largely political project of tying these citizens back in with the state. While these reaching-out efforts clearly have an economic dimension in so far as remittances and foreign investment are still a very welcome contribution to the ever-fragile Turkish economy, the foreign policy dimension of the relationship between Ankara and its overseas nationals is of significance. The over three million Turkish citizens living within the EU reside in a region with which Turkey has an important and highly coveted relationship. Therefore, a Turkish lobby, particularly in EU member-states, may constitute a powerful advocate for Turkey’s interests in Western Europe. Moreover, the concern about discrimination against Turkish citizens in Western Europe which Turkey’s leaders have shown is inseparable from the bilateral and multilateral relations between Turkey and the EU. In Turkey, exclusion of Turkish citizens


from host-societies is seen in tandem with the exclusion of Turkey in the EU. Both are illustrations of the EU as a ‘Christian Club’ with no room for Turkey or its emigrants already living within the EU. Similarly, Turkish leaders have been quick to make parallels between discrimination against Turkish citizens, in particular, in Germany, and the human rights deficit in Turkey. Nevertheless, while Ankara’s changing perceptions of its citizens abroad are interesting in and of themselves, it is important not to overstate the effectiveness of the policies directed at these citizens. First of all, these perceptions are not easily translated into political agency. Indeed, the case of Turkey illustrates that the relationship between sending states and emigrants is often ambiguous. Turkish bureaucratic practices are not easily coordinated or streamlined, and the complexities of transnational electoral law are difficult to implement to the satisfaction of both German and Turkish authorities. These processes are further complicated by the fact that ‘Turkey’ is not a unitary actor. Different political parties have their own perceptions, links and agendas vis-à-vis Turkish citizens abroad. While some promote their party political agendas abroad other policy-makers take note of the fact that host-country authorities regard Turkey’s political relations with its citizens abroad as highly counterproductive to their integration. At the level of the state and government institutions, the mobilizing measures are changing from being reactionary to being more pro-active. Still, policies are as much about controlling as mobilizing emigrants’ and refugees’ engagement in Turkish politics. Pro-Turkish sentiment is promoted in a range of ways, including the media and diplomatic representations, but actual calls for lobbying are met with scepticism among migrant organizational leaders abroad. Generally, Turks and Kurds abroad are by no means remote-controlled by the Turkish state. And for those already critical of the Turkish political regime, the image of the controlling state casts a long shadow of mistrust on the image of the mobilizing state.

Notes 1 Parts of the material and argument in this chapter have previously been published in Østergaard-Nielsen (2003b), in particular pp. 107–21, and are here reproduced with the kind permission of Routledge. 2 The change in semantics from ‘our workers living abroad’ (yurtd¹¸s¹nda yas¸ayan is¸cilerimiz) to ‘our citizens living abroad’ (yurtd¹¸s¹nda yas¸ayan vatandas¸lar¹m¹z) is not entirely consistent when looking at parliamentary debates and newspaper articles between 1980 and 2000. However, there is a trend towards mainly


3

4

5

6 7

8

9

10 11 12 13

14 15

16

17 18 19

referring to them as ‘citizens’. Another much used term is ‘gurbetçi’, meaning those who live in foreign countries. The website of the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs puts this figure at 3.9 million with 3.5 million living in Western Europe (see http://www.mfa. org.tr). Turkey signed its first labour exchange agreements with the Federal Republic of Germany in 1961, followed by similar agreements with the Netherlands, Austria and Belgium in 1964, with France in 1965, and with Sweden in 1967 (Abadan-Unat, 1995: 279). UNHCR, Population Data Unit: Asylum applications submitted in the European Union: top 10 origins, 1992–2001, http://www.unhcr.ch (accessed September 2002). Interview by author with Diyanet, Ankara, 29 July 1998. Ministry of Education, Republic of Turkey (T.C. Millet Eg„ itim Bakanl¹g„ ¹), Information on Teachers Abroad (in Turkish). Online. Available HTTP: http: www.meb.org.tr (30 November 2001). The Turkish Grand National Assembly (TBMM), ‘Question to the State Minister on the application of dual citizenship’, 20/63, 23 January 1998, Ankara. Interview by author with representative from Copenhagen Municipal Council, January 2000, Copenhagen. Note that dual citizenship is in principle not tolerated by Danish authorities but that it has been common practice for Turks to keep their Turkish citizenship anyway. TBMM, ‘Report on our workers working abroad’, 19:883, 28 July 1995, Ankara. Ibid. TBMM, ‘Report on the diplomatic representations abroad’, 20:242, 27 February 1997, Ankara. At the outset, part of this construction was a ‘High Commission’ (Yurtd¹¸s¹nda yas¸ayan vatandas¸lar üst kurulu), consisting of the prime minister, the foreign minister, and state minister responsible for citizens living abroad. This construction is intended to allow for swift legislative changes if the citizens abroad have a certain pressing need. Interview by author with the State Ministry, 6 July 1998, Ankara. Ministry of State, Republic of Turkey (T.C. Devlet Bakanl¹g„ ¹), ‘Information about High Commission and Consultation Commission for citizens living abroad’, 17 July 1998, Ankara. More than 20-page-long briefing material on the Cyprus issue printed especially for members of the Consultation Commission was handed out to author during interview with representative from State Ministry, 18 October 2000, Ankara. Ministry of State, Republic of Turkey, ‘Personnel and principles for Consulation Commission for citizens living abroad’, 1998, Ankara. Hürriyet, 17 July 1998; Sabah, 17 July 1998; and own observations at inaugural meeting 16 July 1998. This figure is based on the number of Turkish citizens above 18 years of age in Germany by the end of 1999, the electorate in Turkey in the general elections in April 1999 (ZfT 2001), and the fact that the Turkish parliament consists of 550 parliamentarians.

98 Turkey and the ‘Euro Turks’ 20

21

22

23 24 25 26

27 28 29 30

31 32 33 34

State Statistical Institute (1996) (T.C. Bas¸bakanl¹k Devlet Istatistik Enstitüsü), Milletvekili Genel Seçimi Sonuçlar¹, reports for 1996 and 1999, Ankara: Devlet Istatistik Enstitüsü. TBMM, ‘On changes in law on political parties’, 17/26, 26 March 1986, Ankara; and TBMM, ‘On changes in law on political parties and election laws’, 19/95, 26 October 1995, Ankara. Deutscher Bundestag, ‘Briefwahl des in Deutshland lebenden Türken bei der geplanten türkischen Parlamentswahl am 24 December’, Drs 13/3352, 11 December 1995, Bonn. Both parties originate in the former Virtue Party (FP) and before that the Welfare Party (RP). Interview by author with national assembly deputy for ANAP, 23 October 2000, Ankara. Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Republic of Turkey, Turks living abroad. Online. Available HTTP: http://www.mfa.org.tr (30 November 2001). Interview by author with national assembly deputy for DSP, 20 October 2000, Ankara. Armenian and Greek lobbies pertain to two historically rooted conflicts which manifest themselves in the diaspora. The Greek lobby, in particular in the US, has tried to influence US policy against Turkey because of the historical territorial disputes (Cyprus and the Aegean islands) between Greece and Turkey. This was particularly the case in the 1980s, but persists until this day (see Constas and Platias 1993). The Armenian lobby, notably in the US and France, wants government and international institutions (like the European Parliament) to recognize and condemn that a genocide took place against Armenians in the Ottoman Empire in 1915–16. The work of both lobbies is the concern of Turkish authorities who try to publicize and promote their version of these events to both Western governments and Turkish communities abroad. Interview by author with national assembly deputy for ANAP, 6 December 1996. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 17 October 1998. Hürriyet, 16 December 1994. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 17 October 1998. Some Turkish press in Germany has local correspondents and journalists and publishes separate ‘European pages’ covering events throughout Europe which are only distributed outside of Turkey. Besides Hürriyet there are much more moderate newspapers as well as critical newspapers such as Evrensel or indeed newspapers such as the proKurdish Özgür Politika which is only published outside Turkey. Hürriyet, however, dominates the European market with as many daily copies as all other newspapers together. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 19 August 1998. Interview by author with Milli Görüs¸, 13 October 2000. Welt, 21 August 1998. Tageszeitung, 4 April and 21 April 1990.

5 Overseas Filipino Workers: Sacrificial Lambs at the Altar of Deregulation Mary Lou L. Alcid

The Philippines and Mexico are the top labour-exporting countries in the world. But while Mexico’s workers are land-based and concentrated mainly in the United States, the estimated 7.29 million Filipino landand sea-based workers abroad are spread out in more than 180 countries and destinations (Kanlungan Centre Foundation 2000). These workers constitute more than 10 per cent of the total Philippine population and at least a fifth of its labour force. San Juan (1998) describes this situation as the ‘unprecedented Filipino diaspora, a phenomenon analogous not to the Jewish but to the African and Chinese dispersal around the world’ (San Juan 1998: 2). This diaspora has become a vital social concern, mainly due to the country’s loss of its professionals, and skilled workers, the adverse impact on the family (e.g. children growing up without fathers or mothers or both), and the problems arising from the fact that ‘in the racially stratified or ethnically segmented labour market of the United States as well as the rest of the world, Filipinos occupy the lower strata, primarily in service occupations such as food, health, cleaning … .’ (ibid: 9). Such problems include de-skilling, racist and discriminatory laws and policies in the receiving countries, and violations of overseas workers’ human and labour rights. Overseas Filipinos who leave mainly for economic reasons fall under two general categories: (a) emigrants (population: 2.37 million), that is, those who go abroad for permanent residence, mainly in the United States of America; and (b) migrant workers (both documented and undocumented), referring to those who have gone abroad for contractual, temporary employment. Documented migrant workers are estimated by the Commission of Filipinos Overseas (CFO) to number 2.98 million 99

100 Overseas Filipino Workers

while there are 1.94 million undocumented ones. Undocumented workers, in the eyes of the Philippine government, are those who leave the country for work abroad without the government-issued Overseas Employment Certificate, or are working abroad after their visas have expired. As of July 2002, Filipino women comprised almost three-quarters of the land-based workers.1 They are concentrated in the service sector as domestic workers and caregivers in countries such as Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Italy, and in the entertainment industry of Japan, Brunei, Malaysia and Cyprus. This trend reflects the growing feminization of the labour export industry. With annual remittances averaging US$6,359 billion from 1999 to 2001 (Kanlungan Centre Foundation 2001), overseas Filipinos are the single biggest source of foreign currency for the country.2 They have kept the economy afloat, serving as buffer to economic and financial crisis. In 1999, they remitted a total of US$6,794 billion through official channels, a 38 per cent increase from the previous year’s US$4.9 billion (Kanlungan Centre 2000: 19). The net remittances in 1999 contributed 0.9 percentage point to the 2.0 per cent growth of total Gross National Product (GNP). It is because of their remittances that former President Corazon C. Aquino (1986–92) hailed overseas workers as Bagong Bayani (New Heroes), while incumbent President Gloria M. Arroyo calls them ‘Overseas Filipino Investors’, stressing their potential as investors. Yet no Philippine government has offered any real incentives and benefits for overseas Filipinos to invest in the country. At the provincial or town level, there is also hardly any government support for families of overseas workers to engage in entrepreneurial activities aimed at developing the local economy. Moreover, despite their significant contributions to the Philippine economy, overseas Filipinos – both emigrants and migrant workers – have yet to receive commensurate government recognition and protection. They remain politically disenfranchised as Congress has still not enacted a law granting them the right to suffrage. Overseas Filipinos, in particular the more established diaspora in the USA, have been lobbying for legislation which allows them to hold dual citizenship and the right to vote in national elections in the Philippines for many years. Politicians from different parties, including President Arroyo during her meetings with migrant organizations in the USA and Southeast Asia, have pledged to support these measures. However, although absentee voting was made legal in the 1987 Constitution, Congress has yet to enact an enabling law because of logistical hurdles and domestic

Mary Lou L. Alcid 101

opposition. Those in opposition argue that dual citizenship would create divided loyalties and give emigrants rights without corresponding responsibilities. In a later development, the appropriate bills were introduced to the Philippine Congress in 2001, but they have not yet become law.3 Consequently, migrant workers, in particular, are in an especially precarious situation as the Philippine government enforces the policy of deregulation of the labour export market. This chapter focuses on Filipino migrant workers. It examines how the Philippine government, within the framework of neoliberal globalization, proactively and systematically facilitates the globalization of Filipino labour while paradoxically leaving workers’ rights and protection to the vagaries of market forces. It argues that the current policy of deregulation is not only premature; it also exacerbates the commodification of Filipino migrant workers, especially women, as the government sacrifices workers’ rights to global competitiveness.

More than a century of Filipino overseas labour migration Filipino overseas labour migration has been traced to as early as 1565 when Filipino seafarers were recruited to work in foreign ships plying the Manila–Acapulco trade route. In the nineteenth century, some welloff Filipino patriots such as the national hero Jose Rizal escaped to Europe in the face of political persecution by the Spanish colonial government. From there, they continued to wage their campaign for social and political reforms in the motherland (Samonte et al. 1995). However, the year 1900 is deemed as the official start of the deployment of Filipinos for overseas employment (Philippine Overseas Employment Administration 2002). Spain had just ceded the Philippines to the United States of America after three centuries of colonial rule. The impoverishment of the population was aggravated by the Philippine–American war (1898–1902), as well as the free trade policies that promoted export-oriented agricultural production, and made the Philippines a market for American surplus goods. There was also a shortage of agricultural workers in the sugar and pineapple plantations of Hawaii, and in the fruit orchards and canneries in the United States mainland, which opened the way for the importation of foreign workers from US colonies. The Hawaii Sugar Planters Association recruited the first batch of 200 predominantly male Filipino workers in 1908. The workers were exempt from US immigration rules, because the Philippines was a US colony then. Thousands of other workers followed, so that by 1934, at least


120,000 Filipinos were working in Hawaiian plantations. At one point, Filipinos comprised 70 per cent of the labour force of the plantations. The Filipino plantation workers in Hawaii were described as ‘severely exploited and confined to squalid barracks’ (San Juan 1999: 1). They joined Japanese, Chinese and other nationalities in a series of militant strikes in 1920 and 1924 (ibid). The migrant workers who left between 1900 and 1945 are invariably referred to as the first wave of migrants. They were concentrated in Hawaii and California. The majority were single, male farmers from Northern Luzon. They had the option to stay in the US for good or to return to their motherland. Despite the racism and discrimination they experienced, ‘poverty, ill health and demoralization’ forced the majority to stay on, with some moving on to the US mainland (San Juan 1998: 22). They subsequently facilitated the immigration of family members. The second wave of migrants spanned the years 1946–70. The US remained the top country of destination. Despite the US government’s national origin quota system allowing only 50 Filipino workers into the US annually, the Hawaii Sugar Planters Association (HPSA) in 1946 managed to bring in 7,000 Filipino workers. HPSA only had to show proof that there was a labour shortage. US military facilities in Guam, Okinawa and the Wake Islands also recruited Filipino workers for rehabilitation and construction work in the aftermath of the Second World War. Years later, the US was among the traditional immigration countries that changed their selection criteria for immigrants in favour of skilled and professional workers (Lycklama 1994). Thus, unlike the first wave, Filipino migrant workers during this period were professionals, usually in the medical field. Nurses comprised the biggest number of medical professionals deployed abroad. By 1975 more than 250,000 Filipinos had migrated to the US, resulting in the emergence of ‘brain drain’ as a national concern. The Philippines was virtually subsidizing the health care of other countries. It invested in the education and training of medical professionals only to export them. The exodus of doctors and nurses to foreign shores continues to the present. The third wave of labour migration came about as an offshoot of the labour shortage in oil-rich West Asian countries, particularly in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The construction industry was among the top importers of Filipino workers. The Department of Labour and Employment (DoLE) records show that 3,694 workers were deployed in 1969. Fourteen years later, the number had ballooned to almost half a million. In the 1980s, the demand for labour in West Asia was complemented by the demand for service workers, specifically domestic


workers in Hong Kong, Canada, Singapore and European countries. Unlike the first two waves, the third wave of migrants did not have the option to stay on in their countries of origin. They were migrant guest workers, that is, contractual workers who had to go back to the Philippines after completion of their employment contract. Since the 1970s, the number of migrant workers has increased geometrically. From the annual deployment of 1,863 workers in 1971, the number grew to 47,835 in 1976, 434,207 in 1983, 719,602 in 1994 and 866,590 in 2001. Recent statistics released by the DoLE show that from 1 January till 15 April 2002, a total of 280,882 were deployed abroad.4 This means a daily average of 2,748 workers as against only 2,551 for the same period the previous year. If this continues, the government will not have any difficulty meeting, even surpassing, its minimum annual target of deploying a million workers overseas. In the 1990s the main destinations of labour migration changed from West Asia in the 1970s and 1980s to East Asia, particularly Taiwan, Japan, Hong Kong and South Korea, and Southeast Asia (Malaysia and Singapore, Brunei). Thus, the top 10 destinations in 2001 were Saudi Arabia, Hong Kong, Japan, the United Arab Emirates, Taiwan, Singapore, Italy, Kuwait, the United Kingdom and Brunei.5 Filipino labour migration to these countries is characterized by a dominance of women in domestic work, care-giving, nursing (United Kingdom) and entertainment ( Japan and Brunei). Indeed, since the 1990s, Filipino overseas labour migration may be characterized as being increasingly feminized, and dominated by jobs in the service sector (specifically domestic work and care-giving). In 1987, women comprised only 47 per cent of land-based workers. As of July 2002 they constituted 73 per cent of annual legal labour deployment of land-based workers.6 The 1990s also saw an increase in irregular or clandestine labour migration, as Filipino workers leave without a work permit, with falsified travel documents, and through human smuggling. This situation is a function of the restrictive immigration policies of labour-receiving countries and the emergence of private recruitment agencies as a dominant force in the transnational labour export industry that can operate even independently of the states. Despite labour shortages, countries such as Japan, and the newly industrialized South Korea and Taiwan, until recently, refused to officially allow the entry of foreign workers. But there has been tacit tolerance for clandestine workers, with occasional arrests and deportations. Nevertheless, the president of an association of private recruitment agencies attributes the rise in clandestine migration to what is perceived


to be an over-regulated industry. He avers that even legal recruitment agencies have had to circumvent the Philippine Overseas Employment Administration (POEA) regulations and red tape to be able to efficiently respond to the demand for Filipino workers and thus stay in business. The POEA agrees that the labour export industry is indeed weighed down by regulations. Hence, among other reasons, there is now a move to deregulate labour export.

A structural overview of the labour export industry According to Rosewarne (1998) ‘labour migration reflects the failings of the domestic economy’ (Rosewarne 1998: 4). This is true in the Philippine case. The Philippine economy has remained stagnant, heavily indebted, export-oriented and import-dependent after 21 years of implementing the structural adjustment programmes of the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. The National Statistics Office April 2002 Labour Force Survey showed an increase in the unemployment rate – from 13.3 per cent in April 2001 to 13.9 per cent.7 The under-employment rate also grew from 17.5 per cent in April 2001 to 19.26 per cent a year later. The situation is such that a recent survey by the magazine Pulse Asia showed that one out of five Filipinos would opt to go abroad if the opportunity arose.8 And no less that President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo gave this message in 2001 to those already abroad: ‘Jobs here are difficult to find and we are depending on the people outside the country. If you can find work there and send money to your relatives here, then perhaps you should stay there.’9 Debt servicing is another burden. The national coffer is drained by the automatic appropriation of 25 per cent of the annual national budget to debt servicing. Payments only cover the interest, not the principal debt. Mr Guillermo Carague, Chairperson of the Commission on Audit, says that Filipinos now owe a total of 2.38 trillion pesos (US$47.6 billion at US$1 ⫽ P50) – comprised of P1.135 (US$22.7 billion) trillion foreign debt (US$22.7 billion) and P1.245 trillion (US$24.9 billion) domestic debt. Carague warns that this ballooning government budget deficit, if not significantly reduced, may make the Philippines the next Argentina.10 The experience of the Philippines as well as other developing countries indicates that structural adjustment programmes have led to further impoverishment and inequalities. An authoritative United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) study on 124 countries revealed that ‘the income share of the richest 20 per cent of the world’s population rose from 69 to 83 per cent between 1965


and 1990’ (Bello 2001: 210–11). The study also identifies structural adjustment as the central cause of the lack of any progress in the campaign against poverty. The number of people globally living in poverty – that is, on less than a dollar a day – increased from 1.1 billion in 1985 to 1.2 billion in 1998, and is expected to reach 1.3 billion this year. (ibid) And because of gender subordination, impoverishment hits women more severely. It challenges women to creatively stretch limited family income, seek various ways to generate income, and sacrifice their own personal needs and requirements in favour of their husband/partner and/or children. This is part of the socialization into inequality which is ‘inscribed in social consensus regarding gender-based entitlements or claims which people can have on food, education, health care and the like’ (Illo 2002). A century of overseas labour migration, the last 28 years of which have been state-promoted and mediated, have made an impact on the national psyche, giving birth to a ‘culture of migration’ and creating family dependence on remittances at the family level. The long history of labour migration has resulted in the establishment of informal networks of family members, relatives, friends and kababayan (people from the same village/town or province) who have emigrated or are on contractual work abroad. Such networks have been intermediaries and facilitators of overseas labour migration, whether the legal or the clandestine type. Thus, overseas employment has enabled generations of Filipino families to survive, even overcome poverty, educate siblings and children, build houses and achieve some of their dreams. Certainly, there is public awareness about those who did not succeed abroad, and who experienced abuse and exploitation. But prospective migrants, desirous – nay, desperate – to support their families, only close their eyes and pray they will be luckier. In addition to the state, mass media has helped institutionalize the culture of migration. Advertisements of duty-free shops almost always feature a returning Filipino worker reunited with his/her family, and buying everything his/her family points at. The message is clear: overseas employment increases one’s purchasing power. Subliminally, it equates consumerism with making loved ones happy, as opposed to savings mobilization and productive utilization of migrant workers’ earnings. The positive images associated with migration leave no space for the fact that overseas employment has important social costs. Physical


separation strains marriages, renders husband and wife vulnerable to extra-marital liaisons, and eventually many couples separate. Philippinebased non-governmental organizations also report an increasing number of wives complaining that their husbands abroad have stopped sending financial support. At least 3 million children are growing up without one or both parents and studies show that children left behind feel abandoned (Nicodemus 1997).

Policy framework and infrastructure Denial of overseas employment as a state policy Overseas employment began as a ‘stop-gap’ measure to address unemployment and the lack of foreign exchange. Non-government organizations hasten to add that it was also a way of diffusing people’s discontent and anger over the deteriorating economic situation and the declaration of martial law by then President Ferdinand E. Marcos in September 1972. Overseas employment was institutionalized by the 1974 Labour Code of the Philippines. The Code, the ‘precursor of later policies on overseas employment’, also provided for a proactive role of the state not only in regulating the operations of private fee-charging recruitment and placement agencies, but also in the actual recruitment and deployment of workers abroad (Asis 1992). It set up the political infrastructure for the state to carry out such functions. And to generate foreign exchange, the Code made it mandatory for migrant workers to remit a certain percentage of their wages through the banking system. Succeeding policies, laws as well as implemented rules and regulations, increased and became stricter, at least in intent and on paper, in reaction to emerging problems and concerns, in particular with workers’ complaints of abuse and violations by private recruitment agencies, and the lack of recognition and protection of migrant workers’ rights in the country and abroad. The Philippine Overseas Employment Administration (the POEA) is the key government agency amidst all these. Established in 1982, the POEA streamlined the government bureaucracy for overseas employment. It was, and still is, the government authority under the Department of Labour and Employment tasked with regulating the employment of Filipino workers and professionals overseas. It accredits foreign employers, prescribes the documents to be submitted, oversees procedures to be undertaken, schedules the fees to be paid by prospective migrant workers, and processes employment contracts. It issues the


Overseas Employment Certificate to outbound workers who have met all requirements. The POEA is also involved in market development as well as direct recruitment and job placement abroad. Lastly, its mandate includes ensuring workers’ protection, and networking with all stakeholders in the industry – governments, recruitment agencies, NGOs and migrant workers’ associations/unions. The other frontline government agencies mandated to protect the rights and welfare of overseas Filipino workers are the Overseas Workers Welfare Administration (OWWA) and the Department of Foreign Affairs. OWWA is membership-based. It collects a membership fee of US$25.00 per worker which should be paid by employers. But, in reality, recruitment agencies charge the fee to the workers. As OWWA members, migrant workers are entitled to a package of social services. Finally, the Department of Foreign Affairs is the lead agency in embassies and consulates abroad. It hosts the Office of the Undersecretary for Migrant Workers Affairs which coordinates various services (e.g. legal assistance) to nationals abroad. Despite the presence of a comprehensive government infrastructure for the recruitment and deployment of Filipino workers abroad, as well as the protection of workers’ rights and interests, the official line has remained that there is no state-promoted export of labour. The Migrant Workers and Overseas Filipinos Act of 1995 states that ‘while recognizing the significant contribution of Filipino migrant workers to the national economy through their foreign exchange remittances, the State does not promote overseas employment as a means to sustain economic growth and achieve national development’.11

The state’s balancing act: the neoliberal economic agenda vs. the state’s role in the protection of migrant workers’ rights Among the post-Marcos presidents, Fidel V. Ramos (1992–8) was the most aggressive and upbeat in promoting ‘the panacea of globalization as the answer to all our woes’ (Bello 2001: 254). His six-year term was marked by ‘a comprehensive program of liberalization, deregulation, and privatization pursued with an almost Messianic zeal’ (ibid). His goal was NIC (newly industrialized country)-hood by the year 2000. Thus, the slogan: Philippines 2000. Ramos asserted that ‘overseas employment is not a program, it is a fact’, and that it was a structural feature inherent to increasing globalization (Candazo 1998). To him, it was an alternative source of employment opportunities, no longer a stop-gap measure. His Medium-Term


Development Plan for 1993–8 aimed to ‘continue the overseas employment program as an alternative source of employment opportunities … . The program should be strengthened through adequate strategies to ensure the dignity and welfare of workers and their families’ (ibid, author’s emphasis added). In this context, the role of the state shifted to one of managing labour migration. Management of labour migration meant that the state would: ‘provide needed facilities and services that meet the individual needs and aspirations of Filipinos who seek and find work abroad … maximize social gains and reduce the social costs of overseas employment’ (the POEA, as cited in Candazo 1998). Among the gains are remittances, and increased income for families. Social costs include the different forms of abuse and exploitation of Filipino workers, de-skilling, and family disintegration. This shift has made the state complacent in addressing the roots of the economic problems of the Phillippines, and has also weakened its bargaining position in relation to labourimporting countries (Candazo 1998). It was during the Ramos Administration that the current Migrant Workers and Overseas Filipinos Act (RA No. 8042) was enacted.12 After the 1974 Labour Code, this is the most significant and comprehensive legislation concerning overseas Filipinos. It reflects the unwieldy marriage of the Ramos government’s neoliberal economic agenda and the need for state protection for the rights and well-being of its overseas workers. The latter arose from the nation’s anger over the perceived inept handling by the Philippine government of the case of Flor Contemplacion resulting in her execution in March 1995 in Singapore. Ms Contemplacion was a domestic worker accused and found guilty by the Singapore courts of killing a fellow Filipina domestic worker and her ward. The Philippine government, it was felt, did not offer Ms Contemplacion adequate support and assistance during the trials. Barely three months after the execution of Ms Contemplacion, the government ratified the UN Convention for the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of Their Families, and enacted RA 8042. The latter, hurriedly put together as a political gesture to appease an angry public, contains contradictory provisions, reflecting the accommodation of opposing interest groups, as well as two ideologically divergent streams: On the one hand, there are neoliberal economics calling for continuing export of labour, diminished state functions and increased individual worker’s responsibility. On the other hand, there is the position represented by civil society calling for a strong and effective state regulation of the export of labour, protection of workers’


rights and welfare, and the development of the domestic economy so as to diminish the need for overseas employment. The two neoliberal concepts permeating RA 8042 were the plans of full disclosure and deregulation of the labour export industry by 2000. Essentially, the government transfers from itself to the individual migrant workers the sole accountability and responsibility for whatever may befall them in the process of recruitment, deployment, overseas work and return to the country. Full disclosure as a policy requires recruitment agencies to inform applicants truthfully about working and living conditions abroad. The applicants, in turn, must also honestly state their credentials and their health condition. They decide whether to take the job and assume the responsibility for the consequences. In the event they are abused abroad, they have only themselves to blame. No longer the government. The full disclosure policy overlooks the unequal status and power relations of agencies and would-be migrant workers. Agencies are profitoriented. They have the power to give or deny information to maximize their profit. They are fully aware of people’s desperation for jobs at any cost. And they are not above exploiting this. After all, labour supply exceeds demand. Would-be migrant workers have no leverage to force an agency to observe the policy. They have no way of checking the veracity of information from agencies. Moreover, they would not be inclined to file a case against an agency that refuses to give information they require. Finally, applicants do not choose their employers. The industry is demand-driven, and it is the foreign employers in conjunction with local and foreign recruitment agencies who make the choice. Contrary to the avowed goal of the government to empower would-be migrant workers through the full disclosure policy, the latter has only made ‘willing victims’ out of them, the underlying premise being that they had been duly and fully informed prior to deployment. The progressive policy of deregulation of recruitment activities is one whereby ‘the migration of workers becomes strictly a matter between the worker and his foreign employer’ (Section 29 RA 8042), and where the ‘ultimate protection of the worker is the possession of skills’ (Section 2g RA 8042). The latter implies that skilled workers (e.g. professionals as opposed to domestic workers) are less likely to be abused and exploited abroad. This is absolutely not true, as a number of Filipina nurses abroad have not been spared abuse or violence. Section 29 mandated the Department of Labour and Employment (DoLE) to produce a five-year comprehensive deregulation plan on recruitment activities within a year after the law came into effect.


Section 30 reinforced deregulation by providing for the phase-out of the regulatory functions of the POEA by year 2000. Not surprisingly, these two sections generated support from recruitment, placement and manning agencies, and opposition from migrant workers’ organizations and non-governmental organizations (NGOs) promoting and protecting the rights and welfare of overseas workers. On the other end of the spectrum, the RA 8042 does include several pro-migrant workers provisions resulting from the lobby efforts of migrant workers’ associations and support NGOs: (a) the state’s commitment to the protection of the rights of all workers, both local and overseas, regardless of immigration status; (b) a policy of selective deployment which favours the deployment of migrant workers to countries where their rights are protected; (c) a policy of gender sensitivity, meaning ‘cognizance of the inequalities and inequities prevalent in society between women and men and a commitment to address issues with concern for the respective interests of the sexes’ (Section 3b RA 8042); (d) the criminalization of recruitment violations, unlike before when such violations were treated as mere administrative offences; and (e) which services the state should provide, such as legal assistance. Regrettably, these provisions have not been fully and effectively observed. Selective deployment, for instance, is meaningless in the face of government’s urgent need to export at least a million workers annually. Therefore, civil society organizations have continued to call for the state to uphold and protect the rights and welfare of its migrant workers. This is in everyone’s interest. Without migrant workers’ remittances, the economy would collapse.

The policy to deregulate the labour export industry Rationale Deregulation is one of the pillars of the Structural Adjustment Programmes imposed by the International Monetary Fund (IMF) on debtor-countries like the Philippines. It refers to the removal of government restrictions and other interventions in the economy. It also involves streamlining the bureaucracy. Under neoliberal globalization, deregulation is part of the package of free market reforms that includes liberalization, privatization, and labour contractualization and flexibilization. Deregulation of the labour export industry was premised on (a) the view that too many regulations lead to irregular migration – then Labour Secretary, Nieves Confesor, used this argument to urge Congress to adopt a progressive


policy of deregulation in 1995 culminating in migration becoming strictly a matter between worker and employer; and (b) the Philippines would have become a newly industrialized country by the year 2000, thereby offering more choices to the people, and levelling the playing field. Since 1995, government officials have assured the public that deregulation simply means reducing bureaucratic red tape, and not abdicating state responsibility to protect overseas workers. Thus, despite the Philippine government’s failure to attain NIC-hood by 2000, the POEA, pursuant of Section 29 of RA 8042, began the five-year phase-out period of its regulatory functions. It adopted a comprehensive deregulation plan which echoes the World Bank–IMF mantra in explaining the raison d’ être for deregulating the industry: improve efficiency, reduce government spending, develop market-friendly environment and generate government revenues.

Components The deregulation plan consists of three main components: first, streamlining the overseas employment system; second, a revision of the rules and regulations governing overseas employment to make them more facilitative and friendly to deployment; and third the creation of safetynets for workers.13 Streamlining the system for better marketing of workers abroad would, claims the POEA Administrator Baldoz, help the POEA achieve its goal of deploying one million overseas workers yearly. Streamlining will make the POEA a better marketer, promoter and exporter of Filipino workers. Thus, one of the gains cited by the POEA is the adoption of the full disclosure policy. As discussed above, this is a contentious issue. A second gain is the reduction in the processing time of applications through the establishment of one-stop accreditation and contracts processing centres for land-based and sea-based workers, and the transfer from the DoLE Secretary to the POEA Administrator of the approval on the issuance and renewal of licenses of recruitment agencies. At present, one of the things that remain to be done is the decentralization of the issuance of provincial recruitment authorities and the task of community-based recruitment to the POEA’s Regional Extension Units. This means that the recruitment and deployment of workers will also involve the active and aggressive participation of local government units. These local government units would be encouraged to both establish bilateral and multilateral links with overseas factories and corporations in need of cheap foreign workers, and deploy workers themselves.


The revision of rules and regulations is in fact a development towards market-driven employment standards for workers. The new rules, implemented in May 2002, make it difficult for agencies to enter the industry by increasing required capital, and cash bonds. The objective seems to be to limit the industry to those with resources adequate enough to cover claims that aggrieved workers may eventually make. However, once accredited, an agency will find that the new rules and regulations are very facilitative. This is because authentication is no longer a requirement for documentation for the accreditation or registration of foreign employers. Also it is now possible to work with open or multiple registration/accreditation of foreign employers. This replaces the old single accreditation policy, thereby freeing the foreign labour market from an exclusive arrangement. Licensed recruitment/placement agencies may now negotiate and forge agreements with any foreign employer. Job openings can now be advertised without securing prior approval by the POEA. This means that labour standards founded on the recognition of workers’ rights to fair and humane working and living conditions are being liberalized. Market realities, not workers’ rights, are now the basis of the POEA in determining, formulating and reviewing employment standards. The POEA refers to this move as ‘rationalizing’ employment standards. The creation of safety-nets falls into the following three categories. First, there are measures which ensure that recruitment and deployment are to be undertaken only by those with adequate financial resources. Second, there are measures which facilitate the resolution of cases involving workers and recruiters. This includes strengthening the POEA adjudication system to achieve zero backlog and to attain its goal of resolving a case within 90 days after filing, as well as institutionalizing voluntary arbitration as a mode of conflict resolution. Finally, there are measures which strengthen workers’ protection on site. An example is the plan to forge more bilateral labour arrangements with labour-importing countries. However, if the Philippine government’s actual performance were to be the gauge, the future looks bleak. After almost 30 years of export of labour, only 21 out of at least 160 countries where Filipino workers are deployed have bilateral labour agreements with the Philippines.

Critique of deregulation The main critique of deregulation is that at present conditions in the Philippines are not ripe for this policy. And enforcing it now means the state is abdicating its accountability and responsibility for the protection


of the rights and interests of its workers. And amidst the dominant neoliberal economics, this results in the institutionalization of the commodification of migrant workers. First, deregulation was premised on the Philippines becoming a newly industrialized country by the year 2000, but this has not happened. On the contrary, because of increasing impoverishment, Filipinos do no have as many economic and social options to choose from. As discussed above, prospective migrant workers do not have the power to choose their foreign employer. They make do with what the recruitment agency says is available. Moreover, a cursory view of the overseas labour market indicates that private brokers and recruiters continue to play a pivotal role in the market. But overseas employment should not become a matter between employer and worker only. Government intervention remains critical in stopping brokers/recruiters from exploiting the people’s interest in becoming overseas workers. Second, recruitment violations by private agencies remain unabated. The most common violation is the illegal exaction of placement fees. The POEA prescribes that the placement fee charged by private agencies should not exceed the equivalent of a month’s salary in the country of destination. However, the applicant is often not aware of this, and even if he or she knew about it, the desire to get a job abroad would make him/her pay more than what is legally allowed. Thus, actual placement fees charged by agencies from workers are at least twice the amount of the authorized one. A woman applying for domestic work in Hong Kong usually pays an agent a minimum of US$1,500 when the job would pay her less than US$500 a month. Illegal recruitment, both by legal and unauthorized agencies, is also on the rise. It is additional proof that private recruitment and manning agencies are not ready to self-regulate. Third, the nature of jobs Filipino workers take on abroad definitely requires bilateral and multilateral agreements/arrangements between the government and labour-importing countries. Filipino and other Asian migrant workers are overwhelmingly concentrated in the lowest paid and socially devalued occupations, especially in the ‘3-D’ occupations (dirty, difficult and dangerous). This is generally the case irrespective of the legal status of the migrant workers … The concentration of migrant workers in particular occupations and industries, and the entrenched nature of this pattern of employment, signals an institutionalized labour market segmentation. (Rosewarne 1998: 6)


Women in domestic work and entertainment are especially at risk to abuse and exploitation because of their exclusion from labour and social legislation in the receiving countries, the live-in arrangement with employers, the low valuation and low status of their work, and the gender subordination involved. Possession of skills is evidently not adequate protection in this situation. Last, but not least, deregulation is an abdication of the state’s role as the regulator and guarantor of the common good, and its responsibility to protect its workers. The Philippine-based Alliance of Migrant Workers and Advocates for the Amendment of RA 8042 (AMEND), composed of 14 migrants’ associations and NGOs, has issued a position paper that states: R.A. 8042’s objective of eventual deregulation in the face of widespread violations of labor standards, violence against women in overseas employment, and hostile acts of racism, discrimination, and xenophobia suffered by migrant workers in general, envisions a purely pro-recruiter, market-driven labor export industry.14 Deregulation removes state intervention in the area of workers’ protection. Ironically, the state continues to proactively intervene in the globalization of Filipino labour and the liberalization of labour standards. True, the state has not adequately and effectively protected workers’ interests in a regulated environment. But this is no reason to diminish its role and transfer the burden of protection onto the individual migrant worker. According to Ball and Piper (2000), The responsibilities of the nation state to its globalized citizenry is an issue of political legitimacy, where there is a strong expectation from Philippine nationals at home and abroad that the state will act to protect the interests and wellbeing of migrant workers. (Ball and Piper 2000: 10) Unfortunately, at present, overseas workers cannot directly undermine the state’s political legitimacy as they continue to be denied the right to vote.

Deregulation institutionalizes and exacerbates the commodification of overseas workers Not unlike agricultural or industrial export products, the worth and value of overseas workers is now determined by market forces. With the entry into the labour market of workers from other poor impoverished


countries, competition does not depend on the highest bidder but rather on the cheapest and most flexible labour available. Such ‘weakening of global labour standards is part and parcel of neoliberal agendas, and as a result, employment practices are far from becoming standardized across the globe’ (Ball and Piper 2000: 20). The commodification of labour is manifested in the removal of workers’ protection. The new rules on employment standards have reduced the earlier mandatory minimum employment standards to mere guidelines. These guidelines are subject to market forces, that is, the employers’ capacity to pay. They give the parties involved the ‘freedom to stipulate other terms and conditions provided these are not contrary to law, morals and public policy’.15 This qualifier is virtually meaningless in the face of the trend in some labourreceiving countries towards non-recognition of migrant workers’ rights, and exclusionary, restrictive and discriminatory policies. Consider the agreement which DoLE Secretary Santo Tomas made with Saudi Arabian labour officials on 25–28 May 2002 in the Kingdom. It allows for wages to be determined by the ‘dynamics of the market’. The only limit imposed is that an unskilled worker must not be paid less than the prescribed daily minimum wage for a non-agricultural worker in the National Capital Region of the Philippines, i.e. P280.00 (US$5.60 daily).16 The agreement also stipulates that any amendment, revision, or substantial alteration of the work site of the POEA-processed contract is to be allowed only with the approval of Saudi Arabia’s Ministry of Labour and Social Affairs in coordination with the Philippine Overseas Labour Office. It is not difficult to anticipate which of the two countries will be the decisive one. The Philippine government has, time and again, acceded to demands by the Saudi government (e.g. the turnover to the Saudi police of runaway Filipina domestic workers who had previously found shelter at the Philippine Embassy), fearful of losing its share of the Saudi foreign labour market. Another feature, which is both objectionable and controversial, is that legal decisions, even in the Philippines, taken by the POEA, OWWA and the National Labour Relations Commission will be subject to agreements, settlements, waivers agreed upon by employers and Filipino workers in Saudi Arabia, and to decisions arrived at by Saudi labour courts and authorities. The only condition here is that such agreements, waivers, settlements and decisions are attested to by officials of the Philippine Overseas Labour Office. A worker in distress in Saudi Arabia usually wants to return to the bosom of his/her family in the Philippines as soon as possible. Furthermore, the conditions in the receiving country are usually not conducive for the pursuit of legal action to obtain justice. Thus, distressed


workers may be predisposed to sign any waiver or settlement or agreement in exchange for an exit permit. Once in the Philippines, though, they may decide to file charges against their recruitment agencies, invoking the latter’s ‘joint and solidary liability’ with the foreign principals. With the binding effect of any waiver, agreement or settlement and of the decisions by Saudi authorities, workers are no longer allowed to file charges against their recruitment agencies in the Philippines. So, the Philippine government has closed down one avenue for legal redress. Commodification also means the diminution of workers’ benefits and entitlements in favour of global competitiveness and greater profit for the companies. An example is the DoLE’s Department Order No. 04 that took effect on 25 June 2000. It amended certain provisions of the Rules on the Standard Terms and Conditions Governing the Employment of Filipino Seafarers on Board Ocean-Going Vessels adopted by the POEA. Section 20 states: ‘If a Filipino seafarer dies on board the vessel, his family could not claim any benefit, unless the cause of his death was established to be work-related.’17 This is now part of the new standard employment contract for seafarers. The fact that the Philippines is a signatory to almost all UN instruments on human rights, including the UN Convention for the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of Their Families, does not stop the POEA from compromising the human and labour rights of migrants. Needless to say, deregulation has met strong opposition among organizations representing migrants both outside and inside the Philippines. The main strategy is to repeal the legal basis for the full deregulation of the labour export industry (Sections 29 and 30 of RA 8042). Earlier this year AMEND’s lobbying has resulted in the House of Representatives’ third and final reading of ‘An Act to Strengthen the Regulatory Functions of the Philippine Overseas Employment Administration, Amending for this Purpose Republic Act No. 8042 …’ (House Bill No. 4279, 2002). In the Senate, Sen. Francis N. Pangilinan has sought the repeal of Sections 29 and 30 of RA 8042. The senator argues that it cannot be denied that overseas Filipino workers continue to be vulnerable to human rights violations because many labor receiving countries, which regard them as cheap and flexible labor, deny them the same status and entitlements given to their local workers.18 The repeal of Sections 29 and 30 is but one of several major amendments to RA 8042 to transform it into one that truly lives up to its name of ‘An Act to Institute the Policies of Overseas Employment and Establish


a Higher Standard of Protection and Promotion of the Welfare of Migrant Workers, Their Families and Overseas Filipinos in Distress’. AMEND has also joined forces with other cause-oriented organizations in the country that are critical of and oppose the government policies consistent with neoliberal globalization, policies that have proven themselves to be lethal to the attainment of genuine national development, sovereignty and equality.

Conclusion The Philippines has a relatively longer history of state-orchestrated export of labour compared with other labour-sending countries. It has developed a political and administrative infrastructure, a system of rules and regulations to proactively globalize Filipino labour while continuing to deny the latter as a state policy. Export of Filipino labour is expected to continue, even intensify, in the next decade in the context of a weak domestic economy which has not been bettered by the Philippine state’s compliance with neoliberal economic development strategies. Deregulation as implemented by the POEA is ambiguous as the state tries to keep some protective mechanisms while allowing market forces to determine employment standards. What is clear at this point is that the state uses deregulation to become a better exporter of workers abroad at any cost, even blatantly denying workers’ human and labour rights, and eroding gains in labour standards won through collective struggle by Filipino migrant workers’ associations worldwide. It is an abdication of state responsibility to protect workers as it shifts the accountability and responsibility to the migrant workers themselves by virtue of their supposed full access to information, possession of skills, and employment being a matter solely between employer and employee. The price that deregulation exacts is not limited to workers’ dignity, rights and dear life itself. It also takes its toll on national dignity and respect as a nation, and the respect of the international community. Thus, the urgency of continuing to lobby for the repeal of the legal bases of deregulation in RA 8042, and to study and expose the anti-migrant dimensions of the neoliberal agenda.

Notes 1 Philippine Overseas Employment Administration (the POEA), ‘Deployment of land-based newly hired overseas filipino workers by skills, category and sex’, January–July 2002, http://www.poea.gov.ph.

118 Overseas Filipino Workers 2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12

13 14

15 16

17 18

See also Department of Labour and Employment (DoLE), ‘OFWs remit $6.2 B in 2001’, 11 April 2002, DoLE Press Release, Manila. Traces, no. 16, October–December 2001, and no.17, January–March 2002, edited by A. Rogers, Transnational Communities Programme, http://www. transcomm.ox.ac.uk/traces/issue16.htm. DoLE, ‘DOLE deploys 280,882 OFWs in April, 2002’, Press Release, http://www.dole.gov.ph/news/press releases 2002/April/158.htm. POEA, ‘Deployment of overseas Filipino workers by top 10 destinations 2000–2001’, http://www.poea.gov.ph. POEA, ‘Deployment of land-based newly hired overseas filipino sorkers by skills, category and sex’, January–July 2002, http://www.poea.gov.ph. J. Yu, ‘Poverty still a growing problem in the Philippines’, IBON Features, no. 43, 8 July 2002, http://www.ibon.org. Manila. Ibid. Philippine Daily Inquirer, 28 July 2001. A. Dumlao, ‘Top Arroyo official says RP could be next Argentina’, in Bulatlat.com 2/16, 26 May–1 June, 2002, http:// www.bulatlat.com. Sec. 2 (c) of the Declaration of Policies of RA No. 8042, Philippine Overseas Employment Administration Migrant Workers and Overseas Filipinos Act of 1995 (Republic Act No. 8042 and its Implementing Rules and Regulations) August 1997, Manila. The following sections are based on the Declaration of Policies of RA No. 8042, Philippine Overseas Employment Administration Migrant Workers and Overseas Filipinos Act of 1995 (Republic Act No. 8042 and its Implementing Rules and Regulations) August 1997, Manila. POEA (1999), ‘Progress Report on the Implementation of Deregulation’ (internal document). Alliance of Migrant Workers and Advocates to Amend RA 8042 (AMEND), ‘Uphold migrant rights and interests: amend RA 8042!’, 2001, Quezon City: AMEND. POEA, ‘POEA Rules and Regulations Governing the Recruitment and Employment of LandBased Workers’, 2001, Quezon City. ‘Summary of Discussions between the Delegations of the Saudi Ministry of Labour and Social Affairs, and the Philippine Department of Labour and Employment May 25–9’, Arab News, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, 9 June 2002. http://www.arabnews.com/Article.asp. DoLE, ‘Department Order No. 4’, 2000, Manila. This order took effect from 25 June 2000. Senator F. Pangilinan Senate Bill No. 2068 (2002) Explanatory Note, Manila, copy forwarded to author from Senator’s office.

Part III Old Homelands, New Policies


6 Mother India’s Forgotten Children Marie Lall

Early in 2002 the Bharatia Janata Party (BJP) government in India announced that it had finally decided that Indians abroad would be granted dual citizenship.1 Up until then, the official policy of the party had been rather hazy. In their previous election manifestos the contributions of the Non-Resident Indians (NRIs) were to be acknowledged and NRI contributions to the mother country were to be encouraged. But the BJP stopped short of offering dual citizenship, as this would mean a constitutional change for India. The BJP offered a green-card scheme to the diaspora, allowing them to invest and remain in India for long periods of time, yet this was seen by many as not sufficient. Whilst the constitutional changes for dual citizenship have still to be set in motion, and the process will take several years, this still represents the greatest policy shift vis-à-vis the Indian diaspora in the half-century of Indian independence. The relationship between India and its children abroad has been fraught with difficulties. The background to this lies in the Raj and India’s independence movement led by Gandhi and Nehru. This chapter will briefly describe the difficult relationship between the country of origin and the diaspora, explaining which foreign and domestic policy concerns helped shape a policy which was to last over 50 years. Studying the South Asian diaspora involves considerations such as race, culture, caste and religion; economic and political issues seen in the larger historical and contemporary context of ethnic incorporation and race differentiation. Generally speaking, studies have been undertaken from an anthropological, sociological, economic or historical point of view, focusing on the problem in a regional context. These approaches, though, have consistently ignored the international relations aspect of the diaspora with its home country and the 121

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complex triangular relationship of diaspora, country of origin and host country. India is a very unusual case when it comes to state– diaspora relations. Before Independence, India saw its role as the mother country to all Indians wherever they were. It was unimportant whether they had migrated for economic gain or if some part of the imperial system had taken them abroad. However, at Independence, India developed a new approach when dealing with its diaspora: unlike any other nation or state, the government maintained that those Indians who leave or have left their country of origin forfeit their rights as Indians and have to integrate into their host societies. This was exemplified by the Ugandan Crisis in 1972, the crisis in Fiji in the mid-1980s and many other smaller incidents. The fact is that Mother India has pushed its diaspora away since Independence, and despite recent rhetorical change the actual reality is not yet very much different from 50 years ago. This is to a large extent due to the diverging agendas of the various actors involved. Whilst the government of India wanted India’s economic development to be independent from all outside influence (Swadeshi – Gandhian principle of Indian economic self-sufficiency), the more recent governments have wanted to cash in on NRI funds without, however, allowing NRIs the privileges they would enjoy were they to invest in other countries. India wanted liberalization but still maintained a certain level of protectionism in order not to ‘sell out’ to foreign investors. The NRIs, however, wanted full economic liberalization in order to invest in India’s economy. They also wanted dual citizenship – an issue that provoked hot debates all over the country. The resentment, which developed at a popular and political level, made sure that the relationship did not substantially move forward in the 10 years since India’s market opened up. The definition of Non-Resident Indians (NRIs) for this chapter is taken in the widest possible sense: it will include the Indian diaspora which left before Independence and is generally referred to as People of Indian Origin (PIOs), the non-residents who have given up their Indian passports and those who have retained their Indian citizenship yet choose to live abroad. The Indian government’s policy has not differed widely with respect to the three groups mentioned, but PIOs are generally seen as less of an asset as their ties to India are weaker than those who left after Indian independence. The PIOs are also seen as a more problematic group with respect to the citizenship debate, as they could have originated from areas that are now Pakistan or Bangladesh. If NRIs were ever to be offered the dual nationality the status of PIOs would be another controversial and hotly debated subject.

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Historical background Indians had left India in several large waves for the plantations in Malaya, Burma, the Caribbean and Fiji at the end of the nineteenth century. Another wave of labourers left mainly for Africa before the First World War. Traders left throughout the colonial period to open shops in various parts of the British Empire. Pre-Independence India was very concerned about the fate of its expatriate population. This was especially evident at the Imperial Conferences2 held before the Second World War. The significant shift of policy was to come about at Independence and will be analysed later in the chapter. At the Imperial Conference of 1921, the Indian delegation lobbied for equal rights with the British population to be granted to the overseas Indian population living in the Dominions. Whilst New Zealand, Canada and Australia were ready to accept Indian equality, especially in view of the enormous contribution to the war effort, the British did not support the proposal as they saw Indians abroad as a threat and competition to the British getting the best land. Besides, giving a brown population equal rights with a white one was unheard of in those days. At the 1923 Imperial Conference the issue of discrimination in South Africa was again taken up by Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru. In the case of South Africa the principle of reciprocity was not respected and the government of India felt it wanted to send an agent to South Africa to protect Indians there. The Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa explained that in South Africa it was not a question of colour, but that a different principle was involved, namely: That the attitude of thinking men in South Africa was not that the Indian was inferior because of his colour or on any other ground – he might be their superior – but the question had to be considered from the point of view of economic competition. In other words, the white community in South Africa felt that the whole question of the continuance of western civilisation in South Africa was involved. (Ollivier 1954: 15) The British imperial authorities were not particularly interested in helping the Indian communities who were being discriminated against. It was therefore left to the Indian government to fight for the rights of overseas Indians. Since India was not a national government, it could maintain an interest in the welfare of the expatriate community, but could do no more than lobby with the Imperial powers or ban the export


of labour to the Dominions. India’s lobbying at the Imperial Conferences had some success as it overcame a reluctance to discuss the problem of expatriate Indians in general and made it one of the Conference’s major items throughout the early part of the century. In Delhi a separate department of overseas Indians was created and had at its head Dr N. B. Khare.3 He declared with reference to the antiIndian measures that: ‘Some means must be found for maintaining the dignity and prestige of Indians and the government of India even in wartime. … Had India been independent she would have considered this a casus belli against South Africa’ (Twaddle 1975: 22). In 1943 a Reciprocity Act was passed which enabled the government of India to ‘institute counter measures’. In fact India retaliated by issuing a notice that the rights of South Africans residing in India would be reduced in the same way as those of Indians in South Africa. This was not to prove very useful in practical terms, as there were no South Africans in India. Later the Indian government decided to terminate the Indo-South African trade agreement, and announced a trade boycott (Apparsamy 1943: 61–79). This was meant to harm South Africa economically, especially since during the war India had become South Africa’s third most important source of imports. In fact India was exporting five times as much as she was importing, but a major item being imported was coal from Natal which was already in short supply (ibid: 80). Despite this, the trade boycott came into force. Direct relations between the two countries came to a halt after nearly fifty years of negotiations on the Indian diaspora, which numbered 282,407 in 1946 (Heimsath and Mansingh 1971: 305). Whilst India was very concerned about its nationals abroad the South Africa case is special, as India was dealing with another member of the Imperial Conference without going through its colonial master – that is, Britain. Most other places where Indians were living abroad were at the time not independent countries but part of the British Empire and subject to British treatment and law. As a result India did not impose any sanctions on any other host state. It is also important to note that prior to Independence, India, being a part of the Empire, had its citizenship regulated by Britain. All Indians had some form of British citizenship. When India became independent all Indians in India became Indian. The Indians abroad remained British, but that was not straightforward, because there were several classes of citizenship, such as British subject, British protected person, and British citizen, and different forms of British travel papers. Who had what status depended on the country they were in and under what

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circumstances they or their ancestors had arrived. When the rest of the Commonwealth gradually became independent the Indians had to choose whether to become nationals of the country they were in, keep their British papers or in some cases apply for Indian nationality (difficult to get after Independence). The average family tried to keep a foot in each camp by having each individual member apply for a different status – that is, one remained British, one became, say, Ugandan and one tried to become Indian. It has been shown that at this point, before the Second World War and Indian independence, India maintained a nationalist policy. The government of India recognized that it bore responsibility for its overseas population, and used its voice in all forums to propagate this claim. It also recognized the diaspora as being part of the nationalist movement, which was to rid India of colonialism. To this end the government of India sent deputations to different parts of the Empire to report on particular problems concerning the Indian diaspora and to collect funds, which was to help the nationalist movement back home (Heimsath and Mansingh 1971: 240).

The Nehruvian doctrine In a total reversal of the original policy the Nehruvian doctrine was adopted in 1947. It not only excluded the issue of expatriate Indians totally from Indian foreign and domestic policy formulation, but also actively encouraged the diaspora to integrate into their host societies. The exclusion of a policy towards expatriate Indians was facilitated by India’s independent and closed model of economic development, which actively discriminated against outside involvement. The Nehruvian policy vis-à-vis the diaspora developed out of India’s search for a new and independent identity with the advent of independence. India’s task of nation and state building required that the government take some ideological and political stands. As far as imperialism was concerned, India’s new government was committed to the permanent withdrawal of colonial rule from Africa and all other colonized nations. Nehru believed that the people in Asia who had experienced decolonization had a special responsibility towards the people in Africa and their struggle for freedom. India was especially concerned about British Africa, hoping to exert some influence in London. It also decided to actively support the struggle against the British in East Africa despite the interests of some Indian entrepreneurs in the region (Heimsath and Mansingh 1971: 288–9). Nehru soon spread the message that Indians


who had left their country of origin to seek fortune abroad had to integrate with the local population, support their struggle and even put the indigenous needs first. According to him, they had come to be economically successful as guests in these countries, and now they owed their hosts support in their political path. In a Lok Sabha (the Indian House of Commons) speech he stated: Now these Indians abroad, what are they? Indian citizens? Are they going to be citizens of India or not? If they are not, then our interest in them becomes cultural and humanitarian, not political. That interest of course remains. For instance, take the Indians of Fiji or Mauritius: are they going to retain their nationality or will they become Fiji nationals or Mauritians? The same question arises in regard to Burma and Ceylon. It is a difficult question. This house gets mixed up. It wants to treat them as Indians, and with the same breath it wants a complete franchise for them in the countries where they are living. Of course the two things do not go together. Either they get the franchise as nationals of the other country, or treat them as Indians minus the franchise and ask for the most favourable treatment given to an alien.4 To a certain extent this policy was also linked to the fact that all problems concerning the diaspora were no longer inter-imperial matters to be solved under the auspices of one great regulatory power, but concerned sovereign or potential sovereign states with independent interests which had to be reconciled with India. India couldn’t afford to be vociferous on the fate of Indians abroad and put potential good international diplomatic relations at risk (Heimsath and Mansingh 1971: 302). In the postwar era, the world was reorganizing itself into power blocs, based on politico-economic systems and beliefs. Very soon Nehru realized that any form of alignment would be detrimental to India and a third way was devised. Nehru dreamt of combining economic mobilization with political conciliation, a soviet-style economy with Western policy (Hanson 1968: 43). Seeing India as the model to all decolonizing nations, Nehru wanted a ‘third world bloc’ to follow certain moral principles based on anti-imperialism and non-dependency, and India had to go ahead with the good example. This also meant making friends with the countries fighting off the imperial system, and those who had already gained independence. A strong line on the fate of a small Indian minority in those countries, who had left India voluntarily to make a better life for themselves, would have been counterproductive for India.

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The Nehruvian policy was maintained throughout the first 45 years following Independence. The diaspora was marginalized economically and politically and any ties which remained were based on family relationships. The first time the doctrine was seriously put into question was in 1991 when India went through a major economic crisis which required economic and political reforms. The new diaspora Forty-five years later the NRI community had a changed profile. Whilst the original diaspora was a direct product of the imperial era, the 1960s and 1970s brought about a new labour exodus, this time for the Middle East and Gulf countries such as UAE and Kuwait, but also to Saudi Arabia, Oman and Iraq. Unskilled, semiskilled and skilled labour left in hordes for the Promised Land where labour force was in shortage. The salaries promised to be higher than back home and would allow for substantial savings. These emigrants differed from previous expatriate Indians in one fundamental way: their expatriation was to be temporary, as none of the Middle East countries wanted to keep them for good. But there has also been permanent emigration. The ‘brain drain’ as it is commonly known to this day, is a phenomenon where young doctors, Table 6.1 Annual outflow of emigrant workers in the Middle East from India, 1976–87 Year

Number of persons (in thousands)

1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987

4.2 22.9 69.0 171.8 268.2 272.0 224.0 (93.6) 217.9 (96.9) 198.5 (96.4) 160.3 (98.4) 109.2 (96.1) 121.8 (97.2)

Note: Numbers in parenthesis give percentage of emigrants to the Middle East. Source: Stock of Indian immigrants in Gulf countries, December 1990.


scientists, lawyers and computer specialists have left India for the US, Canada or Australia to have a better life. Often this expatriation started with a further degree in their field of specialization, which has then led them to stay on; other times it has been simply to fill job vacancies abroad. There again the gain was phenomenal: huge salaries, good education and health care for the families and, after a few years, possibly the passport of the chosen place. All these ‘new’ categories of NRIs made substantial money and maintained informal family ties with their mother country. Throughout its economic development in the 1970s and 1980s India tried to make some room for the remittances coming from the Gulf, but failed to open up the economy for any serious NRI investment which went beyond the family/state border. It is also interesting to note that the government did not keep separate records for NRI remittances from the Gulf or elsewhere and most statistics were rough approximations. The government’s economic mismanagement was so great that in the late 1980s the ‘hot money’ coming from the Gulf was being withdrawn, leaving India with a foreign exchange crisis without precedence. As a result, the early 1990s was now facing a totally new situation: the profile of the diaspora had changed significantly but the Indian policy was still largely inadequate for tapping into the economic resources of the diaspora.

The economic crisis and the NRI option At the end of 1990, India woke up to the fact that it only had enough foreign currency left to pay the interest of its debts for another few days. The government realized that it had to change its economic strategy very quickly if it was not to default and go bankrupt. A sense of national crisis enveloped the country. This also meant that the debate about the relationship with the NRIs took centre-stage as India weighed its options on how to get foreign currency flowing into the country again. Special concessions were set up for the NRIs to invest their wealth into the Indian industry, initiate new industrial ventures or simply deposit foreign currency in Indian bank accounts. But a great deal of bureaucracy remained and although this was a step in the right direction, investment procedures had not really been simplified. For NRIs who would have wanted to bring in their savings and invest into industry or buy property, the fact that non-repatriation of capital was still the norm on many investments served as a disincentive. However it is interesting to note that in the pre-reform period, when the Indian government was working out ways to get out of its

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balance-of-payments problems, it was the (then) opposition who most loudly advocated the return of the NRI and the exclusive opening of the Indian economy to the NRIs. Suddenly they were hailed as the potential saviour of their mother country with their incredible wealth and of course they owed it to their country of origin: BJP leader L. K. Advani said that his party would strive to mobilise enormous resources of Indians abroad to extricate the country from the financial crisis. … Mr. Advani maintained that the new Government has to tap the NRIs’ deposit potential of $70 to 80 billion to repay the country’s foreign debt which did not exceed $65 billion.5 They saw this as a direct alternative to the reforms and to the IMF loan: There is possibly a feeling that instead of going to the IMF and succumb to their conditionalities it would be more prudent to go to the NRIs. All that we need is a mere $5 billion or so and the NRIs, it has been estimated, have more than $20 billion stacked up in banks abroad. A fourth of that should be no problem.6 Yet the Congress-led government in power held the view that patriotism was possibly the smallest incentive to the NRIs, and that in order to attract their funds India had to put its house in order. In fact there was a feeling that investments in the form of projects were needed rather than more bank deposits which could leave the country at a moment’s notice. Further, NRI bank deposits were nothing more than a different form of debt: In these days of financial crisis, I find that people cannot stop looking towards NRIs for salvation. One proposal after another is made to bribe NRIs into depositing more money with us. … This means that NRIs can suddenly withdraw thousands of crores overnight, plunging India into default.7 Finally, in 1991, the new government, led by Prime Minister P. V. Narasimha Rao and his finance minister the economist Dr Manmohan Singh, both members of the Congress party, embarked on immediate and extensive reforms. The government’s first priority was to stop the slide and restore India’s credibility both domestically and internationally. To achieve this, immediate measures to avert default in international payments and restore the macro economic balance had to be taken. External capital was now allowed into 34 major areas from which non-Indian capital had previously been excluded (e.g. telecom, power and oil exploration). In fact foreign investors could now acquire majority


shareholding in Indian companies. The private sector was let into some areas which had remained reserved for the public sector previously, such as road building and aviation; tariffs were slashed (from 300 per cent in 1991 to 50 per cent in 1995) and the rupee was made convertible on the trade account (Tharoor 1997: 171–2). The government risked two devaluations of the rupee so that India would integrate more easily into the world economy. Part and parcel of the reforms was the reduction of bureaucratic processes which had taken so much time and energy for any industry which wanted to expand, or any investment to be approved.

1991 – a missed opportunity The year 1991 specifically represents a missed opportunity. The government was caught trying to pacify as many demands as possible, not with any clear goal in sight. It seems as if the discourse of liberalization had simply replaced the discourse on planning in the political fora. It remained a debate of good vs. bad, without any clear direction, and as a result the implementation in general, and with respect to the NRIs in particular, lagged behind the rhetoric severely. The argument that ‘national economic sovereignty’ was threatened by liberalizations that opened India to the world was the standing argument of the political left and the Hindu nationalists.8 They argued that the reforms only touched a fraction of the Indian population and that the masses had nothing to gain but everything to lose. Indian industrialists complained of the reforms, as it took away the protectionism they had become used to and exposed their weakness to competition. The outside investor, and that included the NRI, was still the economic predator who wanted to take advantage of the Indian economy for his own benefit. He was relying too much on imported machinery, rather than using the indigenous options, and did not reinvest the profits made into the country, but took it all abroad. For 45-odd years India had lived within the parameters of the Nehruvian vision: at the base socialist and not intent on profit and performance. Now that that system was being shed it put a lot of India’s raison d’être into question. The reasons for stagnation The resulting reality was that the rhetoric of change did not all translate into action. India in 1991 had been forced to open its economy in order to save it from collapsing, but once saved, the process of liberalization

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started to stagnate. Policy implementation is always slower than the rhetoric preceding it, especially when the country is as large and diverse as India is. But in India’s case the political willingness to cut with the Nehruvian tradition and to jump headfirst into a new system where outside capital would dictate the Indian state of affairs was not there with the majority of the population or the politicians, no matter what they said. As a result the structural changes in the administration became painfully slow and the public sector was not dismantled. Nehru’s system had come as a package and now that it was time to take some parts and leave others there was no one willing to do it. As a result the government was stuck.9 The main reasons for stagnation were the prejudice towards foreign investment, bureaucracy and the local industrial lobby. The experience of colonialism and memories of post independence neo-colonialism as well as that of the Gandhian principles of Swadeshi had influenced Indian thinking about foreign investment. These ideological legacies included an apparent dislike for foreign investment. As a result, India had made a choice in favour of planned development soon after gaining political independence and the Planning Commission was constituted in February 1950. It follows that the prejudice towards foreign investment was historically ingrained, and that this led to the kind of planning and development of the public sector that was later almost impossible to dismantle. A wide network of administrative and legal regulatory instruments evolved to curb monopolies and the concentration of economic power, restrict diversion of the limited national resources to low-priority areas, regulate prices of essential goods and conserve foreign exchange resources. The government undertook the direct responsibility to ensure the rapid expansion of the public sector in areas which were strategic for the long-term interests of the Indian economy. This meant that state controls ensured that permits were needed for everything and that no industry could expand, diversify or change course according to market demands quickly. The 1991 reforms changed little of the bureaucracy as not all red tape was cut and the public sector not dismantled. Yet it was the NRI community who demanded the most radical changes from the Indian government. These included better terms and conditions for investment, streamlining the procedures so that confusion about how to invest was reduced;10 the bureaucracy to be reduced; Foreign Exchange Regulation Act (FERA) to be reviewed; the Reserve Bank of India (RBI) being given full autonomy to formulate interest, monetary and exchange rate policies; all quantitative restrictions on


imports to be abolished and India should join GATT.11 This was met with some resistance not only by the government but also local industrialists. The worries of these industrialists had been voiced already in 1989 by Shri K. K. Birla in the Rajya Sabha: The recent happenings in the industrial and other fields in the country which seek to oust the existing management through sheer money power are disturbing. To corner the shares of a company and to dislodge its management or to grab the property of others may be an acceptable mode of business for an entrepreneur in western countries, but it is contrary to our philosophy and culture.12 Most feared were NRI empires such as the Hindujas from Europe and the Chhabrias from Dubai, because they could challenge the Birlas, Goenkas and Modis from the Marwari caste of traders and industrialists.13 As a result there was some kind of ‘conspiracy’ against NRIs whereby clearances took years and project costs would go haywire.14 This was fuelled by the knowledge that the NRI industrialists who had successfully competed abroad would have no problems triumphing over India’s closed markets. Unlike other multinationals they had a high degree of knowledge of the Indian market and mentality which gave them an edge in both production and marketing strategies. The question of dual nationality was probably the most contentious one. The NRIs felt that being given the right to Indian citizenship would make investing in India easier, as they were under NRI regulations not allowed to remain in the country for longer than 180 days at a time. Representation was also suggested in Parliament at a Lok Sabha debate which in the end was voted out, since the members were afraid that the rich NRIs would come and take over their constituencies. As well as the fear that NRIs might be interested in buying votes with all their money, there was also a dread of corrupting the Indian culture: Secondly, if they are given the right of getting elected here and are given the citizenship the culture of this country will be changed. Everywhere we will hear pop music and see peep shows. God knows what else will be seen here. We will be finished and they will dominate. We will not be able to stop that situation.15 The above demands arose out of the myriad of problems NRIs faced when investing in India: their owning of property is restricted, money gets stuck in non-repatriable accounts if a business fails, plus the simple

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inconveniences of water, electricity and infrastructure problems which they do not have to put up with in the country of their adoption.16 From the NRI point of view, investing in India is difficult: Once here, they come up against business partners who fleece them of their money, land deals that often turn out to be fraudulent, arrogant bureaucrats, corrupt officials and red tape. Multinational Companies have a system of PR agencies to deal with these kind of blocks. But for an individual NRI, the signal reads: You are not welcome.17

The Indian attitude There is evidence to show that the Indian perception of the NRI is at the base of the indifferent, sometimes difficult relationship between the diaspora and the government. In effect, all those who left India did so for economic gain, to live a better life elsewhere. As a result the relationship is based on quite some mistrust. The government’s position of expecting the expatriate Indians to integrate into their host society has been explained earlier on. At the time of the reforms, and in some cases to this day, the citizens of India had an equally negative attitude. In old tradition an Indian who went overseas lost his caste and with it his place in society. This was ancient Hinduism’s way of protecting Indian society from change. There is still a feeling of superiority among those who were born and raised in India over those who were not (Motwani et al. 1983: 18). It is a question of perception. Many modern Indians still look at the Indian diaspora as some sort of twisted outcasts. Their money is welcome but they are not. They are essentially not Indian any more; corrupted by the civilization they have chosen to settle in. In fact there is a fear that if let back in through the back door, such as by giving them Indian citizenship and allowing them to settle freely, there would not only be an economic sellout of the country but they would corrupt the Indian culture. When they come back to India, it is seen to be solely for the purpose of profit, not for the gain of the country. Whatever profit is made will in turn be taken out and not be reinvested into the country so that it might grow and develop. This in turn will maintain, not alleviate, the disparities which exist in Indian society. In addition there is also a feeling that when Indians went abroad they exploited the local people there in order to make plenty of money; once unwanted in the host country they seek to come back to India


(Bahadur Singh 1979: 42). This attitude is especially common when dealing with parts of the diaspora which had to undergo hardships in times of crisis such as the Ugandan and Fijian Asians; they are seen as having made the choice of becoming foreign and as a result have to face the consequences of their choice. Of course there are Indians who have realized that the stereotype of the low-caste expatriate who left his mother country for material gain is not accurate and that many of the original migrants had left India reluctantly and made their fortunes through hard work and entrepreneurship. More often than not they include those middle-class Indians who have sent their children abroad to make a better life for themselves. But they are few in absolute numbers. It is not in the consciousness or perception of most ordinary Indians that the diaspora has retained their cultural roots and traditions despite the odds. What is missed in this debate is that the state–diaspora relationship could have been a beneficial one. Yet between 1991 and 1996 the reforms with respect to NRIs were not actively put into practice and as a result the diaspora’s investments remained abysmally low.

The changes under the BJP government Since 1997 there has been a new government in power led by the BJP party. But it is still a coalition government largely reliant on smaller parties of the extreme right and regional parties. As a result of the nature of the alliance any kind of policy takes a very long time to push through since the agreement of many different parties is needed. The reform process has continued, albeit at a very slow rate. While foreign investment is welcomed in wide-ranging activities, simultaneous measures have been introduced in the form of dividend balancing, foreign exchange neutrality, foreign equitycap, etc. based on sectoral sensitivities. These measures are aimed at protecting national interest, by providing a level playing field to the domestic industry.18 As a result, foreign direct investment has flowed into India but has fluctuated depending on political stability and the stability of the rupee. NRI investments have remained a small percentage of FDI, hovering between 8 per cent and 15 per cent over the eight years following the reforms. With regard to the diaspora the BJP has expressed interest in their participation in the Indian economy. The BJP government has recently offered NRIs a PIO (Person of Indian Origin) card. This card is the equivalent of a 20-year visa and gives the holder certain privileges with regard to buying property and investments. It is still too early to see if this card

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will have made any difference with regard to NRI foreign direct investment, or if the figures will remain low. The recent announcement of the government to finally grant dual citizenship to the NRIs should also be seen as a political way to rally the Indian community abroad behind the government in light of the domestic crisis (anti-Muslim riots in Gujarat and the recurring Ayodhya temple issue) as well as getting support in the current standoff with Pakistan. The present government of India has needed the diaspora like no government before it.

Conclusion The problem which has been addressed in this chapter is the failure of the Indian government to develop a relationship with its diaspora throughout the post-Independence years and to use this asset to assist Indian economic development. Furthermore it is noted that since diasporas in general are important and powerful non-state actors which can influence policies in both their home and host countries, the case of India is an unusual one. At Independence and for the subsequent years India was economically quite weak. Despite economic and development problems the government made the conscious choice for ideological reasons to exclude from its development its rather rich diaspora. The expatriate Asian was a victim of this form of government and what could have been a mutually beneficial relationship did not develop. As a result of these policies India’s development suffered. To this day the ties between India and its diaspora are of a curious nature: they are mainly based on trans-national family relations and the private interests the individual expatriate might have in the region/state of his origin. The actual dialogue between the central government and the diaspora as a whole remains governed by the old ideals of noninterference and suspicion, despite rhetorical change. Since the 1991 reforms the word ‘NRI’ has come to symbolize the liberalization of the Indian system. This means that the governments presented various schemes in order to attract foreign direct investment. Rhetorically the NRIs have been courted so that they might come and support their mother country, yet the actual policy changes still made it appear that the Indian government was intent on keeping foreign direct investment in general and NRI investment in particular out of India. What has to be further emphasized is that by a country simply changing its perception of its responsibilities, it cannot necessarily annihilate


its past history. The Indian diaspora is very much a product of the subcontinent’s history. Nehru’s new-age policy, which suddenly cut the ties between those who had expatriated themselves and their mother country, could not reduce those ties at a family and private level. The expatriate Indians would always in one way or another be tied to their country of origin, not least because they would be classified as an ethnic minority within their host country. That classification of being Indian bound them to India. By changing its policies India did not rid itself of what it perceived as an uncomfortable and at the time perhaps embarrassing group of people. This again was due fundamentally to the diverging civil societies that make up India and which meant that the individual expatriate or expatriate group would continue to maintain relations with its state and region of origin no matter what the official policy was. Yet although some obstacles for investments were removed, the incentives for investment in general and NRI investment in particular are to this day not very good. Whilst multinational corporations could take financial risks when investing, the structure for the average NRI to set up an independent small to medium size venture and bring his know-how and new technology to the country was not available. Buying property remained restricted to specially reserved areas until the mid-1990s and the bureaucratic processes at state and national level remained fundamentally too long and complex. The government of India and the people in general maintain their suspicion towards foreign investment, and the relationship between the government and the diaspora has not fundamentally changed. This has been particularly evident in the government refusing to offer any substantial concessions such as dual nationality to the expatriate Indian community despite repeated demands. To a great extent the unchanging relationship was also due to a certain awkwardness felt by the government in having to go with a begging bowl to a community that it had previously ignored. In fact there had been a certain pride in distinguishing oneself from the NRIs who had no real home but still tried to remain Indian. Pride had to be swallowed when asking for money from those who had treated you as ‘poor country cousins’. This is better understood if it is remembered that a great deal of national pride rests in the fact of being an Indian from India with an intact caste. The 1991 reforms required a swallowing of this national pride at a personal and national level since it involved begging from a community of people on whose very ostracization lay a certain degree of national identity and pride.

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These conclusions lead to the following thoughts. When India excluded the diaspora in its post-Independence development it did so at a certain cost. One can only speculate how much the economic cost has been over the years. What is certain is that this was truly a missed opportunity, as from independence onwards the different communities of the diaspora could have contributed to India’s economic growth. Their profile throughout the past 50 years is that of a rather rich and successful community who never lost interest in India. Their ties to their home regions could have been exploited without altering the centre’s policy of building relations with the diaspora’s host countries. The opportunity was missed at several stages and times. Whilst it is unlikely that Nehru would have actively courted the diaspora’s involvement in postIndependence India, change was possible from the mid-1960s onwards. Indira Gandhi could have maintained a closed economy, yet allowed NRI investment, especially after having shown India’s strength internationally with the victory of the 1971 war against Pakistan. At that particular point India’s foreign policy was being reformulated along realist lines and this could have been a point for starting a dialogue with the diaspora. Yet no policy for the diaspora was in place until much later. Again, in the mid to late 1980s an opportunity was missed when Rajiv Gandhi tried to move India’s foreign policy priorities away from the region to inter-third-world cooperation. The NRIs and their financial capabilities could have been welcomed to help India grow in light of the development taking place in Southeast Asia in the same period. After all, China invited non-resident Chinese investments right through the 1980s. Yet the question of NRI money and other capabilities only became a political issue when India’s economy almost collapsed in 1990. It was then that the curious calls for NRI investment and donations to save the mother country were heard. Suddenly politicians speculated that if only each and every NRI gave a small percentage of his or her income for the benefit of India, the national debt would be recovered and India would grow like some of the Southeast Asian tigers. How such calls could be made in light of years of Nehruvian policy is difficult to understand. Yet even despite those calls the actual policies never allowed for intensive investments. Was India’s caution after the first success of liberalization due to the experiences faced by other countries such as Russia and other post-soviet states? After all, these countries went through enormous political change and at huge social costs which India might have felt she could not afford. Was it simply because the Indian bureaucracy, not slashed to the bare minimum, still blocked the process of reforms?


Why the reforms after 1992/3 stagnated, one can only speculate. What this stagnation in effect meant for India was that to the mid-1990s optimal growth rates were not reached, and further investment from the NRIs in particular stayed away. For matters to change today there would have to be a major change in Indian public and governmental attitudes. A paradigm shift of this magnitude could only come about if the Indian population could quickly and effectively feel the benefits of economic liberalization. In other words the population would have to experience not only the inflation which inevitably comes with the opening up of markets, but a distinct rise in standards of living. For many this would be particularly difficult to measure, as there is no Indian equivalent to the American dream of owning a car, a house, etc. With these goals missing in the average Indian psyche it is difficult to explain to the average Indian family what to expect from a growing economy. Only with an understanding of the benefits of globalization in the Indian economy could public attitudes change. Unfortunately India’s size and enormous population is hardly in a position to go through such changes smoothly. At present the general feeling is that it is the NRIs and other multinationals who benefit from the Indian markets whilst the local population has to put up with staggering price rises, and more goods on the shelf which a majority cannot afford. It seems that the current BJP government hopes to gain political and economic clout by offering the possibility of dual citizenship. It hopes possibly as well that by making the NRIs Indian, the argument that foreigners are using India’s assets for personal gain will become void. Only time will tell how far this proves to be true. However, one can say that the case of India is unusual to the extent that an economically strong diaspora which was part of the general public consciousness was deliberately excluded from taking part in India’s development. Diasporas as such are powerful entities. They regroup in their chosen host countries and in many instances do not fully integrate with the host society. Amongst diaspora societies, Indians, along with the Chinese, are notorious for non-integration, more than in other cases. As a group they maintain relations with their home country, be it through family ties and marriage, through business and commerce relations with their hometown or region, or simply by maintaining local and religious traditions. Such a group can be of help to the country of origin in more than one way. Despite not maintaining the nationality of origin, the expatriate group could act as representatives, even as a political lobby in the host country, as the Jewish lobby so effectively does in the

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United States of America. In this way they could lobby for the national interests of their home country. The other way of supporting the mother country is clearly by contributing to the economic development, especially in the case of developing countries. The money and know how they bring with them is often crucial to their place of origin. It has been seen here that a strong state–NRI bond did not exist in India for most of the time after Independence. India did not court its diaspora: it actively dissociated itself from it.

Notes 1 2

3 4 5 6 7 8

9

10 11 12 13 14 15

16

17 18

India Today, 21 January 2002. Imperial conferences were held by Britain as a precursor to Commonwealth meetings. The actors included all white members of the Empire, that is Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Canada. Dr N. B. Khare, member of the Viceroy’s executive council, worked indefatigably for the welfare of overseas Indians. Quoted from Lok Sabha Debates, 8 March 1948, Parliament Library, New Delhi. ‘BJP stand on NRI funds’, Financial Express, 12 June 1991. P. D. H. Panandiker, ‘What to choose’, Hindustan Times, 18 July 1991. A. S. S. Aiyar, ‘Say good-bye to hot money’, Times of India, 21 July 1991. In this case the BJP was referring not only to NRI investment which it had appealed for earlier, but to the fact that opening the Indian economy had let in various multinational companies, which the BJP disliked intensely. As an alternative view one can speculate that the reasons for stagnation might lie in the lessons the government of India learnt in watching the speed of transition to a market economy in the Soviet Union and the social and political consequences the change brought with it. India with over 950 million people could not afford such social and political risks and might have thus shrunken away from full liberalization. ‘Serving Motherland from abroad’, Hindustan Times, 30 March 1992. Ibid; ‘Cut more red tape: NRI’s’, IN, 19 September 1991; ‘NRIs for FERA Review’, Hindustan Times, 18 January 1992. Rajya Sabha Debates, 3 April 1989, New Delhi: Parliament Library. J. Elliot, ‘Survey of India: competitive modern caste’, Financial Times, 25 November 1987. L. N. Goel, ‘Sadder and wiser’, India Today, 31 July 1989. Dr G. S. Rajhans speaking on 25 July 1986, Lok Sabha Debates, Resolution Re: Conferment of same rights as enjoyed by Indian Citizens on Persons of Indian Origin living abroad, New Delhi: Parliament Library. P. Chanran, ‘Citizens of two worlds’, Indian Express, 27 October 1991; ‘Harsh realities discourage Indians Abroad from investing in India’, The Indian, Oct./Nov. 1997. N. H. Khan, ‘Home, sweet home’, 26 April 1998 (published on the web). Survey of Important Developments During 1998–1999 – Achievements and Future Prospects, Annual Report, Ministry of Industry, Chapter 1.

7 Courting a Diaspora: Armenia–Diaspora Relations since 1998 Razmik Panossian

Armenia–diaspora relations have historically been problematic, and the post-Soviet period is no exception. Tensions plagued the relationship between the two parts of the nation to the point where an impasse was reached under President Levon Ter-Petrosian (1991–8). After Ter-Petrosian’s resignation in early 1998, the new President, Robert Kocharian, made the improvement of Armenia–diaspora relations a cornerstone of his economic and foreign policies. The tense relationship between the two components of the Armenian nation eased considerably, but there has yet to be any significant institutional linkages between the Armenian state and the diaspora. This chapter examines the relationship between Armenia and the diaspora during the presidency of Robert Kocharian (1998–). It focuses on two conferences organized by the Armenian government which sought to connect a discontented diaspora to the state. These two conferences encompassed the republic’s policy towards the diaspora. The events received much coverage in the Armenian press, particularly in communities abroad, but there has not yet been a systematic academic study which analyzes the conferences. The chapter can be read as the continuation of my earlier work on Armenia–diaspora relations in which I have covered the 1988 to 1998 period (Panossian 2001) and the overall dynamics between Armenia and the diaspora (Panossian 1998; Panossian 2000: 271–90). The current chapter focuses on the 1998 to 2002 period. To provide the necessary background, the chapter begins with a few general points; it then gives an overview of the 1999 and the 2002 Armenia–diaspora conferences; it ends with an analysis of the important themes that emerged out of the two gatherings, and the deeper tensions and assumptions in the Armenia–diaspora relationship as manifested through the conferences. 140

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The main argument of the chapter centres on the tension between needing the diaspora (for economic and political reasons) and questioning its legitimacy as a rightful and acceptable form of national identity. The state has historically seen itself as the patron of the diaspora whose existence it has traditionally viewed as a regrettable historical ‘aberration’ due to unfortunate events (an approach shared by many Armenians in the republic and abroad). In this view, the diaspora is patronized – in both meanings of the word. Since early 2001, however, there has been a discernible shift in the approach of officials in Armenia: from viewing the diaspora as an ‘aberration’ to starting to see it as a more positive entity – and not just economically. The change is evident in some of the statements at the second Armenia–diaspora conference, in contrast to what was being said at the first conference. This was not just a simple acknowledgement of the instrumental importance of the diaspora, but an acceptance of its legitimacy as a permanent component of the nation. The realization that the diaspora is an integral entity in its own right, and a source of identity and culture (and not only material support), was, and still is, maintained only by a handful of mostly diasporan intellectuals in disagreement with the prevailing view in Soviet and post-Soviet Armenia, as well as the vast majority of intellectuals in the diaspora. It is too soon to say if the change of perspective evident in some of the statements at the second Armenia–diaspora conference is indicative of a more fundamental shift in government thinking or general attitudes. But at least there appears to be some questioning of the traditional viewpoint on the diaspora as a mere ‘appendix’ to Armenia.

General points and background The Armenian diaspora is not a homogenous entity. It is geographically dispersed, ideologically divided and culturally and linguistically diverse. This heterogeneous entity has, nevertheless, played a crucial role in the Armenian nation-building process, particularly in the realms of culture and politics. Although considered one of the oldest diasporas (with roots going as far back as one millennium), the current ‘established’ Armenian diaspora is largely the product of the 1915 Genocide in Ottoman Armenia, and is deeply affected by its memory and its politics of recognition. It is impossible to give an exact population figure for the Armenian diaspora. Current ‘guesstimates’ range from five to seven million, with approximately two million Armenians living in Armenia (the figure in

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1988 was a more certain 3.5 million in Soviet Armenia, and 3.5 million in the diaspora). The diaspora has traditionally been divided in Armenian thinking into ‘external’ and ‘internal’ components. These terms come from the Soviet period when Armenians in other parts of the USSR were referred to as the internal diaspora because they lived within the same overarching state as Soviet Armenia. The terms sought to distinguish diasporan communities outside of the formerly Soviet space – Americas, Europe, Middle East (including Iran), etc. – and communities within the USSR (with Eastern Europe falling in between these two categories). Before 1991, when Armenians spoke of the diaspora, the term referred to the external component. This tradition of focusing on this segment of the diaspora as the ‘proper’ one continues, even though there has been considerable sociological and political shifts in the past decade. Two important developments have altered the characteristics of the Armenian diaspora. First, as internal Soviet administrative divisions became international borders due to the collapse of the USSR, Armenians living in Russia, Ukraine, Central Asia, etc., suddenly acquired the same definitional position as the external diaspora. Second, there has been a mass exodus out of Armenia due to economic hardships in the past decade. This migration of close to a million-and-a-half Armenians out of Armenia has led to the creation of a ‘new’ diaspora.1 The majority of these people have settled in Russia, some in the Ukraine, and less so in Bulgaria and other Eastern European countries. A significant number have found their way to Western Europe and the USA (mostly Los Angeles). Given these socio-political changes, the ‘external/internal’ diaspora distinction is no longer adequate. Rather, I use the term ‘established’ diaspora for the post-Genocide communities which settled outside of the Soviet bloc, and the ‘post-Soviet’ diaspora which includes Armenians in and from Soviet countries (excluding, of course, Armenians who live in Armenia and in Nagorno-Karabakh). As with most other binary divisions, these terms themselves are problematic since they simplify and pigeonhole complex processes and social realities. The post-Soviet category, for example, lumps together the centuries-old Armenian communities in Tbilisi, Moscow and St Petersburg with the newcomers in these cities as well as Krasnodar and Crimea. It also includes the Soviet Armenians who migrated to Los Angeles (for instance) from the 1970s onward. The established category includes communities as diverse as Istanbul Armenians and Argentinean Armenians. The binary division also glosses over other divisions within the Armenian diaspora.


Nevertheless, even with these shortcomings, it is useful to think through this division which distinguishes between the established and the post-Soviet segments of the Armenian diaspora. The categorization highlights the newest, and possibly the deepest, cleavage within the contemporary Armenian diaspora – a divide which adds one more layer to the multidimensional nature of diasporan existence as it groups together relatively similar entities: the hayastantsis (i.e. Armenians from Armenia) and the other spiurkahays (i.e. Armenians from the diaspora) who are not from Soviet Armenia. The most obvious feature which divides these groups as a whole, and binds members within each group to one another, is the presence – or the lack of presence – of soviet experience. This is a crucial distinguishing factor within the overall Armenian diaspora. Another related feature which separates the established diaspora from the post-Soviet one is the dialect they speak (or their parents/grandparents spoke). The established diaspora generally speaks western Armenian (with the notable exception of IranianArmenians), while the post-Soviet diaspora speaks eastern Armenian. The two dialects are mutually comprehensible, but different enough to make communication difficult for most Armenians. The hayastantsi/ spiurkahay distinction is also important in the analysis of Armenian state policies insofar as they are mostly focused on the latter. The post-Soviet diasporan communities do not have much in common with the traditional established diaspora in terms of their culture, world outlook, politics, collective psyche and social concerns. Their history, organizational networks, financial and lobbying capacities are all different. They have much more direct familial, economic, and cultural ties with Armenia. Moreover, on the whole, newly migrated Armenians have not integrated in the existing diasporan communities and have often established parallel social spaces and institutions.2 These sizeable communities are establishing diasporan institutions, but as yet they do not seem to be collectively as organized as the established diaspora.3 They are, nevertheless, a very significant source of external revenue to Armenia on the person-to-person or family-to-family level of sending funds back home. According to one study, the remittances and private transfers from the entire diaspora amount to 8–9 per cent of Armenia’s GDP per year; and 15 per cent of families receive regular private transfers – for 8 per cent of households this is a major element in their income (Freinkman 2001: 337). A yearly influx of approximately US$300 million through private channels was mentioned to me during a 1997 interview at the Armenian Central Bank (this sum has probably doubled in the past five years). Despite the size of the post-Soviet


diaspora (close to two million), and its financial contribution to Armenia’s economy (they certainly account for most of the private funds being sent to the country), the government of Armenia has not been too concerned in developing coherent and systematic policies towards it. This is not to say that the Yerevan authorities are not concerned with the conditions of these Armenians when they face gross discrimination and their rights are violated. In such cases, the government raises its concerns and those of the communities under attack with the relevant ‘host society’ representatives, namely Russia and Georgia. But the problems are almost always situated – and dealt with – within the context of overall bilateral relations with these countries.4 Armenia’s policies in such cases are reactive and generally ad hoc. The government takes it for granted that these Armenians, constituting the post-Soviet diaspora, are connected to the republic, and will maintain their links. Of course, the government encourages such links, especially in the economic realm, but its overall approach fits more crisis management than policy development.5 By contrast, Armenian state policies focus on the established (or what used to be called the external) diaspora. It continues to be seen as the diaspora that needs to be harnessed and connected to the republic. If the links between the post-Soviet diasporans and Armenia are taken for granted, and the need to cultivate them further is not prioritized since Armenia is their homeland, the case of the established diaspora is the reverse. It is not the diaspora of the formerly Soviet Armenia per se, as most Armenians in the Middle East, Europe and the Americas are not from the Armenian republic (Soviet, Russian or eastern Armenia) but descendants of Genocide survivors from Ottoman or western Armenia. Their point of reference for a homeland is the lost lands in Turkey. The Armenian government’s focus on this segment of the diaspora is based on the Soviet legacy of seeing the external diaspora as the ‘real’ and important diaspora, and trying to promote existing Armenia as the homeland to people abroad who are ethnically Armenian, but not necessarily from the Armenian republic. It is obviously also based on the perception that the established diaspora controls significant economic resources, has some political clout in their host countries (i.e. lobbying influence), and is organizationally mobilized. For this reason, the current chapter examines the policies of the Armenian government towards the established diaspora. Henceforth, when I use the term diaspora on its own, it will refer to the established diaspora. With these general points, I now turn to the contemporary period in Armenia–diaspora relations.


Reconciliation and policy through conferences Armenia formally acquired independence after the collapse of the USSR in the autumn of 1991. However, ‘post-Soviet’ Armenian politics had begun three years earlier in February 1988 with the secessionist movement in and over Gharabagh. In the overall context of the politics of nationalism, Armenia–diaspora relations went through three stages in the decade after 1988: the first was the 1988–91 period, when the two entities reluctantly embraced one another; the second short-lived stage was the year or so between 1991 and 1992, when there was a brief ‘honeymoon’ between Armenia and the diaspora; the 1992–8 years constituted the phase of schism and conflict (Panossian 1998: 165–75). This chapter is concerned with the fourth stage of the relationship: the reconciliation which began in early 1998. Relations between Armenia and the diaspora began to improve immediately after President Levon Ter-Petrosian was forced to resign in February 1998. His own Prime Minister, Robert Kocharian, along with the Defence and Interior ministers, ousted the increasingly unpopular Ter-Petrosian and some of his key allies in office. Kocharian became Acting President, and within days re-legalized the banned and largely diaspora-based Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF or Dashnak) as a political party (on 9 February 1998). He also freed almost all of the arrested and convicted Dashnak leaders imprisoned by the Ter-Petrosian regime. Kocharian even appointed ARF members to his cabinet, and as advisors. His accommodation of the ARF was a reflection of his more inclusive attitude towards the diaspora. He basically wanted to bring the diaspora ‘back in’, so he could rely on it for economic investment and more cooperative politics. After his election as President, in his Inaugural Speech on 9 April 1988, Kocharian stated: Our generation is here to shoulder one more responsibility. That is the unification of the efforts of all the Armenians and the ensuring of Diaspora Armenians’ active participation in social, political and economic life of our republic. A constitutional solution to the issue of dual citizenship will also contribute to the issue. Armenia should be a holy motherland for all the Armenians, and its victory should be their victory, its future, their future. We have to realize that a nation, understanding the value of its combined force, can never be defeated.6 These were lofty words, but how to put them into practice? Kocharian, it should also be noted, did not have a free hand, as many key ministers


in his government, including the powerful Defence Minister and later Prime Minister Vazgen Sargsian, distrusted both the diaspora and the ARF. It soon became obvious that the President’s main concern was to create an environment of cooperation and discussion, while keeping the political influence of the diaspora to a minimum – a difficult task to manage. Similar to his predecessor, Kocharian continued to promote the Armenia Fund as the state’s main agency to generate and channel diasporan assistance to Armenia.7 But aid was not enough. Investment was needed, and Kocharian believed (in a somewhat exaggerated manner) that the diaspora had the potential to provide considerable investment – if only it was treated properly. Substantial diasporan input could, in this logic, offset the negative effects of the Azerbaijani and Turkish economic blockades. Hence, in order to draw the diaspora back into the fold, especially as business partners, the Armenian government organized a huge conference as the beginning point of the new Armenia–diaspora relationship. A second conference was organized in May 2002. These two conferences embodied the government’s policies towards the diaspora.

The first Armenia–diaspora conference The first Armenia–diaspora conference was held in Yerevan on 22– 23 September 1999. It began the day after the eighth anniversary celebrations of Armenia’s declaration of independence from the USSR – a symbolic gesture that was not lost on the organizers and the participants. Some 1,200 representatives from 57 countries attended the conference.8 A fixed number of invitations were sent to various diasporan communities – from one to the Ethiopian and Sudanese Armenian community, to 140 to the USA, 140 to Russia, and so forth. A fixed number of invitations were given to specific organizations as well. The communities and the organizations themselves decided who should participate as their representatives. In some communities this was done rather easily, in others the selection process led to many acrimonious and bitter arguments between various organizations and individuals, especially over who was to speak on behalf of the community (for five minutes) at the conference. The delegate selection process was such that the silent majority of diasporans – those who were not involved in community organizations – were not properly represented. The conference was organized by the Armenian Foreign Ministry, and the facilitator was Foreign Minister Vartan Oskanian, himself a diasporan.


But the key ‘stars’ of the conference were President Kocharian, and his newly appointed Prime Minister, Vazgen Sargsian. The funding for the event came from the Armenian government, that is, it covered the cost of the various receptions, the venue, the interpreters, some of the transportation within Armenia, etc. The delegates themselves had to pay for their travel to Armenia and their stay in the country. The overwhelming majority of the delegates were middle-aged (or older) men. Of all the speakers at the conference (close to 100), only three or four were women. In addition to the community and organization representatives, there were six committees comprised of experts (mostly from the diaspora) who had prepared reports and presented them at the conference: ‘institutional linkages’ (exploring different institutional possibilities to connect Armenia and the diaspora); ‘humanitarian aid’ (the role of the diaspora in this); ‘identity and culture’ (differences and similarities between the two parts of the nation); ‘information technology and communications’ (examining the technological and media possibilities of connecting Armenia and the diaspora); ‘advocacy’ (lobbying efforts); and ‘economic development’ (investing in Armenia – the main concern of the government). Keynote speeches were given by President Kocharian and Prime Minister Vazgen Sargsian. The speakers included Catholicoi (main heads of the church), important intellectuals, as well as other prominent leaders and representatives such as the President of Gharabagh, other church heads, representatives of main political parties, and community representatives (all 57 of them!). There was very little discussion time – half an hour or so during the final plenary, and 1½-hour-long parallel ‘committee’ discussions based on the six committees mentioned above. Each of these break-out groups had over 150 people in them so there was no opportunity for any substantive discussion. The conference adopted three resolutions: (a) the ‘conference decision’ which promised to continue the work of the conference by the government’s Conference Organizing Committee – it was to set up a group to study the possibility of establishing an Armenia–diaspora coordinating body to implement joint activities; (b) the ‘conference declaration’ which was a three-page-long ‘feel good’ statement of unity; and (c) the ‘statement on Nagorno-Gharabagh’ outlining Armenia’s position on the issue. These three statements were pre-written, but went through the motion of being ‘prepared’ and unanimously adopted by the conference.9 A multitude of ideas and proposals were raised at the conference. I will discuss some of the more significant common themes in the next section. It is important to mention here some of the policy suggestions


made by the President and the Prime Minister in their speeches. These were meant to define the ‘core’ of the relationship between Armenia and the diaspora. On the first day, Kocharian set the tone by declaring: ‘Today, the two fundamental issues facing the nation are Artsakh [i.e. Gharabagh], and the economic improvement of Armenia.’ Diaspora Armenians, he continued, ‘need to assist us in pursuing these supreme goals’. They must partake in the work of strengthening ‘national statehood’. This included increasing economic investment in Armenia and Gharabagh, continuing to provide humanitarian aid, assisting Armenia’s diplomatic efforts, gathering more information to learn about each of the diasporan communities, permanent consultation between Armenia and the diaspora through a clear mechanism, and developing some sort of a ‘national tax’ or ‘dues’ that will help Armenia. Based on these general premises, the President announced a series of concrete programmes to put such policies into practice: the creation of a development agency which would actively incorporate diaspora Armenians in the republic’s economy, along with specialized business organizations such as the Armenian Jewellers’ Association, doctors’ associations, etc.; the establishment of a permanent youth centre where diasporan children could come and spend their holidays; the regular organization of pan-Armenian sports games and cultural festivals; and the making of a ‘unified’ information field through satellite communications and the formation of a pan-national television channel.10 The most forceful speech of the conference was given by the charismatic Prime Minister, Vazgen Sargsian – at that time the most powerful man in the country. He touched upon all the basic themes of the conference, emphasizing the economic aspect the most, and infusing it with national responsibility and pride. He started off by declaring that the ‘government not only can, but is obliged and is ready to treat the diaspora as an equal partner’. Aware of the many problems faced by diasporan businessmen, he added, ‘The government is ready, where needed, to address issues related to legal, financial, and taxation improvements.’ He also tackled, head on, the issue of corruption, emphasizing the importance of transparency. To achieve his stated goals of restoring trust and encouraging further investment and diaspora involvement, he promised a number of concrete measures which could be grouped around two main points: 1. The establishment of a government committee headed by the Prime Minister, to monitor loans, grants, and humanitarian assistance received. As such, the government, and the Prime Minister personally,


would be responsible for funds (i.e. the loans, grants, assistance received) which are misused or disappear. This would provide structural guarantees – clear and unchanging ‘rules of the game’. Plus the creation of a joint council with the National Assembly which would examine a series of corrupt loan programmes so that the guilty parties would be exposed. Sargsian also promised the implementation of a comprehensive anti-corruption programme being developed by the World Bank and the US Embassy. 2. The setting up of an Armenian Development Agency for external and internal investors. This agency would provide all businessmen, especially those from the diaspora, assistance and services. Sargsian called this ‘a unique window between Armenia and the world. A one stop centre, where every potential investor can receive solutions to all problems concerning him – from the moment of being greeted at the airport, to legal, administrative, technical and other services.’ The Agency would be directly subordinate to the Prime Minister, but its leadership would be comprised of a council of trustees which would include internationally recognized businessmen and benefactors, as well as leaders of important international organizations. The diaspora would be represented as equally as Armenians of Armenia in the Agency, which would eventually open branches abroad – namely in London, New York, Los Angeles, Beirut, and Moscow.11 As is obvious, many promises were made by the leadership in Armenia. Diasporan leaders were generally quite content with what they heard, and offered cooperation and support. There were high expectations on both sides. However, hopes were dashed when Vazgen Sargsian, along with seven other politicians, was assassinated in the National Assembly on 27 October 1999, a month after the conference. Armenia plunged into political turmoil which lasted for almost a year. As power struggles consumed the political agenda in Yerevan, promises, projects and the conference itself were forgotten. Only a year later could the government once again start paying attention to diaspora relations and investment in Armenia. The Yerevan administration has managed to implement some of the promises made during the conference. Limited progress has been made in the economic and social sectors, but no structural changes have been implemented which would bridge, institutionally, the gap between Armenia and the diaspora. The programmes that have been, or are being, incorporated fall in the realm of mostly superficial changes rather than a substantive alteration of relations. These programmes include a web page


administered by the Foreign Ministry devoted to Armenia–diaspora issues (www.armeniadiaspora.com), the linking of some schools in Armenia to the internet and to diasporan schools, the broadcasting of Armenian television signals and programmes to diasporan communities abroad, the establishment of a youth camp, pan-Armenian sports tournaments (Armenian ‘Olympic’ games), a month-long training course for Armenian teachers from the diaspora (organized by the Ministry of Education), and finally, and most important, the set-up and use of the Armenian Development Agency. Already in operation since 1999, the Agency assists diasporans investing in Armenia; it seeks to match foreign investors with local partners, as well as government agencies. How well the Agency is working is not yet clear, but a start has been made. The mode of investment still seems to be based on personal contacts with key individuals in the government. On the whole, the first Armenia–diaspora conference was a huge symbolic success for Yerevan. The ideas of being a ‘fresh start’ and of unity (expressed through the slogan ‘One Nation, One Fatherland’) permeated throughout. Practically the entire national elite – from both the republic and the diaspora – participated. It is impossible to know if the conference would have actually had a greater impact on improving Armenia–diaspora relations if it were not for the October 27 assassinations and the ensuing political turmoil. But it was clear that the conference did not go much beyond the rhetoric of unity, and it certainly did not address the fundamental tensions within the Armenia–diaspora relationship.

The second Armenia–diaspora conference At the end of the first conference it was made clear that the government would organize another conference the following year. This could not be done due to domestic problems, but the Foreign Ministry eventually announced that the second Armenia–diaspora conference was to take place in September 2001, in conjunction with the anniversary celebrations of 1,700 years of Christianity in Armenia. Again, the date was chosen for its symbolic significance. However, the Foreign Ministry acknowledged that ‘too much’ was going on in September, and the conference was postponed until 27–28 May 2002.12 The date was once again symbolic, coinciding with the celebrations that marked the independence of the first Armenian republic on 28 May 1918. The second conference was open to anyone who wished to attend. All one had to do was to register on-line (there was a voluntary registration


fee of fifty dollars). Consequently, close to 2,500 people attended, the largest number of delegates being from Armenia. Of the 2,334 preregistrations, 999 were from Armenia and Gharabagh (937 and 62 respectively), 229 from Russia, and 148 from Georgia. From the Americas 262 people had registered (196 from the USA and 59 from Canada). Registrations from Middle Eastern countries added up to 319 (including 142 from Iran). Europe (east and west) accounted for 221 registrations (including 57 from Greece, 52 from France, and 22 from the UK). There were 38 registrations without a specified country, and 16 from outside of the regions mentioned above. In total, delegates from 47 countries (plus Gharabagh and Abkhazia) had pre-registered. The majority who attended the conference was from Armenia and other exUSSR countries; they included a cross-section of (frustrated) intellectuals and ultra-nationalists, community leaders, businessmen and people with humanitarian micro projects seeking donations. The number of the attendees far exceeded the expectations of the organizers, leading to some chaotic scenes. President Kocharian’s opening speech touched upon the usual themes in order to set the broad agenda of the gathering. He first took stock of developments since the first Armenia–diaspora conference. He mentioned the progress made in the creation of an integrated information field (and the desire to establish an ‘Armenian CNN’), pan-Armenian events that have taken place (e.g. sports games, cultural festivals under the banner of ‘One Nation, One Culture,’ the anniversary celebrations of 1,700 years of Christianity), the founding of a pan-national youth centre in Armenia, the establishment of the Armenian Development Agency, teacher training, and honours granted by the government to diasporans. According to the President, the next steps should focus on how to further integrate, organizationally, Armenia and the diaspora. He mentioned the progress in business links, and emphasized that economic development should continue at a faster rate, needing further investment. He alluded to the struggle against corruption which he claimed to have gained momentum. The importance of the security of Gharabagh was mentioned, as was the campaign to get international recognition for the Armenian Genocide. The second conference was structured differently from the first Armenia–diaspora gathering. As before, it took place over a period of two days, and it opened and ended with plenary sessions and speeches by the President, the Catholicoi, representatives of the main diasporan organizations and political parties, etc. But there were no presentations from each of the communities. Rather, the conference was supposed to


centre around four ‘thematic sessions’ – working groups which were to discuss specific topics, projects, and come up with concrete recommendations. More specifically, the titles and the topics of the four thematic sessions were: 1. Political relations: Armenia–diaspora organizational and structural issues: This panel was suppose to identify the ‘common and primary issues, dangers and crises of Armenian identity’, see how priorities can be determined by Armenia and the diaspora, and if joint decisionmaking is possible along with new mechanisms of cooperation. Lobbying issues were to be addressed, and dual citizenship, as well as ‘how can the diaspora benefit from Armenia’s statehood, and what responsibilities does Armenia have towards the diaspora?’ It was to look at the experiences of other diaspora. 2. Information and media: Internet-based information dissemination, a common information field (e.g. a standardized keyboard), internationally available television programming, media freedom, etc., were the themes of this panel. The key aim was to generate ideas of how a dispersed diaspora can be connected to Armenia, and vice versa, of how the two entities can better understand one another. 3. Economic and social development: The questions that this panel dealt with included, ‘What joint Armenia–diaspora structural assistance can be provided to the [economic sector]?’ ‘What are the problems of entrepreneurs in Armenia and what are the solutions?’ Corruption was to be addressed, as well as civil service reform, how to promote further investment, and the role of the Armenian Development Agency. The role of humanitarian agencies and social problems were on the agenda. And finally, ‘What specific projects can Armenia and diaspora undertake together to stimulate Armenia’s economic development and social welfare?’ 4. Education, culture, and science: This panel was to examine if a panArmenian national curricula could be developed. National scholarship programmes, exchange programmes, and genocide education were to be discussed. The ‘prospects for the preservation [and the] dissemination of Armenian cultural values’ was a main area of concern.13 Each of these two-hour panels met four times in the two days. They were mostly chaired by government officials. There were different panelists (four to six people) in each session. They were a mixture of diasporans and Armenians from the republic who were invited by the Foreign Ministry to give short presentations (about 7–10 minutes).


These panel discussions were to be the core of the conference. However, they were the greatest disappointment of the entire event because there was a fundamental lack of coordination in the presentations. Most panellists simply presented their views without addressing concrete and tangible problems (as the organizers had hoped). Presentations rarely fitted with one another. Moreover, the discussion period was often monopolized by an audience of local Armenians who used the opportunity to air their frustrations, and to put forth (often farfetched and irrelevant) ideas. What were envisioned to be small group discussions often became meetings of 200 people or so and included shouting matches and random expression of views. The agenda, as is obvious from the themes mentioned above, was fantastically ambitious and broad – to the point that any meaningful content was lost. On the whole, passionate discussions of little relevance replaced the systematic analysis of practical proposals and concrete steps. In the final plenary, the rapporteurs from each of the panels presented a summary of the discussions. Closing statements were made, and a prewritten Conference Declaration was adopted. It covered the predictable themes of national unity, strengthening statehood, economic investment, Genocide recognition and Gharabagh. However, as it will be discussed below, the Declaration hinted at a shift in attitude regarding the diaspora. The conference also adopted seven specific proposals for projects to be implemented jointly by Armenia and the diaspora. These included, the computerization of schools in Armenia and Gharabagh, the creation of a Centre for Genocide Studies, a Diaspora Museum, a virtual Armenian Studies university, a regional health centre in Yerevan, a scheme to support Armenian university students, and the formation of a Committee on Curriculum which will provide educators with a forum to ‘discuss various approaches for teaching Armenian language, culture and history’.14 It is too early to pass judgement on the outcome of the second Armenia–diaspora conference (less than three months have passed from the conference to the time of writing). Major new initiatives were certainly not embarked upon at the conference itself. Within a month, however, the Foreign Ministry announced that it was initiating the establishment of specific commissions – which would include representatives from the ‘major international Armenian organizations’ (i.e. diaspora organizations) – dealing with each of the four major thematic areas of the conference discussed above.15 The ultimate success of the conference, and the evolution of closer Armenia–diaspora relations, will depend on the work of these commissions – if they are indeed


established, and if they produce institutionalized mechanisms linking the republic and the diaspora. How this will be done, and on which principles it will be based, is still an open question. Conclusion The two Armenia–diaspora conferences were successes at the symbolic level. They were wonderful ‘shows’ of unity, but with little substance and, to date, without major outcomes affecting the structure of the relationship between the republic and communities abroad. The general expectations of diaspora leaders and intellectuals seem to be rather pessimistic, but open-minded. While many diverse ideas and principles on various issues were expressed at the conferences, there was an overall shortage of realistic programmes, suggestions of how to construct a workable partnership, and how to implement and institutionalize change. The primary focus of the Armenian government is on the economic resources (investment potential) of the diaspora. The government has taken the initiative to establish bodies such as the Business Development Agency, to organize pan-national events in Armenia, to broadcast Armenian television abroad (usually with pretty bad programming!), etc. But so far these have remained within the existing ‘patronizing’ assumptions of how to deal with Armenians abroad. On the diaspora side, Armenians abroad have themselves not developed any adequate mechanisms that would institutionalize or regulate on a pandiasporan level their links with Armenia. Each organization abroad establishes and maintains its own set of links with the republic (if it so wishes).

Issues, assumptions and tensions Having highlighted the basic features and content of the Armenia– diaspora conferences, in this section I will examine some of the common issues and concerns which emerged at the two gatherings. I will also analyze the tensions inherent in the assumptions made when discussing Armenia–diaspora relations. Scores of ideas – from irredentist claims to soliciting support for community-based initiatives in Armenia – were put forth by hundreds of people. I will only mention here certain noteworthy themes which were emphasized by many individuals at both conferences. The first point to be made is the universal appraisal of the first conference as a long-overdue ‘fresh start’. Practically all the speakers at the


conference alluded to the importance of finally ‘bringing in’ the diaspora to the discussion of national matters. The confrontational style of the previous regime, and its divisive practices regarding the diaspora, were condemned and the new atmosphere of cooperation, due to Kocharian’s inclusive rhetoric towards the diaspora, was lauded. Of course, talk of a ‘fresh start’ would not make sense at the second conference, but the 2002 gathering was seen as a vital continuation – its delay understandable due to the internal political crisis in Armenia. In terms of the selection of delegates, the second conference was much more inclusive insofar as anyone who wished to attend could register and come (making it a very large and at times unruly event). By opening up the 2002 conference to everyone, the Foreign Ministry avoided the problems and criticisms associated with representation and delegate selection at the 1999 conference. As such, it was hoped that those Armenians who constituted the silent majority in the diaspora could attend the conference without having to go through any of the traditional diasporan organizations. Representatives of the latter were of course invited, but the government was keen to forge direct links with individuals not necessarily associated with the diaspora ‘establishment’. After independence, Armenia’s administration developed contacts mostly with known diasporan organizations or prominent individuals and their supporters. This left out many successful people, mainly young, who were far from community structures, institutions and activities. The logic behind the second conference’s more inclusive approach was that there would be individuals in this ‘silent majority’ who are not active in diasporan organizations but can, nevertheless, be connected to Armenia and its economic activities. In short, the opening up of the conference registration was an attempt to reach out directly to all Armenians abroad without the ‘filter’ of existing diasporan institutions and parties. There is a triple advantage here for Armenia’s rulers: avoiding the difficult problem of ‘who represents whom’ in the diaspora; bringing in ‘disenfranchised’ diasporans who are not involved in community matters; and delinking, at least partially, potential economic activity from the political control of diasporan parties (something that did happen during Ter-Petrosian’s presidency). It is not at all certain if this strategy will be successful in terms of substantially increasing economic investment in the country, but it certainly does broaden Armenia’s scope in dealing with the diaspora – and it does this in a way that diasporan leaders cannot object to, since it will be impossible for them to criticize the inclusiveness of the government’s approach.


The issue of dual citizenship was raised by numerous delegates and addressed by the President at both conferences. Despite a clause on granting citizenship to diaspora Armenians in the 1990 Declaration On Independence, the 1995 Armenian constitution rejected the notion of dual citizenship and did not at all give any special status to diasporans. Foreigners can become Armenian citizens only if they settle in the republic and renounce their other citizenships.16 The Armenian government objected to dual citizenship on grounds that it could be a loophole for young men to dodge military service. In reality, however, Yerevan did not wish to give diasporans too much political cleavage within the republic while their long-term commitment and responsibility to it could not be taken for granted. It was reasoned that diaspora Armenians, who will continue to live abroad, should not be on an equal footing with the locals, as dual citizenship would imply. Hence, anyone in the diaspora who would want to be both a citizen of Armenia and their country of residence was effectively disqualified. The ARF, as well as most other activists in the diaspora, rejected the law disallowing dual citizenship. They consistently advocated dual citizenship as a tangible means of linking the diaspora with the homeland. This issue is still very much ‘on the table’. Since 1998 the Kocharian administration has promised to re-examine the constitutional clause that forbids dual citizenship. At the first conference, Kocharian stated in his speech that a solution should be devised to grant diaspora Armenians some sort of citizenship, but there seemed to be a division within the Armenian government regarding the issue. This disagreement is not publicly articulated, but according to inside sources the President is in favour of dual citizenship while Vazgen Sargsian and his supporters were not. After Sargsian’s murder, the debate has moved in favour of dual citizenship, but to date not much legal progress has been made to alter the constitution to allow it. Nevertheless, at the second diaspora conference, Kocharian’s position was fully endorsed in the Declaration: ‘Armenians cannot be viewed as “aliens” in their motherland, and the Republic of Armenia has set out to overcome the constitutional barrier to dual citizenship, thus enabling every Armenian to establish a full-fledged presence in his/her motherland.’17 Diasporans, on the whole, are much more enthused about receiving Armenian citizenship than most leaders in Armenia are about granting it. These leaders are concerned with the political effects, that is, that diasporans might get too involved in the politics of the country. Hence, different ways of devising citizenship for diasporans are being examined: a form of ‘citizenship’ that would grant residency and property rights, symbolically and legally view Armenians from abroad as


equal citizens, but somehow limit their voting or political participation rights at least for a period of time. This is certainly what Kocharian has in mind, as he too is very keen to limit the political power of any group – diasporan or not – that might undermine his rule in Armenia. Migration out of Armenia was another theme that was discussed by many, particularly at the first conference. This was seen as major national problem, a tragedy that could be prevented by the socioeconomic betterment of the country. The government argued that diasporan investment would help stop this intellectual and economic hemorrhage. This view of migration as detrimental to the nation, by both diasporans and Armenians from the republic, indicated how negatively diaspora existence is seen. It quite neatly fitted into, and reinforced, the traditional framework of viewing the diaspora as an aberration due to negative consequences. The need for a unified spelling was a source of argument at both conferences. Orthographic changes in Soviet Armenia in the mid-1920s developed a different (and simplified) set of spelling rules from those of the ‘classical’ spelling used by the diaspora. Of course, the same alphabet is used, but the rules differ. Certain diasporan intellectuals, at both conferences, insisted that the ‘Soviet spelling’ (which is the norm in Armenia) be reversed and the republic switch back to the classical orthography and spelling. Such demands are made in the name of linguistic ‘purity’ and national unity.18 There is no sympathy in Armenian intellectual circles for such a change which is considered impractical; they point out that the orthography has been in effect for over 70 years and the entire literary output of the country is based on these rules. But the diasporan intellectuals who raise the issue were passionate, vocal, and persistent at both conferences. The whole debate seems rather irrelevant to many in the Armenian government given the magnitude of other more pressing problems.19 Another topic of discussion was the need to establish structures which would regulate and institutionalize Armenia–diaspora relations. Not too many concrete measures were discussed, but the problem was highlighted. At the first conference, Prime Minister Sargsian promised the establishment of a pan-Armenian council (related to the Business Development Agency he wanted to set up). Some diasporan delegates suggested a form of a pan-national assembly. The sub-committee (at the first conference) on ‘communication and linkages between diaspora institutions and the Republic of Armenia’ suggested in its report that a number of joint standing committees and project committees be established which would deal with specific issues (e.g. community representation,


economic development, developing a common keyboard, etc.). The sub-committee’s report downplayed the importance of a single government office that would deal with diaspora communication, and advocated a more diffused and a civil society based approach. It is still not clear what structural or institutional form Armenia–diaspora relations will eventually take. At the time of writing, the government of Armenia had just announced its intent to form commissions which will deal with economic, political/organizational, information/media, and education/ culture issues. These follow the four thematic sessions at the 2002 conference, and are broadly in line with the recommendations of the Communications and Linkages Committee report at the first conference. Needless to say, from the perspective of the government, the most important theme of the conferences – indeed, the rationale behind their accommodating policy towards the diaspora – was (and is) the economic argument. Investing in Armenia was the main message of both conferences, and all other themes were secondary to this imperative, as far as the government was concerned. In fact, a number of business-related activities outside of the formal schedule, but within the framework, of the conferences were organized during the days of both gatherings. For example, at the second conference the following events took place: a ‘Made in Armenia Expo’; a business seminar familiarizing diasporans about businesses opportunities in Armenia; an open house at the Armenian Development Agency; the creation of a trade network; and finally a tour of certain Armenian businesses. Armenian authorities see the diaspora as a huge source of investment and financial input. They are therefore pursuing policies which will encourage such investment, be it in the form of large-scale industry or micro-level projects and tourism. Neither Kocharian, nor other highranking officials, hide this fact. In fact, in his closing statement at the second conference Kocharian called for ‘investment, investment, and more investment’. Humanitarian aid, it is argued, is no longer enough; Armenia requires massive investment to help the economy and improve social conditions. Turning to the diaspora combines business calculations with emotive reasons to direct capital to the ‘fatherland’. Vazgen Sargsian’s speech at the first conference is a brilliant example of this combination. He affirmed that ‘The government realistically accepts that the invested capital does not have a sense of national belonging, even if it is in the hands of investors with Armenian origin. Co-operation with the fatherland has to be economically profitable.’ And yet, a few minutes earlier, the former Prime Minister was drawing on the


emotional arguments: The economic development of Armenia today is as important as victory in the [Gharabagh] war was yesterday. Our battle has moved from the field of blood and heroism, to the economic field. Hence, our strategy must change too; from assistance … to substantive co-operation. We must give much more productive and organizational shape to our emotional and spontaneous relations.20 It is believed that such a mixture of the profit motive with national attachment could yield increased investment in Armenia. In fact, almost all diaspora businessmen who do invest in Armenia do so as a result of this mix. They certainly see through the rhetoric of the government, and are fully cognizant of the difficulties of doing business in the country, of the corruption, of the lack of a fair and developed legal framework, and of the high level of risk involved. But they still do invest and tolerate some losses because Armenia is the ‘homeland’. Of course, their patience has limits, and despite a few successes, anecdotal evidence suggests that there is considerable loss of faith among many diasporan businessmen who are either withdrawing from, or minimizing their financial involvement in, Armenia – that is, they are ‘voting’ with their cheque-books. Because of the influence of indigenous business groups protecting their oligarchic domains, in conjunction with the state’s interests and weakness to enforce a ‘favourable macroeconomic and legal framework and support formation of a decent business environment’, an investment climate has emerged in Armenia which ‘has been rather hostile to any independent new entry, including to investors from the Diaspora’ (Freinkman 2001: 337) – I would add especially to investors from the diaspora. And yet, because of the emotional attachment, some diasporan businessmen still maintain some investments in Armenia, putting up with a lot more economic abuse and loss than is the norm in an ‘ordinary’ business venture. It is worth emphasizing that this is particularly the case for diasporans outside of the post-Soviet space as they are much more prone to succumb to emotional-patriotic motives than the hardened businessmen of the post-Soviet diaspora. To increase the level of diasporan investment, the government has realized that it must do two things: make the diaspora feel welcomed (and the conferences did do this); and provide guarantees that investments are secure, that laws governing business will be enforced fairly, and corruption will be minimized. A good part of the official


government speeches at the conferences tried to restore trust by assuring diasporans of the positive and safe business climate in Armenia. One of the short film clips shown at the second conference focused on two or three diasporans who have settled in Armenia to do business without any major problems. A ‘Diaspora Meets Diaspora’ reception was organized as well – i.e. diasporans who have settled in Armenia (at most a few hundred) meeting diasporans who were visiting on the occasion of the conference. However, despite their best efforts, it is not clear if Yerevan officials succeeded in (re)gaining the trust of diaspora investors. What is certain is that Armenian businessmen from abroad are reluctant to commit more substantial funds without seeing some concrete changes in the business environment in Armenia. Despite all the talk of combating corruption, the results so far have not been encouraging.21 Based on the economic investment imperative, and on the political importance of the diaspora globally (especially in terms of lobbying), the Armenian authorities declared that the diaspora must be viewed as an equal partner to Armenia. This view was constantly expressed at both conferences, and it was one of the most fundamental themes. The late Prime Minister, Vazgen Sargsian, put it forcefully at the first conference when he declared that: ‘The government not only can, but is obliged and is ready to treat the diaspora as an equal partner.’22 It was emphasized by many that this new approach – that of the relationship of equals – constituted a new set of assumptions on which Armenia–diaspora linkages must be built and regulated. The diaspora was not just an appendix, but an indispensable and coextensive part of the nation – at least in rhetoric. In his speech at the second conference, President Kocharian suggested a further shift: not only is the diaspora a partner, but the kin-state must not try to control it. He accepted that It is not possible to govern the diaspora as a single entity, and there is no need to do this. Moreover, trying to do this will create numerous new complications and will separate us further. The opposite is true too, that Armenia must not be ruled from the diaspora, which will also bring certain difficulties.23 In view of this, he added, Armenia and the diaspora must nevertheless develop common approaches towards pan-national problems, they must coordinate their activities based on agreed upon positions, and they must actualize pan-national programmes.24 The approach is clear: there are two entities, Armenia and the diaspora, which are both legitimate and equal, and which must cooperate on joint activities rather


than try to control one another, or dismiss one another. But, herein lies the tension. At both conferences the theme of the unity of the Armenian nation was constantly maintained and cultivated by practically all participants. This ‘organic’ unity was most evident in the conference slogans. At the first conference, the motto was, ‘One Nation, One Fatherland’ (mek azg, mek hairenik).25 Almost everyone accepted this, taking the statement for granted, and repeating it uncritically.26 The affirmation that Armenians constitute one nation is of course true. But the slogan and the context in which it was used conveniently glossed over – or negated – fundamental differences which exist between Armenia and a good part of the diaspora, as well as within the diaspora. It asserts, in its connotation, qualities that the Armenian nation does not have: sameness and cultural unity. Both conferences embodied this tension: asserting an organic unity on the one hand, while, on the other, viewing the diaspora as a separate and diverse entity which can be an equal partner. No one asked how is it possible to be in partnership with one’s self if the first statement is true. The emotive power of the discourse of national unity prevailed at both conferences. There was, however, a discernible shift in approach at the second conference. Instead of accentuating similarity and cultural unity between Armenia and the diaspora, the motto emphasized the responsibility of all Armenians towards the ‘homeland’: ‘Armenia is the fatherland of all Armenians’ (hayastane bolor hayeri hayrenikn e), it was declared on many occasions.27 There is a subtle change here: it seems that the diversity of the diaspora is being accepted, while maintaining that there is one homeland towards which all diasporans (despite their differences) should feel loyal to and support. As the 2002 Conference Declaration put it: Today, securing the preservation, strengthening and advancement of our state is the sacred goal and duty of all Armenians around the world, its strengthening is everyone’s mission and inarguable priority, as a lever, main means and opportunity for the resolution of our vital issues. Under the slogan ‘Armenia is the homeland of all Armenians’ serving the rise of Armenian statehood should become the main calling for every Armenian. Every Armenian should be guided by a readiness to bring his/her unreserved participation to the National Revival, in order to enable us to secure the survival, progress and development of Armenia and Armenians. The statement ‘Armenia is the homeland of all Armenians’ is problematic as well, as the diaspora’s sense of homeland is much more


multidimensional (Panossian 1998: 182–5), but it is a step forward in addressing the tension between claims of unity and the reality of the diaspora’s diversity. At least, some sort of imputed organic unity is not being claimed. Stating that all Armenians have a duty to the republic – which is the gist of the message – is not quite the same as claiming all Armenians share the same sense of nationhood and are united under one banner. In short, it appears that the 2002 Conference and its Declaration is indicative of at least the beginnings of a change in attitude: that the diaspora be accepted as a separate, diverse and equal entity which can be linked to the republic through various mechanisms – rather than making the normative assumption that it ought to (or it will) feel connected due to the abstract notion of national unity. Related to the above shift, another change in mentality was noticeable at the second conference: the realization that the diaspora might not be an unfortunate aberration that is destined to disappear, especially without the assistance of the homeland. At the first conference the idea of a ‘disappearing diaspora’ was articulated by various speakers. The representative of the ARF faction in parliament, Vahan Hovannisian, put forth the idea most forcefully, intertwining it with nationalist discourse. He said: We should honestly admit that national life in the diaspora is starting to stagnate, and in some places it is even being extinguished. National life is possible only if organized around a certain idea. What is this idea? The fatherland … So that the national life in the diasporan communities does not stagnate, we must realize that we need a central idea around which national life can develop; and that is the Armenian cause, with its all-inclusive meaning – i.e. to create the normal conditions for Armenians to live with dignity. We must therefore realize the one reality that the nation is of permanent value … And therefore we must protect the nation. To do this we must understand its impulse, the beginning of which must come from Armenia … [Hence] Armenia [must take] decisive steps [as] the diaspora is still waiting.28 This conventional wisdom is not only historically inaccurate (Armenian nationalist ‘impulse’ has often been diaspora-driven), it is also in contradiction with the idea of equality and partnership between the republic and the diaspora. Perhaps ARF leaders have realized this contradiction, and at the second conference their argument was somewhat different. The party had begun to see something positive in the diaspora. As its Bureau (ruling council) representative, Hrant Margarian,


put it at the 2002 gathering: The diaspora has been the result of our difficult historical fate, which has been a symbol of our weakness for a long time. But in today’s world, when time and space have retreated in the face of ideas and organization, we are capable to and must turn our weakness to decisive advantage. And we must do this in all fields, political, economic, spiritual and cultural.29 In other words, the diaspora is the consequence of unfortunate historical causes, but it can also serve as a source of strength – and hence it is not all negative. Similar sentiments, and their change, are also evident in the speeches given by Kocharian. For example, in his opening speech at the first conference, Kocharian maintained: All the national structures of the diaspora, no matter where they are, have had one arch-problem: to struggle against the loss of national identity, national values, qualities, and the step-by-step weakening of historical memory. A diaspora separated from national statehood is condemned to be an extinguished historical memory. Every new generation inevitably is one step further from national identity. It is our belief that the diaspora can become an active, self-perpetuating and permanent national factor, both in individual countries and as a general condition, if it has coordinated and harmonious relations with the reality of national statehood and the fatherland. From this perspective, the diaspora has two missions: (a) the constant problem of maintaining national identity, through its own efforts and with the assistance of independent Armenia; (b) the immediate participation in the strengthening of national statehood.30 The logical conclusion is evident: to survive, the diaspora must be linked to the ‘homeland’, the state of Armenia. Hence, the diaspora must support the Republic of Armenia for its own sake because without the state the diaspora will vanish. Again, the tension is evident: it does not make sense to be an equal partner with a weak and vanishing entity. At the second conference, the President had changed his position. In his opening speech he maintained, ‘We have begun a process [i.e. working with the diaspora] which has a beginning but no end. Armenia and the diaspora will always remain, and the question of productive cooperation will always remain on the pan-Armenian agenda.’31 In short, the permanence of the diaspora is accepted, and therefore cooperation with it ought to be the norm. It appears that the President and his policy-makers


have understood that one cannot claim to treat the diaspora as an equal partner, and yet maintain that it is doomed to disappear. There seems to be an acceptance of the legitimacy of the diaspora as a permanent component of the nation. If this is the case – and it is too early to tell if it is a genuine change of attitude or just rhetoric to appease the diaspora – it is a welcome reversal, finally, of the Soviet era-inspired mentality regarding the secondary importance and weakness of the diaspora. Without being knowledgeable of the internal debates within the presidential office, it is impossible to know how and why this change of attitude has taken place. But it is worth noting that there are a few well-placed advisers from the diaspora (mostly within the Foreign Ministry), in addition to the Foreign Minister Vartan Oskanian himself, who do have the President’s ear; they have either convinced the President of the legitimacy and permanence of the diaspora, or advised him on which discourse the diasporans like to hear.

Conclusion At first glance, it seems that there has been much change in Armenia–diaspora relations since 1998. No doubt, relations have improved considerably. But a closer scrutiny suggests that almost all of the progress has been made in the symbolic realm, while discussions of more lasting or established structures bridging the two parts of the nation have not materialized. The Armenian government’s focus has been on drawing diasporans to Armenia as tourists and investors – i.e. primarily as economic agents. There has yet to be any substantive attempts to create institutional links which would enable the diaspora to have any real and meaningful input (beyond personal contacts) in the policies of the Armenian state. Dual citizenship remains a matter of ‘debate’ rather than of actual reform. The two Armenia–diaspora conferences themselves were brilliantly staged good-will gestures and ‘feel-good’ events – especially the first one. Through them, the government placated the diaspora through symbolic gestures and the rhetoric of national unity (the 1,700th anniversary celebrations of the adoption of Christianity is yet another example of this approach). Celebrations, conferences and ‘shows’ have so far replaced institutional frameworks and policy input. Nevertheless, the attitude of the Armenian government has become more sophisticated and there are some indications that it is changing, although it is too early to pass any final judgement on it. The predominant paradigm does remain that the diaspora is an economic resource that should be used. But the Yerevan administration


has realized that it cannot continue to neglect some of the diasporan demands, and that a more formal and equal relationship should be established. The old mentality – that the diaspora is a secondary and weakening component of the nation – still prevails as well, but it is being questioned by the leadership. It is clear that the ‘symbolic unity’ approach will not work in the long run. The appeasement of the diaspora must go beyond rhetoric. Diaspora Armenians did have, and continue to have, high expectations – that a pan-national formula will be established which will enable diasporans to have some input in the republic’s politics and policies. That is, they expect to have political clout that at least partially matches their expected economic clout. Sceptics maintain that nothing will change, and they might be correct. But the second diaspora conference contained hints that there is a shift in the thinking of key Armenian officials, from not wanting to share power in any significant manner, towards accepting the diaspora for what it is, to come to terms with its permanence and value, and to bring it into national life without trying to control it. At this point, this is a slight change – or the beginning of change – and it is too early to conclude if it will lead to a more profound recasting of Armenia–diaspora relations. Tension between the Armenian republic and the diaspora will remain as long as the two entities exist. The challenge is to channel this tension into a positive direction. After all, the creative energy of the Armenians often stems from such tension.

Notes 1 This figure does not include the 400,000 or so Armenians who fled Azerbaijan as a result of violent attacks on them in connection with the conflict over Nagorno-Karabakh (Gharabagh). Most of these individuals eventually settled in Russia rather than Armenia. Thousands of Armenians have also left Gharabagh itself, especially after the end of the war in 1994. 2 There is much anecdotal evidence for this, but as of yet no formal research has been done on the subject. One interesting study is a recently completed PhD which examines relations between newcomers and the established community in Greece (Schwalgin 2002: chapter 3). There are no reliable statistics on the number of Armenians who have left the country since 1991. The oft-cited figures are in the range of one to two million people, with about 75 per cent going to Russia. It is estimated that there are two million Armenians in Russia, including migrants from other post-Soviet countries (Azerbaijan and Georgia) and the existing communities from the Soviet period. 3 In the case of the Armenian community in Russia, some notable gains have been made. In Krasdnodar, for example, where approximately 750,000 Armenians reside, the ‘Amshen’ Armenian Science and Culture Centre has


4

5

6 7

been quite active in providing community services, as well as promoting and defending local Armenian interests. At the national level, an umbrella (‘panRussian’) organization has been established, called the Union of Armenians in Russia (Rusastani Hayeri Miutiun). Unlike most other diaspora organizations, the Union had taken the initiative to produce a ninety-page booklet outlining their views and positions specifically for the second Armenia–diaspora conference. This booklet was made available to the delegates of the conference. For example, when the governor of the southern Russian region of Krasnodar, Aleksandr Tkachev, called for all ‘illegal immigrants’ to leave the province (many of the close to 750,000 Armenians in Krasnodar are recent migrants from Armenia and Azerbaijan and do not have Russian citizenship), and local skinheads destroyed parts of the Armenian cemetery in April 2002, a delegation comprised of Armenian parliamentarians and high-ranking interior and foreign ministry representatives travelled to Krasnodar to meet with the governor and to ease tensions within the overall framework of friendly Russian–Armenian relations (‘High-level delegation from Russia’s Krasnodar to visit Armenia’, Arminfo, 27 May 2002; and ‘Armenian delegation, Krasnodar Cossack chieftain discuss ethnic tensions’, Arminfo, 31 May 2002, both posted on Groong Armenian News Network, 28 May 2002, and 1 June (http://www.groong.usc.edu) ). Similarly, the Armenian government expressed concern when Russians and Armenians clashed in Krasnoarmeysk (just north of Moscow) in July 2002. Over 20 Armenians were injured in what seemed to be a racially motivated rampage against the local community. But the Armenian government quickly declared that the incident was ‘an act of hooliganism’ rather than an attack motivated by racial or political reasons, echoing the official line of the Russian police and local authorities. It was important for Yerevan to deny the racial motives of the attackers for the sake of maintaining excellent Armenia–Russia relations (‘Situation in Krasnoarmeysk to be discussed at a special consultation in Moscow’, ArmenPress News Agency, 10 July 2002, posted on Groong Armenian News Network, 11 July 2002, http://groong.usc.edu). In the case of Armenians in Georgia, a much more established community with historical roots, the Armenian government threads a fine line: being supportive and sympathetic to the community in the social and economic realms, but insisting that it does not harbour any irredentist claims against Georgia (i.e. regarding the border region of Javakheti). The post-Soviet Armenian diaspora, especially in CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States) countries, is an under-researched topic, as is the Armenian government’s attitude toward it. For one publication (in Russian) which gives some information, see Diaspory [Diasporas] journal published in Moscow, 1 (2), 2000. R. Kocharian, ‘Inaugural Speech’, Groong Armenian News Network, http:// groong.usc.edu (accessed on 9 April 1998). The Hayastan All-Armenian Fund, usually just known as the Armenia Fund, was established by the Yerevan government in May 1992. It was to be the fundraising and coordinating mechanism which would provide a channel for (and centralize) diasporan aid to Armenia. Its Board of Trustees is comprised of prominent individuals, including the President of the republic


8 9

10 11 12

13 14 15 16

(as Chairman), the President and Prime Minister of Gharabagh, the Prime Minister and Foreign Minister of Armenia, other top-ranking government officials, both Catholicoi, leaders of the three diasporan political parties as well as major organizations, and prominent Armenian individuals. As of the summer of 2002, of the 33 Trustees, 21 are from the diaspora, the rest from Armenia and Gharabagh (none is from Russia or the CIS). Armenia Fund funds reconstruction projects and provides humanitarian assistance. Its major projects include rebuilding the road which connects Armenia to Gharabagh, the Iran–Armenia gas pipeline, irrigation systems, construction of residential units in the earthquake disaster zone, and more day-to-day assistance such as providing heating fuel, helping orphans, etc. Its focus is on strengthening the infrastructure of the country (including Gharabagh). Between 1992 and 2001 the Fund had collected US$75,495,000: over 39 million from the USA, 8 million from Armenia, a little less than twelve thousand from Russia, and the rest from other diasporan centres. The Fund’s emphasis is obviously on the established diaspora, rather than the postsoviet diaspora. Other major contributing countries include Argentina (US$6.4 million), France (US$5.6 million), and the UK (US$3.4 million) (figures are from the financial reports of the Hayastan All-Armenian Fund) (http://www.himnadram.org). See also, Armenian International Magazine, February 1993, pp. 21–4; April 1996, pp. 16–20; Nor Gyank, 21 September 1995. In the USA and Canada, Armenia Fund raises its money through highly publicized telethons and other collective efforts by the entire community. The funds are distributed through state agencies, and the government has the primary say on what the money is to be spent on. The official list of attendees, released months after the conference, had 655 names on it, but there were clearly many more people in attendance. The text of these declarations, as well as the committee reports and some of the speeches, can be found on http://www.armeniadiaspora.com. Research for this section is based on my own notes and discussions as a participant at the two Armenia–diaspora conferences. The ‘armeniadiaspora’ website also contains much information on the conferences. R. Kocharian, ‘Conference speech’, 23 September 1999, Hayastani Hanrapetutiun, 1–2. V. Sargsian ‘Conference speech’, Hayastani Hanrapetutiun, 24 September, 1–2. The Pope was visiting Armenia at the same time, and thousands of diasporans were already visiting the country to take part in the 1,700th Anniversary celebrations. Months earlier, Armenian embassies had began to hold ‘consultation meetings’ with the local communities about the conference; but the process was quietly dropped once the conference was postponed. Quotations are from the conference programme. For further details see ‘Armenia–diaspora conference decision’ on www. armeniadiaspora.com. Press release by Public Affairs Department, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 21 June 2002 (as posted on Groong Armenian News Network the same day). There are exceptions to the law. Special citizenship can be granted by presidential decree. But, according to the Law on the Legal Status of Foreign


17 18

19

20 21

22 23

24 25

26

27 28 29 30 31

Citizens (adopted in June 1994), a foreign citizen of Armenian origin, or others with interest in Armenia, can obtain a 10-year (renewable) residency permit (Article 21). ‘Declaration of the second Armenia–diaspora conference’. Posted on http://www.armeniadiaspora.com/conference2002. Even if there is a unified orthography it will not alter the fact that the Armenian language is divided into two dialects: eastern (in Armenia and Iran) and western (in the diaspora). The Paris-based Armenian-language Haratch newspaper is one of the spearheads of this campaign. It distributed a special issue of its newspaper (18– 19 May 2002, no. 20.429) calling for the switch to classical orthography at the second Armenia–diaspora conference. For a practical defence of the status quo, see H. Khachatrian, ‘Orthography, state and diaspora: a political analyst’s view on a unified spelling problem’, Groong Armenian News Network, http://groong.usc.edu (accessed on 22 May 2002). V. Sargsian, ‘Conference speech’, Hayastani Hanrapetutiun, 24 September 1999, 1–2. Tough new anti-corruption measures were announced by Vazgen Sargsian in his speech in September 1999, but he was assassinated before any of them could be implemented. Since then, corruption has been discussed, but not much has been done to minimize it. V. Sargsian, ‘Conference speech’, Hayastani Hanrapetutiun, 24 September 1999, 1–2. R. Kocharian, ‘Conference speech’, Hayots Ashkharh, 28 May 2002, 3 (the speech can also be found on http://www.armeniadiaspora.com). Author’s emphasis added. Ibid. This theme was also emphasized by the conference posters and the slogans printed on them. One said: ‘We live differently, but we think similarly’. In addition to posters, declarations, and speeches, unity was also symbolically maintained at conference-related cultural and social events and receptions. The second conference was less extravagant in its slogans of unity, posters, shows and receptions, but more direct in its ‘sales pitch’ to invest in Armenia, and to ‘build Armenia together’. Only one diasporan intellectual challenged this assumption of ‘organic’ unity and similarity. Vahe Oshagan asked: ‘have [you] noticed how many differences there are between the various diasporan communities? … One nation, yes; one fatherland, yes; but one culture? This is an [open] question. I am amazed to see how little you Armenians from Armenia know about the diaspora’. V. Oshagan, ‘Conference statement’, www.armeniadiaspora.com. (accessed 2 February 2000). The motto was used by Kocharian at the first conference as well. V. Hovannisian, ‘Conference statement’, author’s personal recording. H. Margarian, ‘Conference statement’, Hayots Ashkharh, 28 May 2002, 4. R. Kocharian, ‘Conference speech’, 23 September 1999, Hayastani Hanrapetutiun, 1–2. R. Kocharian, ‘Conference speech’, Hayots Ashkharh, 28 May 2002, 3 (the speech can also be found on http://www.armeniadiaspora.com). Author’s emphasis added.

Part IV Sending Countries in Conflict


8 Long-Distance Nationalism and the Responsible State: The Case of Eritrea Khalid Koser

Other chapters in this volume demonstrate that there is an increasing recognition by sending states – especially in developing countries – of the potential contributions that their overseas migrant populations can make. Most obviously these contributions are economic, in the form of remittances, but they can also be political, and even social or cultural. As more and more sending states attempt to mobilize support among their overseas migrant populations – or to promote longdistance nationalism – an important question that arises is to what extent these states have any responsibilities towards those populations. The impression from the existing literature is often that sending states effectively exploit their overseas migrant populations, without offering too much in return. This chapter investigates the relationship between long-distance nationalism and sending state responsibilities in the context of links between the Eritrean state and its sizeable diaspora. The term ‘diaspora’ is used here advisedly, as it is the term that overseas Eritreans increasingly use to describe themselves. After providing the background, the chapter turns to an historical overview of the links between the diaspora and the nascent state during and after Eritrea’s ‘Struggle for Independence’, as this arguably represents one of the earliest examples of long-distance nationalism. Its focus, however, is how the relationship with the state has evolved in the last five years, specifically during the recent conflict with Ethiopia (1998–2000) and in its aftermath. What is demonstrated is that for the duration of the conflict the Eritrean state very successfully mobilized national support within the diaspora. Since the end of the recent conflict with Ethiopia in 2000, 171

172 Long-Distance Nationalism: Eritrea

however, there have been increasing signs of discontent within the diaspora, at least in part because of the perception that the state exploited its members during the conflict. The lesson for sending states more generally is that overseas migrant populations cannot be viewed simply as a milk-cow. If long-distance nationalism is to be sustained, then sending states will increasingly face pressure to behave responsibly towards these populations.

The Eritrean diaspora The focus in this chapter is on refugees who fled during Eritrea’s ‘Struggle for Independence’, between 1961 and 1991, and sought asylum in Europe. Many refugees were also displaced to neighbouring countries, especially Sudan (Bascom 1998). In contrast, relatively few Eritrean (or Ethiopian) refugees were generated by the recent conflict. However, it is estimated that over 60,000 Eritreans were expelled from Ethiopia (expulsions also took place in the opposite direction). In addition, some 250,000 Eritreans were internally displaced from border areas (ERREC 1999). There are no accurate data on the size of the Eritrean diaspora in Europe or North America. The main reason is that refugees were registered upon arrival in most host countries as ‘Ethiopians’ (until 1991 the territory of Eritrea was formally a province of Ethiopia), and very few censuses have yet disaggregated Eritrean refugees from Ethiopian refugees. One indicator is the voting figures for the 1993 Referendum for Independence. According to these data, a total of 84,370 votes were cast by Eritreans outside Eritrea (Referendum Commission of Eritrea 1993). They show that the most significant host countries for Eritrean refugees outside Africa are Saudi Arabia (37,785), the USA and Canada (14,941) and Germany (6,994). These figures certainly underestimate the current reality. They only record the number of those eligible to vote – that is, over the age of eighteen – and they are almost ten years out of date. Eritrean community leaders in the UK, for example, suggest that between 20,000 and 25,000 Eritreans currently live there, and agree that there are even more in Germany. It is harder still to provide an accurate indication of the proportional numerical significance of the diaspora, as there are no accurate census data from Eritrea. Ballpark figures are that there are some 3 million people in Eritrea and perhaps 1 million outside, of whom about 250,000 live outside Africa. Perhaps one in sixteen Eritreans, therefore, lives in the diaspora outside Africa.

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In Europe there were broadly three main waves of arrivals of Eritrean refugees during the ‘Struggle for Independence’. The first was in the mid-1970s, and coincided with the deposition of Haile Selassie and the accession of the Derg (military committee) in Ethiopia in 1974. Respondents report that the Derg transformed intermittent harassment of Eritreans into systematic imprisonment and persecution. Many Eritreans fled initially to Sudan, from where resettlement programmes brought them to various countries during the mid-1970s, including USA, Canada, Germany, UK and Sweden. The second wave occurred in the year after the Red Star Campaign, which launched the largest attack by Ethiopia during the Struggle, and involved some 90,000 Ethiopian soldiers (Connell 1997). The final major wave arrived at the end of the 1980s, as the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) launched a sustained series of attacks that were to culminate in 1991 with victory. Many Eritreans who arrived at this stage came as ‘unaccompanied minors’ (that is, unaccompanied children under the age of 18). Most commentators agree that after Independence, Eritrea experienced a period of significant social, economic and political reform, characterized by rapid development and democratization (Iyob 1997; Tronvoll 1998). Nevertheless, the vast majority of Eritreans living outside the African continent have still not returned permanently (although many visit during summer vacations). The only reliable data on return to Eritrea from Europe come from Germany, where between 1993 and 2000 there was a return programme for Eritreans that incorporated a range of generous incentives. From a total Eritrean population of over 25,000, only 242 returned under the auspices of this programme. Eritrean communities in Germany reckon that only a handful more have returned outside the programme. The explanation that has recurred most often during interviews has related to the education of children. It is probably a function of the timing of the arrival of Eritrean refugees that in many cases their children were of school-going age at Independence. Although there is one international school in Asmara, its fees are prohibitively expensive, and in other schools the language of instruction until sixth grade is Tigrinya. Beyond these specific issues, many parents have spoken more generally of the disrupting effect of relocating their children. Another specific obstacle that is often referred to is the housing shortage in Asmara. A range of other obstacles compounds these. Some similarly relate to conditions in Eritrea, including low salaries, the absence of social welfare, and a shortage of reliable health facilities. Others are focused on host countries, and include debt – ironically often incurred by people who


took out loans for higher education in order to educate themselves to return after Independence. Looking to the longer term, many respondents are acutely aware that they will benefit from pension schemes after retirement, which on the whole cannot be transferred to Eritrea. What this has meant is that at the onset of the new conflict with Ethiopia, in May 1998, there was a sizeable and well-established Eritrean diaspora. The causes of the Eritro-Ethiopian conflict, which finally came to an end in the last months of 2000, remain unclear. Ostensibly it started as a localized conflict over a small disputed area of the common border between the two countries. However, most analysts now agree that the border issue did not lie at the heart of the conflict. For some analysts the conflict was essentially economic, sparked off by the decision by Eritrea to launch its own currency (Clapham 1998). For others, the central issue was strategic, as Ethiopia became land-locked when Eritrea won Independence, and has become reliant on access to Eritrean ports. For still others, the conflict was driven by internal politics in Ethiopia, or expansionism by Eritrea.

Existing links between the Eritrean diaspora and the Eritrean state Efforts by the Eritrean state to mobilize overseas nationals during the recent conflict have built upon a long-standing tradition for the Eritrean diaspora to contribute, first to the independence movement and later to the state during the 1990s (Iyob 2000). During the ‘Struggle for Independence’, Eritreans in the diaspora were mobilized in particular by the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) to campaign and increase public awareness in their host countries, and to raise money to pay for the costs of the war and of relief and welfare services in the liberated areas. Mobilization occurred through a tightly organized system of ‘mass organizations’. The EPLF also ran an NGO network – the Eritrean Relief Association (ERA) – targeted on raising money among NGOs and other donors in host countries. After Independence, both of these networks of offices were disbanded. In their place, local community organizations were established, and links between the diaspora and the new state developed in two new ways. The first was political. Unusually, the Eritrean state decided from the outset to exercise a wide definition of citizenship, which included those living in the diaspora, irrespective of their residence and status in their host countries. This is one reason why Iyob has characterized the Eritrean state as a ‘diasporic state’ (Iyob 2000). Thus in the 1993 Referendum for Independence Eritreans in the diaspora were registered

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to vote and received Eritrean identity cards. Most sources do not dispute assertions by the Eritrean Constitutional Commission that the turnout for the referendum was over 98 per cent, nor that 99 per cent of votes cast were in favour of Independence (Styan 1993). After the Referendum, overseas nationals were also closely involved with the drafting of Eritrea’s Constitution, and its ratification in 1997. The diaspora had formal representation in the Assembly of the Constitutional Committee, amounting to six members of a 50-member Assembly. Three separate drafts were circulated to Eritrean communities overseas (as well as within Eritrea), and on each occasion feedback was invited and incorporated into the next draft. According to the President of the Assembly, the contribution of the diaspora was central both to the Constitutional process and to the final wording of several parts of the Constitution. The Constitution guarantees multi-party elections, although these have not yet been held. If and when they are held, the Constitution also guarantees the right of the diaspora to vote. The second significant link between the diaspora and the Eritrean state has been economic. Since Independence, every adult Eritrean in the diaspora has been asked to pay 2 per cent of their annual income to the Eritrean state. This rate applies across the entire diaspora, and includes the unemployed and all social categories. Even though it is voluntary, every respondent in this research stated that they pay this contribution, and none – not even those in open opposition to the current government (the People’s Front for Democracy and Justice – PFDJ) – seemed to resent paying. Most Eritreans view the tax not as a burden, but rather as a ‘duty’ towards their homeland. It is often referred to as a ‘healing tax’ (Iyob 2000). When I asked one respondent, Taza in Berlin, if he ever thought of missing a payment, he responded: ‘No, because then I would be declaring that I am not an Eritrean.’

The intensification of links with the diaspora After the beginning of the recent conflict, the Eritrean government made clear efforts to intensify its links with the diaspora. This took place in three main ways, and it remains an ongoing process even now when the conflict has ended. First, the government began to reopen political offices, which had been closed upon Independence, in the principal countries for the diaspora – USA, Germany and Saudi Arabia. Senior members of government were dispatched to these offices. In other host countries the Ministry of Foreign Affairs instructed embassies and consulates to conduct censuses within the diaspora, to establish a demographic profile and especially a profile of skills and qualifications within


the diaspora. Second, the Eritrean Relief Association network, which had effectively been disbanded upon Independence, has been revitalized, although under a series of new names – the Eritrean Development Fund in the USA, Eritrea Hilfswerk in Germany, and Citizens for Peace in Canada. Third, the government initiated an information campaign within the diaspora. One method has been through regular visits to host countries by government representatives. In his analysis of the attempts of the Mexican state to develop links with Mexican immigrants in the USA, Robert C. Smith characterizes the process as one of the ‘institutionalization’ of the diaspora. He suggests three reasons. One reason is simply to tap the wealth of the migrants, a second is to try to establish control over autonomous political linkages which have grown between civil society in Mexico and the migrants, and a third is to ‘channel, co-opt and reorganize the disaffected energies of Mexicans in the United States’ (Smith, R. 1998: 224). Smith’s analysis provides a useful framework for analysing the way that the Eritrean state has intensified its links with the diaspora since the renewal of conflict with Ethiopia.

Financial contributions The diaspora’s financial contribution was needed both during and after the conflict, not only to help pay for the costs of an army engaged in protracted fighting, but also to provide relief and assistance to those Eritreans who were expelled from Ethiopia, to the internally displaced in Eritrea, and to as many as 250,000 other families affected in other ways by the war, for example through the absence of productive members of the household (ERREC 1999). Eritrea’s dependence on the diaspora has been exacerbated by the government’s deep suspicion of foreign aid. During the conflict the government sought financial contributions from the diaspora in a number of ways. Most directly, the contributions already being asked of the diaspora were increased. During the conflict, Eritreans in the UK were asked to contribute an additional £1 per day, plus a one-off annual payment of £500 for 1999. In Germany, in December 1998 the rate of 2 per cent was raised for one month to 10 per cent, there was a request for a one-off payment of DM1,000, and Eritreans were also asked to contribute an additional DM30 per month. As another way of raising money, the government issued bonds for the first time in Eritrea at the beginning of 1999. There were seven types, which ranged in duration from three to ten years, and in cost from

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US$300 to US$1,000. According to the termination date, interest rates vary from 3.5 per cent to 3.69 per cent. The economic advisor to the president estimated in July 1999 that already some US$20 million worth of bonds had been purchased in North America, US$20 million in Europe and US$15 million in the Middle East. The government has adopted two other strategies. The first was to auction housing plots in Asmara, the capital city of Eritrea. Over the last few years the municipality of Asmara has built several housing estates, and it is houses in these estates that are now being auctioned. It is reported that members of the Eritrean diaspora have purchased most of these houses. At the same time, interviews with Eritreans in the UK indicate that these houses will largely be used as holiday homes, rather than providing the basis for a decision to return more permanently. Similarly, the state has also begun to auction land outside Asmara. This is a significant initiative, as one of the first actions of the state after Independence was to nationalize all land. The decision now to sell at least some land into private hands is one indication of the urgency for the state to attract overseas investment.

Controlling autonomous political linkages While overseas nationals have been involved in formal political processes such as the Referendum and the Constitution, it has clearly not been possible for the state to exert the same political control over these long-distance nationals as it does over those living within Eritrea’s borders. There is a marked contrast between the lack of public criticism of the government within Eritrea, and the quite open debate that takes place within communities outside Eritrea. A recent trend of some concern to the Eritrean state has been the evolution of critical autonomous links between Eritreans in the diaspora and those living at home. These links are based on regular return visits by many in the Eritrean diaspora and by regular telephone calls. But perhaps the most significant development, and one that is particularly hard for the state to regulate, has been the gradual evolution of Internet linkages. The most important link has been established through the e-mail discussion group, DEHAI (‘Dehai’ is a Tigrinya word meaning ‘voice’ or ‘news’). The group was founded in 1992 by five Eritreans in the USA. By 1998 membership had grown to 4,000, an average of 523 e-mails were being posted each month, and e-mails were being read over 80,000 times per month. Initially DEHAI’s membership was focused on the west coast of the USA, but within a year its members were widely


spread throughout the USA, in Canada and across Europe. While Internet access in Eritrea remains limited, it is expanding rapidly. The increasing importance of DEHAI, and increasing access to the information from the e-mail discussion group in Eritrea, have challenged the government of Eritrea’s ability to exert political control over its citizens at home. DEHAI’s archives provide two good examples. The first occurred in March 1999, when, it is agreed by all international observers, Eritrea suffered a heavy defeat by Ethiopia at the Badme border. The government of Eritrea has never formally acknowledged this defeat, but immediately after Badme, DEHAI recorded its highest number of e-mails in any single week since its inception, focused on the thread ‘Are we losing the war?’ In the second example, criticism from Eritreans overseas actually influenced government policy. In March 1998, an Eritrean journalist, Ruth Simon, who was at the time a ‘stringer’ for a French press agency, was imprisoned in Asmara after writing reports critical of the government. Her imprisonment resulted in an intense period of debate and criticism on DEHAI. A senior official at the Ministry of Justice told me during an interview in 1999 that criticism on DEHAI had been an important factor in the decision to release the journalist. Just as was found in Smith’s Mexican case study, it seems that another reason why the government in Eritrea re-engaged with the diaspora was to attempt to influence – if not control – criticism from within the diaspora which has the potential to influence people in Eritrea too. This was particularly important in the context of the recent conflict, in which propaganda proved to be a crucial weapon for the Eritrean state, especially in uniting Eritreans against what was portrayed as aggression from neighbouring Ethiopia.

Channelling the energies of the diaspora A third reason for ‘re-engaging’ with the Eritreans in the diaspora has been to mobilize them as a vehicle to represent and further the Eritrea’s cause during and after the conflict within host countries. The main way this has been done is through financial collections. On a formal basis, the ERA network has been revitalized primarily in order to raise money among host-country NGOs. In the UK, for example, ERA is currently planning a nation-wide campaign. Less formally, many local Eritrean community organizations have been raising money through hosting events such as concerts and poetry recitals, as well as organizing street collections. On an individual basis several respondents have organized

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jumble sales and car-boot sales in their neighbourhoods or at local schools. Besides sending money directly to Eritrea, there have been several cases where Eritreans have also used the money they have collected to buy medicine to send back. Eritreans in the diaspora have been rather less successful in championing Eritrea’s cause either through bringing political pressure to bear on their host governments, or through raising the profile of the conflict among host populations and media. It seems that Eritrean communities in the USA are generally better organized than those in Europe; for example, during the conflict a letter-writing campaign was launched on an Eritrean website. This site automatically identified the name and address of the local Congressman, and provided for the downloading and signature of a letter demanding pressure to be placed on Ethiopia to pay compensation for the Eritreans who have been expelled.

Growing resentment within the diaspora The preceding section has shown how and why the Eritrean state has built upon a long-standing tradition to further mobilize support from the diaspora during the recent conflict with Ethiopia. This section draws on interviews within the Eritrean diaspora to offer an assessment of the government’s initiatives. It is clear that in the short term these initiatives have largely been successful – for example very significant amounts of money have been raised within the diaspora over the last four or five years. However, there are equally clear indications that the government’s strategies have also generated resentment within the diaspora. In the longer term the consequence may be to alienate the diaspora and erode long-distance nationalism. The exacerbation of political differences There have always been political differences within Eritrea and the diaspora, which have coalesced around three main bases. First, there remain some supporters of the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), the force that began the Struggle for Independence, but was then effectively replaced by the EPLF (Connell 1997). Second, there remains a perception among Muslim Eritreans both within and outside the country, that Christians dominate the current government, to the detriment of the rights of Muslims. Third, another common perception is that the government is also dominated by ethnic groups of the Eritrean Highlands, and largely excludes Eritrea’s other nine principal ethnic groups.


Until the beginning of the recent conflict, however, the motivations of such groups actively to oppose the PFDJ government have been limited. It is striking to observe, for example, that even though several respondents admitted being members of opposition groups, they still paid their 2 per cent contribution to the state. As one respondent said: ‘This may not be the right government, but it’s still right for us to support our country. Our time will come.’ The conflict appears to have provided the catalyst needed to mobilize opposition – although this has still only been the case outside Eritrea. For example, the previously splintered opposition groups have now coalesced around a single party – the Alliance of Eritrean National Forces. And their activities, for example in attending community meetings and participating on DEHAI’s discussion groups, seem to have increased. One reason why PFDJ opponents have become more active has been their impression that many Eritreans – even those who support the government – have been sceptical about the objectives of the conflict. This impression has largely been confirmed in interviews with respondents who have always been government sympathizers, but who have been quick to see through the propaganda and regularly describe the conflict as a ‘waste of time’ and a ‘waste of lives’. Perhaps the most concrete example of this growing disillusionment has arisen over the additional payments being asked of the diaspora. At a community meeting in Berlin in 1999, a majority of those who attended stated openly that while they were willing to contribute to the costs of rebuilding Eritrea after Independence (‘healing taxes’), they were much less willing to pay for war. The overall impression has been that many in the diaspora have paid additional contributions in order to protect their nation, but that in the aftermath of the conflict their attitudes towards the government have become more critical.

Confirming a perception of ‘exploitation’ Disillusionment among its supporters is arguably a more serious consideration for the Eritrean government than the mobilization of its opponents. Nevertheless, another way in which the government’s activities during the conflict have increased this sense of disillusionment, has been to confirm for many a notion that they are in effect being ‘exploited’ by the government. Despite the evolution of economic and political links with the Eritrean state, many Eritreans in the diaspora feel that the current government has deliberately distanced itself from them since Independence. They feel that the government has viewed their

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economic contributions as purely functional, and their participation in the Referendum and Constitution merely as formalities, and they feel that they have been denied the opportunity fully to participate in the development of the new state. These feelings can best be understood in the context of the very close cooperation between the EPLF and the diaspora during the Struggle. To a large extent these perceptions are accurate. Government representatives admit that after Independence it became a deliberate policy to encourage the autonomy of the diaspora: When we won Independence, suddenly there didn’t seem to be any need to mobilize the diaspora. Our attitude was that they should get on with their own lives – if they wanted to contribute they should have come home.1 A number of reasons can be suggested for the government’s policy. The most benign is that the government recognized that many Eritreans in the diaspora had made very significant sacrifices – of their free time and money – during the ‘Struggle for Independence’, and that they should now be encouraged to pursue their own lives. It is equally true, however, that the government was concerned to avoid criticism from within the diaspora. There was also a sense of disappointment – betrayal would be too strong – that most Eritreans had chosen not to return, and as a result a determination not to involve them too greatly in determining the future of the state. As a result of the government’s attitude towards Eritreans in the diaspora, many of them have developed contradictory relationships with the state. On the one hand they have maintained links, primarily through economic contributions and political participation. On the other hand, and particularly when compared to their relationships with the ‘Struggle’, they feel they have been cast off by the state to pursue their lives in host countries. This contradictory relationship was confirmed for many during the conflict. Most paid the extra contributions that were asked of them, despite a growing scepticism about the motivations of the government, and despite having absolutely no say in any decisions about the conflict. In the aftermath of the conflict, there is an impression that many Eritreans are reappraising their relationship with the state.

Intensifying economic strains A more specific way in which the activities of the Eritrean government have helped to alienate even its supporters, has been through its


substantial requests for money. Particularly for poorer Eritreans – the unemployed, those without secure legal status, single parents – these extra requests have resulted in enormous economic strains. Several respondents have told me that they are torn between wanting to contribute to their homeland, but at the same time having to face up to the economic realities of life in their host countries. They feel upset by the way that the government has effectively exposed their lack of success in their host countries. This economic strain has been exacerbated for many respondents from two directions. First, in many cases, their families in Eritrea have also asked them to send additional money. Most respondents reported having sent remittances on a fairly regular basis before the conflict, but many of them have received specific requests from their families for more money. These requests have been in response to the economic strains that the conflict and its aftermath have placed on the population in Eritrea, most obviously through the recruitment of economically active family members. Besides the desire to contribute to the state and to assist family members in Eritrea, there has also been pressure on many within the diaspora to be seen to contribute. This social pressure has arisen because of the very public way in which money has been collected within the diaspora. A short anecdote from an Eritrean Community Centre in Berlin, in 1999, probably best illustrates this point. On the noticeboard was a list of those within the community who had made extra contributions, along with the amount they had contributed. People who had contributed received a certificate issued by the Eritrean embassy that acknowledged their role in protecting Eritrea. Interviews with community members whose names did not appear on the notice made it clear that this had become a source of deep embarrassment – and even shame.

Conclusion There cannot be many states on earth for which the term ‘diasporic state’ is more fitting than for Eritrea. Roughly one in every sixteen Eritreans lives outside Africa, and most have lived there for at least ten years or indeed were born abroad. For about 30 years, since the beginning of the ‘Struggle for Independence’, Eritreans in the diaspora have made significant contributions first to help create the state, then to ensure its survival. Since 1991 the vast majority have paid ‘taxes’ to the state even though they do not live in Eritrea. In turn, upon Independence the state devised a concept of citizenship specifically to include Eritreans in the diaspora, and has tried to guarantee their full political participation.

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Nevertheless, there are clear indications that the diaspora is currently reappraising its relationship with the state. Many Eritreans with whom I have spoken recently have talked about reducing or stopping altogether payments to the state, and they have begun increasingly openly to criticize the government. This is of serious concern for the PFDJ. State coffers have come to depend on the remittance of overseas taxes. A reliance on support from the diaspora has effectively legitimized the PFDJ’s reluctance to accept overseas aid. And Eritrea faces enormous costs in the aftermath of the current conflict, from dealing with large numbers of displaced, through demobilizing the army to rebuilding devastated infrastructures. The attitude of the Eritrean diaspora should also, however, set alarm bells ringing in other states around the world, such as those covered in this volume, that are trying to mobilize their overseas populations. Few if any can boast Eritrea’s tradition of close links with such a loyal diaspora. If Eritrea’s diaspora can change its allegiances, then no state can take long-distance nationalism for granted. The mistake of the Eritrean government appears to have been to push the diaspora to its limits. The preceding analysis has shown how the activities of the Eritrean government during the recent conflict have exacerbated political differences, confirmed for many Eritreans in the diaspora a perception of ‘exploitation’, and intensified economic strains within the diaspora. In the words of one Eritrean in London, many in the diaspora do not feel that the government has behaved ‘responsibly’ towards them. There is an extent to which this is undeniable – particularly in the context of the financial strains placed upon the diaspora. On the other hand, its members have enjoyed political participation that is possibly unrivalled elsewhere in the world. Once again, there are many other states that appear to offer far less to their overseas migrant populations yet are beginning to expect almost as much in return. What is more, the idea of state responsibilities can be extended beyond the question of how sending states deal with overseas nationals. It is clear from the Eritrean case study that another reason for discontent within the diaspora is the way the government conducted the recent conflict. As explained above, while almost all did not mind paying ‘healing taxes’, many were far unhappier about paying taxes for a war that they perceived as a ‘waste of time’. Outside the specific context of the conflict, the Ruth Simon incident demonstrates that the diaspora is willing and able to rally against the government’s record on strictly internal affairs. The leaders of the PFDJ must be asking themselves how much more they can get away with.


The Eritrean diaspora may never flex its muscle by withdrawing its support from the current government. Largely the outcome depends on the government’s policies in the aftermath of the conflict. For example, multi-party elections, and a relaxation of requests for contributions from the diaspora, may well suppress feelings of resentment and disillusionment. At the same time, Eritrea – and all other sending states – need to recognize that overseas migrant populations often have an economic and political significance that far outweighs their numerical significance. Many sending states would find it hard to survive without their support. Nationalism – and particularly long-distance nationalism – should not be taken for granted. Sending states have responsibilities towards their nationals, whatever their geographical location, and diasporas in particular are often in a position to hold them to account.

Note 1 Interview by author with spokesperson for Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Asmara, 1999.

9 Priming the Diaspora: Cyprus and the Overseas Greek Cypriots Madeleine Demetriou

This chapter focuses on Cyprus’s ties with the Greek Cypriot diaspora. It traces the development over the last quarter of a century of the institutions set up to govern relations between the Cypriot state and overseas Greek Cypriots. This analysis also traces the interaction between the respective governments of the Republic of Cyprus and the ‘organized’ diaspora since its formation. The two main bodies that represent Greek Cypriots living abroad are the World Federation of Overseas Cypriots (POMAK) and the International Coordinating Committee Justice for Cyprus (PSEKA). Outlining the political circumstances that triggered their establishment, the discussion considers the extent to which these two organizations fulfil the main functions they were primarily set up to perform, i.e. maintain ties with and serve their country of origin. On the whole, relations between ‘home’ government and diaspora appear to be harmonious, and it is clear that both sides are keen to present a united public front. Delving below the veneer, however, this examination goes beyond the carefully cultivated image of intimate ties presented to the outside in order to expose some of the chronic difficulties that mark relations. In this pursuit, the analysis that follows identifies some of the mutual misperceptions nursed by each side of what the other’s role and responsibilities are or should be. The hope is that this goes some way towards identifying the strains experienced over the years between respective governments of Cyprus and the overseas Greek Cypriots, and explaining the lack of progress made in certain areas. Beyond ‘institutionalizing’ the transnational link between the ‘home’ government and the diaspora, POMAK’s chief function is to cater to the needs of the Greek Cypriot communities scattered around the world. 185

186 Cyprus and the Overseas Cypriots

Its concerns are multifold and include the educational problems of the overseas Greek Cypriots, the preservation of ethnic and cultural identity especially with regard to the second and third generation, problems of repatriation and the role of overseas Greek Cypriots in campaigning for a solution to the Cyprus problem.1 However, judging by the primacy diaspora leaders often appear to grant to the affairs of Cyprus, this analysis suggests that responsibilities to their respective communities often seem to come second to those of the homeland. This might appear less surprising when one considers that POMAK and PSEKA were established in 1976 largely in response to the political events of 1974 in Cyprus and the subsequent division of the island.2 As suggested by its name, the International Co-ordinating Committee Justice for Cyprus (PSEKA) was primarily set up in order to use the resources of the diaspora, and more pointedly that of its prominent and established elite to lobby on behalf of the Greek Cypriot side in the conflict over Cyprus.3 Based on primary research, this chapter outlines the formidable campaign waged over the last twenty-five years under the leaderships of PSEKA and POMAK to boost the Cypriot state’s efforts to convince world opinion of what Greek Cypriots see as the injustice of the 1974 Turkish ‘invasion’ of the island.4 The practical consequences of the diaspora’s campaign as reflected in the political gains made by its leading activists on behalf of the national cause are considered here. Furthermore, the Cypriot case offers firm confirmation of Khachig Tölölyan’s (1996) argument, that much of the political lobbying carried out by diaspora communities is mainly conducted by a small core group of committed lobbyists. Listening to these activists talking about their work provides valuable insight into the daily grind of diasporic politics and reveals the obstacles faced by those who conduct it. Beyond an examination of the transnational dynamic that obtains between the diaspora and government officials in Cyprus, the analysis also examines the intra-communal politics that play themselves out within and between POMAK and PSEKA. Although the main focus remains the home–diaspora equation, the chapter also touches upon the interaction that takes place between the organized bodies that represent the Greek Cypriot communities scattered across the globe. The following section begins by briefly reviewing migration from Cyprus before looking at how relations with the respective governments of Cyprus and these two diasporic bodies have evolved over the last two and a half decades.

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History of migration from Cyprus As a traditional migrant society, over the last century Cyprus has purportedly lost a third of its total population, which has emigrated overseas to become part of the growing Cypriot diaspora. According to recent Cypriot government sources, there are roughly half a million Greek Cypriots scattered across the globe (Georgallides et al. 1990). In other words, there are about as many living abroad as there are in Cyprus, with the largest community settled in London. Migration from Cyprus has been variously divided into a number of different phases and types depending on the time-period, make-up, volume, destination and push and pull factors that have propelled the exodus of Cypriots from the island. Cypriots first started to leave the island on a temporary basis, as far back as the nineteenth century travelling to neighbouring Greece to escape the oppressive living conditions of Ottoman rule, and hoping to return once conditions improved with the change of administration. In reviewing the history of emigration from the island we can see that among the main driving forces most commonly associated with the early phase of modern day migration were: the droughts of 1902 and 1932–3, stagnation in agricultural production, crippling taxes, indebtedness to moneylenders and rural unemployment that affected the largely agricultural sectors of the island. The overwhelming majority of early migrants were therefore impoverished Cypriot farmers who could no longer make ends meet and saw migration as a way to escape their predicament and improve their circumstances. The United Kingdom, Australia, the USA, Canada and South Africa were major receiving societies for Greek Cypriot emigration from the turn of the century and particularly during the period following the Second World War. With the enforcement of the UK’s 1962 Commonwealth Immigration Act and the subsequent squeeze on the world economy and Western labour market in the 1970s, Australia became the principal destination for migrants from Cyprus. Unfortunately, for the period up to 1955, precise information on the total number who emigrated from Cyprus is not known. Since then, statistics for emigration have been derived mainly from such sources as Colonial Office Reports, demographic reports from the Republic of Cyprus, United Kingdom population censuses and surveys, and North American and Australian immigration statistics, meaning that reliable figures exist at least for the second half of the century (Georgallides et al. 1990: 160). According to the Republic of Cyprus’s 1985 Demographic Report, by that year a total of 133,872


Cypriots had emigrated abroad, 78,401 of which had settled in the United Kingdom, 19,798 in Australia, 4,644 in the United States, 4,579 in Greece, 4,163 in Canada, 4,111 in South Africa and smaller numbers in Zaire, Nigeria, Zimbabwe and other destinations (ibid: 159). From the above account it is clear that Cypriots have migrated to far-flung places of the globe. As such, the island’s population flows can be understood as part of the global movement of peoples in search of a better standard of living. Indeed, a Commonwealth immigrants’ survey conducted in Britain in the early 1960s (the high point of emigration from the island to date) revealed that 62 per cent of Cypriots interviewed gave economic reasons for having departed (Oakley 1971: 141). Some accounts place a proportion of the blame for the limited ability of the Cypriot economy to provide for its people on the shoulders of the colonial authorities that failed on the whole to provide resources to encourage industrial development and agricultural progress. Indeed, research is unanimous in identifying economic causes as the prime determinants of emigration, and the bulk of Cypriot immigrants to Britain are widely regarded as economic migrants and are classified in the literature as ‘Commonwealth labour migrants’. Nevertheless, there is a legitimate smaller number of Turkish and Greek Cypriots who arrived in Britain as refugees, and are recognized as such in this body of work. The 1931 uprising against colonial rule, together with the emergency years of 1955–9 and the EOKA campaign against the British, caused political upheaval that arguably served as a further catalyst for migration during this period.5 In the postwar period emigration rose steadily and then rocketed in the early years of the republic’s independence between 1960 and 1963 at which time it peaked. In 1960 alone, a ‘total of 13,534 Cypriots, or 2.34 per cent of the island’s population emigrated’ (Constantinou 1990: 156). Chronic under-employment and political uncertainty associated with Cyprus’s new independent status, together with the impending imposition of immigration restrictions by Britain, served to trigger the upsurge in emigration during this period. Hence it is important not to understate the role of political factors in this equation. The flow of migrants from Cyprus was stemmed after this period, reflecting the increased economic prosperity and relative political stability, However, migration did not cease but continued at lower levels, to rise again in 1967 as inter-communal strife intensified and ethnic violence broke out again. Following the political upheaval of this period, migration dropped significantly during 1972 and 1973 to just over two and a half thousand, the lowest levels since 1955, before it


surged to new heights as refugees streamed out of the island following the political events in 1974. In 1976 emigration reached its peak as unemployment climbed to unprecedented levels for Cyprus (22,543 out of a labour force of 150,700), with 5,647 Cypriots departing in that year alone. The relative political calm that has prevailed in the south ever since 1974 together with the so-called ‘economic miracle’ has meant that migration levels for Greek Cypriots seem to have declined for good. For Turkish Cypriots this has not been the case. Although the exodus of Turkish Cypriots from the north is a politically sensitive issue and figures are contestable, there is much evidence to suggest that emigration primarily to the UK continues to provide an escape for many Turkish Cypriots from the economic woes of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC). From the account so far one can conclude that the influence of political factors on migration for both communities has mainly been indirect through the loss of property, the decline of trade and general uncertainty about the future.

Cyprus and ‘its’ diaspora Since 1976 when the first diaspora conference was held in Nicosia, successive Cypriot governments have taken a keen interest in the half a million overseas Greek Cypriots scattered across the globe.6 If the rhetoric of officials is reliable, and there are about as many Greek Cypriots resident abroad as there are living in Cyprus, then government interest in the diaspora is hardly surprising. Indeed it seems that as officials in the homeland became increasingly aware of the potential influence diasporic lobbies could wield, the latent power of the wider Greek Cypriot diaspora captured their imagination. As indicated above, the first conference emerged in response to the events of 1974 and was organized partly for the purpose of establishing a formal link with and dialogue between the government of Cyprus and the diaspora. In the aftermath of August 1974, both Greek Cypriots and Greeks living abroad had responded en masse to events in Cyprus by sending an enormous amount of aid, material and the like to the affected victims.7 The ‘Cyprus Relief Funds’ were set up in all the major cities of Greek Cypriot settlement abroad, as money poured in to provide assistance to the refugees. Indicative of this were the hundreds of tons of clothing and food and thousands of dollars in cash supplied by the community in Australia in the period following the 1974 crisis. In the USA the ‘relief effort produced large donations of blood, medicine, beds,


blankets, clothing and food. In less than half a year, the Archdiocese of North and South America raised about US$1 million in cash contributions’ (Constas and Platias 1993: 34). As well as this immediate assistance, the diaspora had also attempted to rally political and diplomatic support in their countries of residence for their brethren in Cyprus. Countless campaigns were launched in the months following the island’s division and many Greek Cypriots embarked on ad hoc ‘crusades’ to raise international awareness of the situation in Cyprus and of the plight of the refugees, as well as against Turkish actions. According to the Press and Information Office, over 200 campaigns designed to attract attention to the Cyprus problem took place in Cyprus and abroad in 1977 alone. Examples are the student hunger strikes and large demonstrations in which hundreds of thousands of Greek Americans took part in Washington and outside the United Nations Headquarters in the first four years after 1974. Many of these efforts bore fruit as the diaspora managed to secure the official support of (foreign) authorities and parties to the Greek Cypriot cause. In the USA, the Greek American community mobilized notably in support of the arms ban on Turkey,8 while the diaspora in Australia prompted the then Foreign Minister of Australia, Senator Willessee, to initiate the first United Nations resolution on Cyprus after 1974.9 According to Greek Cypriot officials who monitored the result of these and government efforts, by 1978 a shift could be noted in international opinion in favour of Greek Cypriot positions.10 The Cypriot state’s position has thus far been to glorify this early mobilization on behalf of Cyprus, with addresses and reports referring to the diaspora as ‘saviours’, ‘crusaders’ and ‘ambassadors’.11 Certainly, the diaspora’s input was substantial and their contribution was invaluable, but it is probably fair to suggest that these early efforts yielded few longterm results as many initiatives began to fizzle out once the initial critical period was over. One delegate highlighted how difficult it was to maintain foreign politicians’ interest in the Cyprus problem. In his view many valuable ‘friends’ of Cyprus were lost because community leaders abroad did not have sufficient resources (finances and manpower) to sustain their campaigns and build on the initial contacts they had made.12 The arms embargo is a point in question, because although it is considered as the high point of Greek-American lobbying since it accomplished a partial ban on US arms to Turkey, it nevertheless failed to secure its ultimate goal – reversing Turkish actions in Cyprus – and was eventually lifted three years later. Following this, no campaign of this calibre was initiated in the USA until the 1990s. By the government’s own


admission, the bulk of the diaspora’s initiatives lacked planning, coordination and monitoring, and in fact it was these weaknesses that the first diaspora conference was designed to address and remedy. The perceived neglect of the Cyprus problem by the overseas Greek Cypriots in the late 1970s did not, according to one activist, emerge because they were cut off from events in Cyprus, but developed owing to the fact that the diaspora ‘did not know how to mobilize itself and its friends’.13 Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that this awareness must have informed the thinking of those who were behind the idea of convening a diasporic gathering in Cyprus. After all, the stated purpose of the first conference was to provide a forum to assess the diaspora’s endeavours at mobilization, and to coordinate these efforts so as to improve the effectiveness and contribution of overseas Greek Cypriots towards what became known as the ‘enlightenment campaign’. The enlightenment campaign (or project) was declared official government policy by Archbishop Makarios, then President of the Republic, at the time of the first diaspora conference and has remained in existence ever since. As the term ‘enlighten’ suggests, the aim of this campaign has been to increase awareness and understanding of the Cyprus problem among foreign governments and politicians, with special attention to those perceived as having influence in the international community. The campaign also aims to educate the wider public inside and outside Cyprus about the continuing political stalemate. The enlightenment campaign and the work performed by the diaspora in this sphere is seen by the government as a ‘vital weapon’ in its arsenal against the ‘enemies of Cyprus’. These efforts are designed to counter the Turkish Cypriot side’s attempts to similarly ‘enlighten’ world opinion with its version of the problem. Predictably, each side describes the other’s efforts in this domain as propaganda.14 The Cypriot government’s decision to attach increasing importance to the diaspora has meant engineering a shift in official rhetoric and public perceptions of Greek Cypriots abroad. From being anonymous migrants, the leaders and prominent members of the diaspora have over the years acquired the status of VIPs, while the ‘lay’ diaspora have been constructed as honourable and distinguished citizens. Like other small states with substantial numbers resident abroad, the Cypriot leadership has engaged in a ‘new form of nation-state building’ aimed at creating a political discourse which encourages the population that makes up ‘its’ diaspora to continue to see themselves as citizens of their ancestral home (Basch, Glick Schiller and Blanc 1994: 3). Although fully aware that the majority of Greek Cypriots abroad are actually citizens of their


countries of residence, official discourse dictates that migrants of Cypriot origin and their offspring of whatever generation are still an integral part of Cyprus and are therefore addressed as nationals of the country. This ideology is also promoted and sustained through the use of policies and regulations specifically designed to favour and benefit the diaspora and returnees. Much like honorary or career consuls they enjoy a certain number of limited facilities, privileges and immunities. For example, overseas Greek Cypriots who plan to repatriate are entitled to a rent rebate for a year, the facility to import duty-free household goods and a duty-free car, currency concessions, medical coverage, free Greek-language classes and certain exemptions from military service. So as well as imagining themselves as Greek Cypriots, the diaspora is also encouraged to experience themselves as such when they enjoy the rights and privileges which the Cypriot state bestows on them. In this way, when local Cypriot politicians address diasporic gatherings it seems natural to the overseas Greek Cypriots to be reminded of the duties and responsibilities that come with belonging to a politically divided island. In turn, the Cypriot government expects ‘its’ diaspora to perform a significant role in the enlightenment campaign by virtue of its membership of two societies – that of residence, which the government wants to target, and that of origin, which the diaspora feels tied to and an inalienable part of.

The annual conference: ‘priming’ the diaspora Since the first conference a quarter of a century ago, annual diasporic gatherings in Cyprus have become an institution. Leaders and prominent members of the diaspora attend the Cyprus International Conference Centre in Nicosia every August either for the annual meeting of POMAK and PSEKA’s Central Executive Councils, or for the larger biannual diasporic congress which brings together from all over the world, representatives of Greek Cypriots resident abroad. The participants are representatives of the main overseas Greek Cypriot organizations (known as federations) in Britain, Australia, Canada, the United States, South Africa, Africa (Zimbabwe, Egypt, Sudan, Zambia) Greece and Continental Europe (mainly France). Delegates meet ostensibly to discuss matters of common concern and to map a collective strategy for the future. However, the bulk of what is usually a five-day event (organized and sponsored by the Cyprus government) is spent on addresses by state dignitaries and a host of Greek Cypriot political leaders and pressure groups from all parties and persuasions.15 These addresses usually centre


on the Cyprus problem, which means that delegates receive various and often conflicting interpretations of the current state of political affairs as each speaker presses home their party political agendas. Treated as national leaders and as individuals who command the attention of the governments of their countries of residence, delegates hear how their role is ‘indispensable’ and are reminded of the ‘heavy and honourable duty’ they bear as a result.16 Underlining the importance of the diaspora’s valuable contribution towards the struggle for a just solution to the Cyprus problem, officials praise and thank the leaders of the overseas Greek Cypriots for their ‘untiring efforts’ and urge them to continue exercising political influence and mobilizing diplomatic support to ‘promote the Cypriot cause abroad’.17 In order that diaspora leaders are equipped for this task, the government ensures that they are sufficiently well informed of its latest positions on the Cyprus problem so that they can reliably reproduce the established line in conversations with foreign politicians, the main targets for enlightenment. For this reason, they are customarily subjected to lengthy briefings either by the government spokesman or Minister of Foreign Affairs on the current state of affairs. Typically they will hear the official account on the latest round of talks, prevailing expectations for the next round, the orthodox view on the political stalemate which is blamed principally on Turkish intransigence, and finally a review and analysis of the government’s latest political initiatives, the most recent being the joint defence pact with Greece and pursuit of the island’s accession to the European Union. This rundown is usually followed by a series of other regular talks by the director of the Press and Information Office (PIO) and other senior civil servants. Their job is to inform delegates of the latest material – pamphlets, reports, films, exhibition material, etc. (generated by the PIO and designed specifically with the enlightenment campaign in mind) – which is at their disposal, and to inform them of progress on such questions as the fate of citizens who are missing, and deteriorating living conditions for Greek Cypriots living in enclaves in the north.18 Much patriotic talk and political sloganeering accompany the government’s priming of the diaspora. This discourse should be seen as part of the state’s continuous attempt to keep the leaders of the overseas Greek Cypriots engaged in the Cyprus problem – an effort that does not stop with the conference. When the delegates are not convening, they have a full programme of events and obligations lined up for them. These include attending meetings, receptions, cocktails and dinners hosted by the President of the Republic, the President of the House of


Representatives, the Archbishop (Primate of the Church of Cyprus) and the Mayor of Nicosia, to name just the most important state dignitaries who routinely organize events for them. So in sum, over the course of five days, delegates are afforded special treatment, bombarded with political messages, schooled in the government line and inculcated with patriotic fervour. In some sense, the annual conference could be said to resemble the workings of a summer school or refresher course for diasporic cadets designed to produce a politically conscious and well-versed diasporic leadership. The extent to which the government’s input equips the diaspora to lobby foreign governments and to whip up the sentiment of the ‘lay’ diaspora when the need arises is explored further later on. That the above scenario unfolds on an annual basis, would seem to confirm the view of scholars who argue that diaspora groups assume the role of surrogate ambassadors for their country of origin. This view is reinforced by the fact that diasporic leaders (as the Cypriot case aptly demonstrates) go out of their way to represent ‘their’ diasporas as bastions of unswerving loyalty located abroad. The Cypriot government even goes as far as to hold a press conference on the final day of the congress at which the leaderships of POMAK and PSEKA announce their plans for the future and reaffirm their ties to their country of origin. Certainly the political rhetoric which accompanies the government-orchestrated diasporic gatherings would lead one to believe that it is the government’s responsibility to tap its diaspora’s political potential as it is the diaspora’s moral and ethnic duty to oblige. Demonstrations and rallies are organized annually in every major city which has a sizeable Greek Cypriot community to commemorate the anniversary of the 1974 coup and invasion. Over the years, numberless campaigns, marches, vigils, hunger strikes and concerts have been organized; incalculable petitions, letters, brochures and articles presenting the positions and views of the Greek Cypriots have been sent out or published; countless foreign politicians and government officials have been approached, lobbied and befriended, while innumerable fundraisers, cocktails and dinners have been held on their behalf. Much of the current interest shown by the international community in the Cyprus problem as well as the political momentum around Cyprus which has been triggered by the island’s EU accession process has been put down to such efforts by the Cypriot diaspora. A cursory view of the communities’ activities over the last few years would suggest that the Cypriot state does indeed owe a great debt to the diaspora. Evidence is broadly in line with claims that international


mobility and interest in the Cyprus problem owes much to the work of the diaspora. Indicative are the fairly prominent successes achieved over the past decade by the lobby in the USA. A bill passed in October 1994 authorizing an investigation into the fate of US citizens and others who have been missing from Cyprus following events in 1974, was the result of this work and followed a year-long battle with the Turkish lobby in Congress. ‘The Missing Legislation’ as it has come to be called was signed into law by President Clinton and was authorized to establish the whereabouts of five American citizens of Greek Cypriot origin.19 GreekAmerican and Cypriot-American activists were also behind the Porter Amendment which cut US aid to Turkey by more than half in June 1995. The US$25 million cut that was voted by the US House of Representives was based on Turkish military action against the Kurds, its continued occupation of Cyprus and intransigence against a settlement, its interference with American humanitarian assistance to Armenia and the oppression of Turkish citizens. Other key initiatives promoted by Greek and Cypriot Americans include the ‘Freedom and Human Rights of the Enclaved in Cyprus Bill’ to help improve the living conditions for the enclaved; and the ‘Demilitarization Resolution’ which endorsed the demilitarization of Cyprus. As evident from the above examples, the nature, volume and scope of initiatives undertaken, suggest that community leaders have in recent years become far more competent political activists than in the past, as they seem to be passing from a period of amateur, inefficient and unprofessional campaigning to an era of more sophisticated lobbying. In the words of Andrew Athens: we have also experienced a major change, it is a marked improvement in our ability to mobilize organized Hellenes world-wide – not just the Cypriot Hellenes but all Hellenes, we are able in a manner more effective than at any other time in our history, to sit around the table and to organize a successful international co-ordinated effort. It is an effort that has strong foundations both in the organized omogeneia and on elected Hellene officials in the key power centres around the world.20 Whereas previously, community leaders would in their addresses to the annual diaspora conference refer to the past year’s activities only in very general terms, over the last few years they not only recount a fair component of these activities from the podium but also go to the trouble of compiling glossy dossiers which catalogue the particulars of the initiatives conducted. To exemplify the scope and substance of these activities across the federations, the conference of August 1998 is interesting.


The following have been identified as key initiatives from a long catalogue of successes attributed to the diaspora: The British delegates took credit for a positive shift in the current British Labour government’s position on the Cyprus problem; the Canadians revealed how they had joined forces with the Armenian diaspora to prevent the sale of nuclear reactors to Turkey and the South Africans highlighted the success of their lobby’s work in blocking the sale of arms to Turkey. In the US, PSEKA in conjunction with the National Co-ordinated Effort, UHAC and SAE persuaded key House and Senate Subcommittees to give Cyprus the full $15 million in US aid in the next fiscal year, and this despite strong effort in Congress to cut aid to Cyprus due to the Cyprus government’s order of defensive S-300 missiles.21 In each of the diaspora’s countries of settlement, emphasis has been placed on keeping the Cyprus problem alive in the respective parliaments by establishing the issue firmly on the foreign policy agendas of these governments and rooting it in political and public consciousness. The diaspora can be seen as having been at least partly successful in this regard since it has managed even in the Australian case (where Cyprus as an issue would not normally figure in its foreign policy) ‘to elevate it to a position of considerable importance’ on the political agenda (Constas and Platias 1993: 88, 93). A main objective of these overseas communities has been to ensure foreign politicians adopt Greek Cypriot positions on the conflict by educating further those who are favourably disposed to the Greek Cypriot side, steering politicians with a neutral stance onto the ‘right’ path and encouraging others who are hostile or pro-Turkish to rethink their position. However, enthusiasm for the diaspora’s political role and overall contribution should be tempered, since, as suggested above, the diaspora’s more recent political successes contrast quite starkly with earlier periods of relative ineffectiveness. The Canadian example is a good case in question because after the UK and the USA, Canada is seen as influential by virtue of her involvement in the peacekeeping force in Cyprus, her participation in the UN Security Council, her membership of NATO, the Commonwealth, and the Francophonie and her function as part of the Group of 8. Research shows that although Greek Canadians demonstrated in Montreal and Toronto in favour of Cyprus by the thousands in the 1970s and early 1980s, signed petitions, and called for Canada to take the initiative in the UN to impose economic sanctions against


Turkey following the unilateral declaration of independence in northern Cyprus, their actions came to very little indeed (Constas and Platias 1993: 115–16). Such past failings have been put down to organizational and technical inefficiency, poor coordination, lack of clear objectives and weak leadership. So although good work was done in the early days by the ‘Hellenic Canadian Solidarity Committee with Cyprus’, the diaspora failed singularly in its bid to persuade Canada to play a leading role in efforts to resolve the Cyprus problem and was unsuccessful in its efforts to shift Canadian policy from its ‘fundamental loyalty to the NATO British–US view’ (Constas and Platias 1993: 118). In fact, this basic position has not changed, but in recent years the Cypriot Canadian Federation and PSEKA Canada have managed to score some significant victories, as indicated by the nuclear reactor example and by their ability to make influential friends among Canadian politicians.22 The leaders of the Cypriot diaspora in Canada have been calling for some years now for the Republic of Cyprus to open an embassy in Ottawa. This has yet to materialize. In presenting an overview of some of the diaspora’s main political achievements, the aim has been to provide an impression of these activities as an indication of the sort of work that is done in this field – it is not meant to be a comprehensive review of each federation’s activities. The image that the diaspora conference projects only gives one part of the story however. What it fails to do is to highlight the myriad of problems that mark the transnational relationship between diaspora and home-government as well as the intra-communal politics within the diaspora. The following section serves to demonstrate the expediency which governs relations between the Cypriot government and the overseas communities. It reveals that behind the formal pomp and ceremony of the conference, there are chronic problems that hinder the overall diaspora–government project. A good deal of what is discussed below is drawn from informal interviews and private conversations with diaspora representatives conducted in August 1998 and 1999 on the sidelines of the diaspora conferences, as well as from subsequent written correspondence with a handful of these delegates.

Controversy and difference Speaking in private, a number of delegates (primarily those that make up the younger generation) were at great pains to stress their grave disappointment with the conference proceedings. Much was made of the time wasted by what were described as ‘counterproductive’ and


repetitive addresses by party leaders and government officials at the expense of pressing issues concerning overseas Cypriots and their problems. Numerous delegates brought this up as a problem. One delegate described government statements as nonsensical, adding that they served no purpose. The overriding concern of those criticizing the procedure was that important matters were ‘rushed through’ or left unresolved, which meant that as representatives they were put in the unenviable position of having nothing of substance to report to their members back home. The following quote is indicative: One of my personal pet hates when attending conferences is the deemed necessity of every political party to address the delegates. I consider this to be a waste of time which could be better used tackling the serious diaspora issues that need to be resolved, e.g. youth, repatriation, etc., and which only serve to confuse delegates and detract them from what I feel is their obligation, to conform with the existing foreign policy of the government of the time. It appears that conferences are looked upon as campaigning grounds of the various political parties … I have brought this up with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in the past, who replied that if all parties were not given the opportunity to address the delegates they would lobby for the funding of conferences and various diaspora projects to end.23 From other quarters, more scathing attacks were made against the leadership and the old guard of the World Federation of Overseas Cypriots who were characterized as incompetent, parochial, pompous and domineering.24 However, beyond the specific remarks and complaints, what came out of conversations with a section of delegates was both feelings of profound disillusion with the project they were engaged with, and a sense of confusion about its wider purpose and aims. Those who expected the conference to discuss and tackle the problems overseas Cypriots faced were surprised that the Cyprus problem as a topic was allowed to dominate so much of the proceedings. Questioning their own role and purpose, these delegates were baffled as to why the government seemed prepared to rely on their amateur lobbying rather than employing professionals to do the job. They argued for the need to persuade the government to set up a proper secretariat for the diaspora and to cease relying on the voluntary services of a few keen individuals. So far such appeals have fallen on deaf ears. Conversely, there were other delegates who were not content with seeing themselves as mere representatives of overseas Cypriots but who


believed they had a responsibility to perform a role as ‘national leaders abroad’. This sentiment was expressed mainly by the older generation who see themselves as political actors and want to be treated as such. They rightly argue that if the government expects them to lobby on its behalf then the least it can do is to put sufficient funds at their disposal.25 The address by Philip Christopher at the Fifteenth Annual Conference is revealing of the diaspora leadership’s frustration: I call once again on the Cyprus Government to dramatically increase their budgets for enlightenment and public relations, I call once again on the Cyprus Government to dramatically increase their personnel in key embassies in major cities like Washington D.C., New York, London and other capitals of the European Union. I invite the (56) members of the House of Representatives to come to Washington D.C. to walk the halls of the U.S. Congress, to walk the halls of the U.S. Senate, to meet and discuss the problem with their counterparts, visit the National Security Council, visit the State and Defense Dept., meet with the American Jewish Committee and other influential individuals, committees and lobbying groups, visit the individuals in cities and states, who are daily working for our cause and then, I am sure they will come back to Cyprus, meet to appropriate and approve significant budgets for our struggle. Similar concerns were also echoed by the president of POMAK Haris Sophoclides who in his address ‘demanded a change in mentality and thinking … because we cannot continue [our work] with the enthusiasm of amateurs and the zeal of volunteers only’.26 In the early days, the President of the Republic had justified the government’s turn to the diaspora by arguing that the government’s attention and limited resources were directed to attending to the needs of the refugees. Today the dire conditions of the past no longer exist, but the government still refuses to provide the diaspora with more than limited resources, despite repeated calls for more. The reasons for this are not entirely clear, but when quizzed on this point officials claim resources are limited and that the government makes available as much money as it can afford. It is an open secret that the Republic of Cyprus has in the past used the services of reputable and internationally renowned public relations companies to counter what it sees as formidable Turkish propaganda, and it would appear that funds are spent in this way.27 At this point, it is not unusual to hear remarks from government representatives about diasporic leaders’ inflated sense of their own self-importance.


What is telling, is that when some of the above positions and concerns were publicly aired at the conference they were met with a mixture of responses ranging from resignation by government officials at their inability to provide the funds requested, to anger and objection from the leadership of the organization who seemed to take the comments about the insubstantial nature of the conference as insolent and offensive. Although some problems seem to be related to personality clashes and dislikes, what is clear is that certain channels of communication are blocked, which means that many questions and concerns go unanswered or remained unresolved, allowing disillusion to breed and misunderstanding to fester. Thus, a rather paradoxical and complicated picture about relations between the government and ‘its’ diaspora seems to be emerging. The government’s attempt to encourage the diaspora to lobby has not only produced substantial results but has resulted in some diasporic leaders believing they are ‘ambassadors’ and ‘saviours’ and therefore expecting not only to be afforded pomp and ceremony, but to be taken seriously whenever they ask for money, resources and attention. This is where appearances end because the government has proved itself over the years to be prepared not to deliver. It appears willing to engage in the trappings but not to give the diaspora the full attention, commitment and free hand it seems some diasporic leaders would like. Hence, it is common to hear bitter complaints and expressions of frustration by diasporic leaders. Stories abound of how the latter secured the attention of important and influential foreign guests but Cypriot officials failed to respond, not bothering to receive these guests or organize a programme for them, therefore embarrassing the diaspora and exposing the Cyprus government as incompetent. The government’s response to such allegations is to defuse them by pointing to diaspora leaders’ inflated egos and sense of self-importance. Certainly there is an element of truth in this, but the government must at least acknowledge that it has contributed to this inflation.

Conclusion Despite government attempts to institute through the workings of POMAK and PSEKA a framework for the support and cooperation of its diaspora, the above analysis reveals that the government does not in fact provide its appointed diasporic ambassadors with sufficient tools or resources to do the job it is hoped they will perform in the field. Although the ‘national centre’ expects ‘its’ diasporic communities to


persuade the governments and political leaders of their countries of settlement to adopt Greek Cypriot positions on the ‘national question’, the Cypriot state has not actually formulated a programme or planned a strategy which would enable such aspirations to be realized. ‘Simply put, [Cypriot] governments may have a broad vision of what they wish to achieve with the help of the … diaspora, but not how to achieve it or by what organizational means’ (Constas and Platias 1993: 77). The government’s non-existent strategy and absence of an action plan was also a common complaint of numerous conference delegates. The frustration expressed mainly by the younger generation, both with the operation and content of the conferences, suggests that the government’s policy and traditional approach (i.e. addresses replete with patriotism and past glories) are failing to win over the younger (future) generation of overseas Greek Cypriots. Unlike the marked deference of older diaspora leaders, the younger generation are becoming increasingly impatient with the government’s paternal tone and the partisanship of Cypriot politics which is allowed to spill over into the diaspora conference. The above analysis also reveals that the lack of direction provided by the Cypriot state has led not only to division and disagreement over policies and strategies, but also a more profound confusion about what the diaspora’s role and purpose should be. Although some members genuinely believe that it is their duty to provide various services and forms of support, be they economic, moral or political, to their country of origin – and there is ample evidence that they do – others are altogether sceptical about adopting such a role, either because they believe their actions would be amateurish, and therefore futile, or because they see their function as entirely different – one of catering for their community’s needs, such as improving the quality of their children’s Greek language classes, and not one of political activist. What comes out of this is that the idea of belonging in a diaspora is no longer necessarily tied to the ancestral home (as it used to be for the original immigrants), since the contemporary diaspora constructs and articulates this particular geographic space in entirely different ways from the homeland’s inhabitants. So, although Cyprus remains an ethnic reference, as the second and third generation who do not have immediate experience of living there take over, ethnic identity within the diaspora is likely to become less dependent on the distant home than it used to be in the past. Leaders (both in the homeland and abroad) need to recognize that, today, identity is interpreted and constructed differently in the diaspora, and they need to come to terms with the inevitable multiple belonging of its members, especially of the


younger generations. Being Greek Cypriot, therefore, can often have different meanings in different locations. Being Cypriot in Britain can have a different meaning from being Cypriot in Cyprus or indeed in Australia, just as being Chinese in the USA is different from being Chinese in Indonesia or Malaysia. The problem which remains, however, is that elites have not sufficiently appreciated this, as their efforts to instil monological identities into people whose subjectivities are fundamentally split, dual and ambivalent, continue (Demetriou 2002: 207–39). Certainly, the Cypriot state is not alone in this regard. Research on the Portuguese diaspora describes how the Portuguese state has adopted a similar approach to constructing ethnicity and nationalism among Portuguese immigrants in the United States (Glick Schiller et al. 1992: 145–75). Greek Cypriots in Britain appear to share much in common with the new transnational communities under close academic scrutiny in the USA and which constitute a significant and representative proportion of contemporary empirical research in this field. The Cypriot government’s efforts to prime ‘its’ diaspora can be seen as part of the wider contemporary trend of states seeking to politicize their overseas nationals, as many elites now deliberately employ the term ‘diaspora’ rather than ‘community’ as a method of political mobilization. Despite such attempts at co-option, an exploration of the Greek Cypriot community in Britain has revealed that only a small segment (a select group of successful migrants) are highly politicized and maintain tight political links with the homeland state. Furthermore, the internal differentiation and heterogeneity which characterizes the community, points in part to why attempts to mobilize and unite the wider diaspora on a more systematic basis have so far been largely ineffectual. When state endeavours to politicize the diaspora are seen to be failing, however, as attempts to translate national sentiment into political mobilization have shown in the Greek Cypriot example, leaders interpret the wider community’s ‘disengagement’, and lack of response to the elite’s calling, as a loss of identity and as a lack of interest in Cypriotness. Indeed, observers have wondered whether the diaspora might begin to fade as a coherent group and loyalty to Cyprus will diminish without a ‘Cyprus problem’. At one level this remark is backed by this analysis which suggests that since 1974 (when the community was activated as much for humanitarian as for political reasons), the diaspora’s political mobilization has been declining to a point where today only a relatively successful Greek Cypriot lobby remains, made up in the main of an elite and mostly middle-aged to elderly group of men. Unless the Cypriot


state reforms relations with ‘its’ diaspora in line with the younger generation’s suggestions, and barring there being a further crisis on the island, one is inclined to draw the palpable conclusion that political mobilization by the Greek Cypriot diaspora is likely to continue to dwindle.

Notes 1 These subjects are the topic of detailed discussion at the world conference of overseas Cypriots held in Nicosia every two years. They are normally debated by working groups and the findings are put before the conference. See Cyprus To-day: A Quarterly Cultural and Informative Review of the Ministry of Education, Nicosia: Press and Information Office, vol. XXVI, October–December 1988, No. 4. 2 From the proceedings of the ‘Third World Conference of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1982, p. 61. 3 See PSEKA Highlights, 1974–1999, p. 2. 4 As is well known, the word ‘invasion’ is always used by Greek Cypriots to refer to Turkish actions in Cyprus in 1974, while the Turkish Cypriots use the term ‘peace operation’ to describe the same events. Employing the ‘official’ term ‘invasion’ is a cornerstone of the Greek Cypriot side’s ‘enlightenment campaign’ (diafotistiko ergo), i.e. to enlighten world opinion of the justice of their political cause and win over international support for their argument. This is what the diaspora sets out to do when it mobilizes. Therefore, the term ‘invasion’ is used here merely to portray the diaspora’s mission and should not be interpreted in this context necessarily as an endorsement of the Greek Cypriot side’s official point of view. Neutral language would suggest the term ‘military intervention’. 5 EOKA (Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston), the National Organization of Cypriot Fighters, fought a protracted and bloody campaign against British rule and for enosis (union) with Greece. 6 A good deal of the empirical detail in this chapter is drawn from the Fifteenth Annual Meeting of the Central Executive Councils of POMAK and PSEKA held in Nicosia, 24–27 August 1998, and the more recent diaspora congress held a year later in August 1999, both of which I attended as a participant observer. Information is also drawn from the proceedings of the first three diaspora conferences organized in Nicosia, as well as from the minutes of the tenth congress held in 1997. The records of these proceedings which are verbatim are courtesy of the Press and Information Office of the Republic of Cyprus and the Service for Overseas Cypriots, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Nicosia, The material includes public addresses and reports by congress delegates, government officials, local Greek Cypriot politicians, foreign guests and other dignitaries. Also included are newsletters, correspondence, petitions, texts of resolutions and in some cases the minutes of subcommittees and working groups. 7 See address by the Director of the Public Information Office Republic of Cyprus, M. Christodoulou, at the ‘First World Conference of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1976.


8

9 10

11

12 13 14

15

16

17

18

19

Also, see proceedings of ‘Second World Conference of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1978. The Greek-American community demanded an embargo on US military assistance to Turkey because the Ford administration and the Kissinger State Department refused to impose sanctions required by law on Turkey for violating the conditions under which this aid was provided, i.e. not to be used for aggressive purposes. See Watanabe (1993) for a discussion of the organizational network and strategies employed by the Greek Americans to secure the ban. Also, see Dekmejian and Themelis (1997). From proceedings of the ‘Second World Conference of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1978. From address by the Foreign Press and Enlightenment Campaign Officer, Andreas Sophocleous, at the ‘Second World Conference of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1978. From proceedings of ‘Second World Conference’, 1978, and minutes of the ‘Tenth World Congress of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1997. The choice of language used is significant. Even today, over twenty-five years after 1974, state officials still call on the diaspora to ‘crusade’ for the liberation of Cyprus. From address by Antonis Toumpouros, President of PSEKA, at the Second World Conference. From proceedings of Second World Conference, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1978. The Turkish Cypriot leadership has also attempted to employ the Turkish Cypriot community in the UK, which is smaller, less organized and less influential politically, relative to its Greek Cypriot counterpart, to voice its position. It seems to have been only partially successful in this regard and not nearly as effective as the Greek Cypriots. However, this profile is undergoing change as the Turkish Cypriots are becoming more organized and increasing their political influence in Britain. Foreign guests are also invited to attend. These are usually Greek state dignitaries or prominent personalities. In recent years it has become increasingly popular for diaspora leaders to extend invitations to British, American and Canadian politicians too who have dealings with overseas Greek Cypriots. The foreign presence is mostly symbolic, representing Greek and foreign support for the diaspora’s efforts on behalf of Cyprus’s political struggle. Extracts from addresses by Foreign Minister Dr Ioannis Kassoulides and the presidential Commissioner of Overseas Cypriots Dr Manolis Christofides, Press and Information Office, Fifteenth Conference POMAK/PSEKA, 1988. Extract from the address by Foreign Minister Dr I. Kassoulides, from ‘Eleventh World Congress of Overseas Cypriots’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1999. From speech by the Director of the Press and Information Office, George Hadjisavvas. There is a small number of mostly elderly Greek Cypriots who live in enclaves mainly in the Karpass peninsula on the island’s northeasternmost tip, see ‘Tenth World Conference’, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1997. The investigation came up with some findings. In early 1998, DNA results confirmed that remains found outside the village of Assia in Cyprus were


20

21 22

23 24 25

26 27

those of the 17-year-old Andy Kassapis who had disappeared in the summer of 1974. Over 1,619 Greek Cypriots and 500–800 Turkish Cypriots are said to be missing since then, with the fate of virtually all of these still unaccounted for. See comments by Andrew A. Athens, World President Council of Hellenes Abroad, in Eleventh World Congress, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1999. See PSEKA Highlights 1974–1999 and conference proceedings of Fifteenth Annual Meeting. Oral presentation of report by President of PSEKA-Canada, Constantinos Sophocleous, at Eleventh World Conference for Overseas Cypriots, recorded by author. Private conversation with delegate on conference sidelines, Nicosia, August 1998. Private conversation with delegate on conference sidelines, Nicosia, August 1998. View of Haris Sophoclides, President of the Cypriot Brotherhood and the National Federation of Cypriots in Great Britain. Sophoclides makes this point in public when he calls for monetary assistance from the government. Interview by author with Haris Sophoclides, President of the National Federation of Cypriots in Great Britain, President of the Greek Cypriot Brotherhood, and President of POMAK, Central London, 30 July 1998. See Fifteenth Annual Conference, Press and Information Office, Republic of Cyprus, Nicosia, 1998. The Turkish lobby is said to spend millions of dollars on public relations and lobbying in the USA. The lobby is said to promote Turkish and Middleeast studies programmes in American universities and finance trips by journalists, politicians and academics to Northern Cyprus.


Part V Conclusion


10 Continuities and Changes in Sending Country Perceptions, Policies and Transnational Relations with Nationals Abroad Eva Østergaard-Nielsen

Migration and the way it links societies, economies and politics of countries of origin and arrival provides an interesting set of options for sending countries. On the face of it, it seems as if sending countries are indeed reconfiguring their often marginal global position by reaching out to emigrants for economic and political support. Yet sending countries have responded to emigration in very different ways and, as important, the relations between these countries and their nationals abroad are not constant. To complicate matters, emigration policies, if one includes the efforts of sending countries to reach out to already settled communities abroad, span a wide range of policy areas and levels – from foreign policy relations important to national security, to bilateral agreements on pension schemes for retired emigrants. This volume has set out to illustrate this complexity and diversity of sending state policies towards emigrants, refugees and more established diasporas. The cases chosen have ranged from countries engaged in large-scale labour export programmes, to those sending countries which are realizing that their settling emigrants may continue to provide economic and political support; from homelands trying to define their relationship with already established diasporas, to sending countries in conflict calling for the support of their overseas community in solving the dispute. Among the main lessons emanating from the preceding chapters is that sending countries are certainly not pawns at the weaker end of asymmetric power relations with the host countries despite their usually peripheral position in the world economy. However, nor are sending states always influential actors in transnational fields between emigrants 209

210 Continuities and Changes in Sending Country Policies

and their country of origin. Many of them struggle to find the right balance between serving their own national interests and meeting the needs and demands of their overseas communities. In order to get a more balanced view of the role of sending countries in forging new ties with citizens and former citizens abroad, it is important to look not just at countries which do reach out but also at those which do not, or rather are not capable of formulating coherent migration policies which may strengthen relations with migrants abroad. In this chapter, we will return to the key issues and questions we raised in the Introduction, that is, the key changes and themes in sending country perceptions of and policies for emigrants, and the domestic and international factors which may explain the different sending country responses to international migration. The findings of the eight case studies do not warrant the formulation of conclusive evidence. Still, they allow us to contribute to the discussion of the role, responsibility and capability of sending states by pointing to trends and tendencies, and, importantly, the need for further both in-depth and comparative investigation of the sending country perspective.

Sending country perceptions, policies and activities Sending countries have been identified as key actors in the transnationalization of relations with citizens and former citizens abroad. In the case of labour exporting countries which previously experienced or still experience large outflows of labour migrants, several of the chapters describe a tendency to reach out to these citizens abroad. This reachingout is most comprehensive in the case of Mexico in this volume, but certainly much more intense relations exist in countries described elsewhere such as Haiti, which under the rule of Aristide tried to include Haitians abroad as the 10th province of the state (Mahler 2000: 200). In other cases in this volume, reaching-out policies largely remain at a rhetorical level, such as Turkey, the Dominican Republic, and the Philippines. Those countries of origin where nationals left longer ago and to some extent formed global diasporas before their homelands gained independent statehood, have a tendency to seek to better relations by making the diaspora (and its economic resources) feel more welcome, although the case of India amply illustrates that such reaching-out is not automatic. Finally, the two cases of sending countries in conflict show how states incorporate their nationals abroad in processes of post-conflict reconstruction or the resolution of a domestic or international conflict. In all three types of sending countries,


perceptions of ‘who’ emigrants or diasporas are, are certainly not constant. For instance, those emigrants who were once regarded as expendable labour may find themselves heralded as national heroes by their homeland’s elite (although undertones of ‘nouveaux riches’ or ‘upstarts’ may linger on behind the official rhetoric). As mentioned in the Introduction, sending countries have three main interests when it comes to their nationals abroad: (1) economic support; (2) political support; (3) the simultaneous social capital upgrading and integration of the citizens abroad and a strengthening of their sense of belonging in their country of origin. Promotion of social capital upgrading and sense of belonging is an aim in its own right, yet cannot be separated from the two first issues and vice versa. The following typology of activities and legislation is divided into the economic, the political and the socio-economic realm only for the sake of analytical clarity.

Activities and policies aimed at attracting remittances and foreign direct investment There are two main issues involved in attracting remittances and foreign direct investment at the level of national governments. On the one hand, there are the policies set up as incentives for more capital inflow from overseas nationals. On the other hand, sending countries develop policies and activities aimed at channelling this capital into the local and national economy so that it stimulates growth and development. The countries in this volume differ in the extent to which the national (or local) economies depend on migrant remittances and investment, with the Cypriot government seemingly more interested in political than economic support from overseas Cypriots. Although none of the other sending governments in this volume fail to call upon their overseas citizens or diasporas to send more money, the extent to which these countries call out for economic assistance and, indeed, facilitate inflow of capital through revised banking and investment systems, varies not only between countries but within countries over time. In terms of actual policies, these include proactive labour export policies in the case of the Philippines, which at one point aimed to export up to 1,000,000 workers a year. Other countries have launched a range of incentives in terms of favourable banking conditions, and in Eritrea an actual tax has been levied on the Eritrean diaspora. Those countries which appeal to more established diasporas have designed policies to facilitate foreign investment. Armenia has set up a development agency aimed at matching foreign capital with local partners, and India has


launched bond options, opened up sectors of the industry to foreign capital and tried to remove bureaucratic obstacles. However, several chapters mention how the sending country governments fail to come up with coherent policies to channel remittances and investment into activities which may stimulate the local and national economy. Mexico has tried to channel funds into development at federal and regional level, and other countries try to channel the money from informal money transfer networks to official channels, but the Philippines and the Dominican Republic, both countries which are dependent on large inflows of remittances, have come up with surprisingly few policies and incentives for migrants to invest in more long-term projects. Indeed, Mary Lou Alcid argues that the Filipino migrants’ consumerism rather than investment is promoted through state advertising in duty-free shops.

Activities and policies aimed at gathering political support among overseas nationals All types of sending countries in this volume are interested not only in economic but also political support from their nationals abroad, in particular those nationals who reside in countries with whom the sending country has important bilateral or multilateral relations. Thus Mexico has tried to mobilize Mexican Americans in favour of the NAFTA, and Turkey has tried to make its nationals in Europe lobby in favour of Turkish membership of the EU. Sending countries with a national or international dispute similarly ask their overseas nationals to help rally international support. Armenia wants its US-based and European-based diasporas to push for international recognition of the massacres in 1915 as a genocide and to help solve the conflict with neighbouring Azerbaijan in Nagorno-Gharabach. Cyprus has asked its overseas communities throughout the world for help in solving the Cyprus issue, and Eritrea has, according to Khalid Koser, exploited its diaspora through the last war with Ethiopia. Political relations are, however, not just about mobilization but also about control of criticism or even subversive political activities from nationals abroad. Yet, as the case of Turkey and Eritrea show, long-distance control is not easy to impose. The Eritrean state cannot, even if it wanted to, stop the Eritrean diaspora from using a website as a central forum for critical discussion of their homeland government’s conduct of the conflict. Similarly, Eva Østergaard-Nielsen argues that Turkey’s multi-level efforts directed at curbing Kurdish political activism in Europe have been to relatively little avail.


There are obviously no formalized policies or activities explicitly aimed at creating supportive foreign policy lobbies abroad. Calling for political support is much more sensitive than calling for economic support, as host countries may see this is as fifth-column foreign influence on their domestic policy-making (see below for further discussion). Instead, the relevant messages are conveyed through electronic or printed press of the sending country, usually widely available abroad; through the diplomatic representations; and through the speeches of visiting government representatives and heads of states, who in the case of Mexico and Turkey increasingly make sure they include representatives of migrant organizations in their schedule during overseas visits. Another reoccurring vehicle for conveying calls for political (and economic) support is large conferences or meetings, where representatives from migrant organizations throughout the world meet with the government and main political actors in their country of origin. This type of event, described in detail in the case of Cyprus and Armenia, is often rich on symbolism. But there are also factual handouts and ready-made material produced to assist the diaspora organizations in the overseas campaigns. Not unrelated to their calls for economic and political support, half of the sending countries presented in this volume have introduced dual citizenship or nationality (in the case of Mexico) during the 1990s in order to allow their citizens abroad to take up the citizenship of their new country while retaining rights (and some obligations) in their country of origin. In addition, both India and Armenia have announced their intentions to begin the process of allowing dual nationality, but this will take years to accomplish since it involves constitutional changes in both cases. Such radical changes to something as fundamental to a state as its type of membership have, however, not been a straightforward process in any of the countries except Eritrea, which introduced a very inclusive policy for its diaspora from the beginning of independent statehood. In the case of Turkey, the obstacles have been imposed from the outside. Dual citizenship has been difficult to implement in practice because it is not allowed in several of the main European countries of residence for Turkish citizens. In all other cases, including those which have not allowed for dual nationality, domestic opposition argues for maintaining the congruency between residents and citizenry, for not extending rights to those who have become citizens of other countries. This opposition also argues against dual citizenship because it is closely related to what is usually next on the agenda of overseas emigrants and diaspora: absentee voting rights in elections in their country of origin. Again, only Eritrea of the


countries in this volume has implemented such rights. Turkey has made several attempts at implementing this policy, including the necessary constitutional changes, but this has faltered on a mix of administrative and political obstacles including relations with major receiving countries such as Germany. In other cases it is feared – either by the general public or by those political parties who think that they may not have any support base among overseas voters, or that such rights will give too much influence to ‘outsiders’. Still, overseas nationals and citizens are included in election campaigns, as political parties, when allowed, extend their election campaigns to major receiving countries. They set up offices, hold political rallies in order to attract funding from overseas supporters, and, in a few cases, persuade them to travel home to vote. Socio-cultural policies and activities to remind emigrants of their origins Those migrants who are in constant flux or stay in close touch with their family and kin at home do not need to be reminded of their ethnic, national or religious heritage. Similarly, exiles and diasporas such as the Armenian and Indian, Cypriot or Eritrean rarely fail to keep a ceremonial calendar abroad which structures the commemoration of their homeland. However, several chapters mention how the sending country may wish to launch a range of cultural and educational activities in order remind in particular younger generations of settled emigrants of their heritage. Sending countries hold state-sponsored celebrations of national days among nationals abroad. They offer language courses with teachers from the country of origin, fund religious services if the emigrants are in a country with a foreign church or religion, set up student exchange programmes, and sponsor overseas art exhibitions and tours of popular musicians. In this way the sending country government wants to promote emigrants’ integration without ‘losing them’. Cultural programmes may also be launched because the sending country wants to foster a new more concerned and attentive image. Finally, some sending countries want to make sure that national commemoration abroad takes on just the right character, particularly if, as in the case of Turkey, sending countries are worried that the ‘wrong’ days (such as the Kurdish or certain Islamic celebrations) will be celebrated. Reaching-out policies: transnational dialogue or one-way communication? The reaching-out activities of sending countries are, as already indicated, conducted and coordinated through a multi-level range of institutions


and activities. Gone are the days where emigrants were dealt with through various ministry departments and diplomatic representatives only. Today the readily available electronic and printed media keeps emigrants and diasporas abreast of events and policies in their country of origin, and in some cases the press is used to rally overseas nationals around issues of importance to the sending country. State-sponsored consultative institutions include representatives of overseas migrant organizations. In the case of Turkey the overseas nationals are controlled or mobilized through religious services (Imams and funding of mosques) by both the state and non-state political movements. Several countries stage annual or biannual conferences, where representatives of overseas communities are invited ‘home’ to discuss issues of common interest. Government representatives and other politicians travel abroad to hold rallies and meet with representatives of migrant organizations. Many of these fora are launched as platforms for two-way communication between sending countries and their nationals abroad. Yet, in several of the chapters, it is clear that this is not the way it is perceived by the migrant or diaspora representatives. In their opinion many of the fora are more of ‘symbolic’ than practical value, and the sending country governments are better at promoting their own agendas than taking the needs and wishes of their overseas nationals into account.

Binding citizens to the state: a continuum of responses The individual chapters of this volume each offer in-depth empirical case studies of sending countries’ changing policies towards nationals abroad. Together the chapters illustrate a continuum of policies from the rejection of the economic and political involvement of overseas diasporas, as is the case with India during the first 45 years after Independence, to the inclusive extension of political and economic rights of trans-migrants, as is the case with Mexico and Turkey. In between are countries such as Armenia with an explicit debate on the extent to which diasporas should be given rights to participate in domestic politics from abroad. All these countries are certainly interested in both economic and political support from overseas nationals. So what places sending states on this continuum? Which structural domestic or international factors or historical circumstances shape their responses? What makes some sending states more reluctant than others to reach out to their citizens abroad and to involve them in their ‘homeland’s’ economic development or domestic or foreign politics? Is it misleading to reduce sending states’ efforts to strengthen ties with nationals abroad to a utilitarian


point of view, in which the real objectives of the strategy are considered to be, on the one hand, to create an ethnic lobby that promotes sending country national interests, and, on the other hand, to promote the continuing inflow of remittances and investment? These are clearly important factors, but, as the preceding chapters show, sending country policies emanate from a far more complex reality. There is little evidence in the chapters in this volume that the pressure from overseas migrants, diasporas or their political organizations is decisive in changing sending country policies towards them. Of course, strong associations and representatives carry emigrants’ demands further, but sending countries’ attentiveness to the demands of their emigrants and diasporas seems to have less to do with what they want than what they have got to offer. It does not seem to matter so much when and how migrants left, but what has happened to them after they left. Their relative and absolute size, and in particular their political and economic capital upgrading, make diasporas and migrant communities more interesting for their country of origin. However, in several cases the sheer size of the overseas community makes some homeland policymakers more reluctant to extend political rights because the influence of overseas nationals may disadvantage local population. And until absentee voting systems are in place, overseas citizens carry much less weight in the domestic politics of their country of origin. Few sending countries are in a position to say no to the hard currency from overseas communities. Nonetheless, it is important not to assume any direct functional relationship between dependency on remittances and policies towards the emigrants and diaspora, in the sense that the higher the dependency the more inclusive the policy-formulation. For instance, the Philippines and the Dominican Republic, argue the authors of the respective chapters in this volume, have not formulated very inclusive policies for their global diaspora despite the national economic dependency on migrant remittances. This is arguably because they do not have to fear that remittances will decline in the near future. Migration is a continuous phenomenon, and remittances are not declining as emigrants continue support their families back home. In case of countries like Mexico or Turkey, the fact that US-Mexicans and ‘Euro Turks’ are settling and have brought their immediate kin with them makes it less obvious for them to continue to remit in the long run and thus more obvious for the sending country to reach out to them. The economy is also the main driving force behind India’s and Armenia’s attempts to attract foreign direct investment from their


diasporas, although again no automatic dynamic is at play and certain domestic actors in India such as the local business community have been known to oppose the outside competition from wealthy diaspora entrepreneurs. Post-Independence nation-building and policies of antiimperialism and non-dependence overruled the option of including Non-Resident Indians in the national economy. Only when India woke up to the debt crisis in the early 1990s did it start opening important economic sectors for foreign investment. Armenia, as it gained its postSoviet independence, was less reluctant to reach out to its diaspora for economic support, although relations have gone from good to bad and only recently are beginning to warm up again. There are certainly institutional similarities between the domestic political situation of the sending countries in this volume and their emigration policies. Although no chapter in this volume presents the case of a contemporary non-democratic totalitarian regime, several chapters describe how the emergence of multi-party political systems, followed by multi-actor engagement in the plight of citizens abroad, results in an opening of the transnational political field between emigrants and their country of origin. Mexico, Turkey and the the Dominican Republic are all cases in point illustrating how election campaigns go abroad as party political competition for economic and political support starts including overseas nationals – even if, as in all three cases mentioned, there is no system for absentee voting and even if this has only translated into more comprehensive political measures at the government level in the case of Mexico. The Philippines seem in this context to be the exception that proves the rule. Attempts have been made to allow for dual citizenship under the presidency of Arroyo. Still, although the rule of Marcos was ended with the support of the Filipino diaspora in the US, the following decades of democratization have not been accompanied by very comprehensive policies towards overseas nationals. Governments need their overseas nationals in times of conflict. An intra-state or international conflict is a major incentive to reach out to overseas nationals for support. This is clearly illustrated by the chapters on Eritrea and Cyprus; indeed, in the case of Cyprus it is the Cyprus issue rather than economics that dominates relations with overseas Cypriots. Moreover, several of the other countries in this volume are involved in some sort of conflict. Turkey has its Kurdish issue, India the tension between Hindus and Muslims not to mention the territorial conflict with Pakistan over Kashmir, and Armenia has its disputes with Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Gharabach. Even the Philippines and Mexico


have minority problems, although this is not really mentioned in the contributions in this volume. All these governments wish to mobilize political support – and in the case of Eritrea, economic support – to solve the conflict. In several instances in the preceding chapters, sending states refer to these conflicts as they engage in the promotion of longdistance nationalism by appealing to the patriotism of overseas communities. However, the cases of Eritrea and Cyprus show how conflict is not an inexhaustible motivation for the support of overseas nationals. In the case of Eritrea, Khalid Koser warns that the government has gone too far in milking its diaspora for economic contribution without recognizing that Eritreans abroad have other issues to worry about rather than the conflict in their country of origin. In the case of Cyprus, younger generations of Cypriots with no personal experience of the 1974 intervention of the Turkish military are less keen to follow the Cypriot government call for their support of the ‘national issue’. Madeleine Demetriou notes how the Greek Cypriot lobby today mainly consists of a small group of middle-aged to elderly men. Policies towards ethnic or religious minorities may also influence policies towards citizens or former citizens abroad (and these citizens’ response to those policies). For instance, Kurds from Turkey who fled or migrated to Europe use their new countries to stage information campaigns against Turkey’s treatment of the Kurdish minority and for international support around their cause. Consequently, the Turkish state has engaged in a multi-level campaign to counter mobilization among Kurds residing in Western Europe. The issue of a country’s minority policies does not have to concern only resident ethnic minorities but can also relate to immigrants. Sending countries may also be receiving countries and in the case of the Philippines the diaspora’s call for dual nationality for non-resident Filipinos is tempered by the Philippine government’s unwillingness to extend the same rights to Chinese immigrants. David Howard’s chapter on the Dominican Republic contrasts the Dominican state’s (lack of) emigration policies with its much more intensive focus on Haitian immigrants. After twelve years of debate, dual nationality has been extended to non-resident Dominican emigrants. At the same time, the rules for acquiring Dominican citizenship have been changed from jus soli to jus sanguini, making it very difficult for resident Haitian immigrants and their offspring to obtain it. Central to both sets of policy-making is the understanding of where the Dominican nation begins and ends, and it is clear that it does not end with the physical boundaries of the state territory, but with who is considered Dominican and who is not.


Indeed, the particular conceptualization of emigrants and diasporas’ place in the sending country’s national and cultural identity is central to sending country–emigrant relations. The issue of religion is surely also of great importance although this has not been fully explored in the contributions to this volume and seems an area worthy of further consideration. Here it should be noted that sending country perceptions of nationals abroad are rarely constant. Migrants who previously felt like Pochos or ‘remittance machines’ may suddenly find themselves praised by the political elite in their country of origin as an important part of the nation. However, alongside government rhetoric trying to trumpet the importance of migrants exists a less celebratory image of migrants as flashy upstarts, and migrants may find it difficult to translate their hardearned economic capital into social capital by being recognized by the elite back home. This is most explicit in the different extent to which Armenia and India included those diasporas which had settled long before their homelands gained independent statehood. Razmik Panossian argues that Armenia set out by regarding its diaspora as an ‘appendix’ to the Armenian nation, that is, as a part of the Armenian nation, but not one on equal footing with the homeland. India’s initial postIndependence nation-building processes led to an exclusion of its diaspora from the Indian nation and polity, and the legacy of this longstanding rejection continues to hamper the more recent attempts at rapprochement. Recent developments indicate that Armenia may accept the diasporas’ legitimacy as a rightful form of national identity, but the crux of the matter remains the extent to which the very powerful diaspora based in the West should be allowed to influence decisionmaking in a homeland to which they have no intention of repatriating. In India, argues Marie Lall, national identity is based on being an Indian from India with an intact caste, and thus the Non-Resident Indians do not fit into this perception of the Indian nation. Many modern Indians continue to look at the Indian diaspora as some sort of ‘twisted outcast’. Yet the line between insiders and outsiders is fluid. Several of these case studies show the very process of this redefinition of the role of migrants in the national polity. And outsiders can become insiders again as they are allowed to regain citizenship of their country of origin. A final set of important factors lies in the sending country’s international relations in general and the relations with the states where emigrants and diasporas are residing in particular. Since few countries restrict exit of emigrants, emigration policies are now largely determined by receiving countries’ immigration policies – regardless of the


type of and causes for emigration. Moreover, the preceding chapters show that the extent to which bilateral and multilateral relations with host countries are considered in the formulation and implementation of policies towards nationals abroad cannot be underestimated. Certainly foreign policy ideology matters. Nehru’s ‘anti-imperialist’ pursuit of a third-world bloc meant ignoring the suffering of the Indian minorities in countries with which India wanted to make friends. Former colonial or near colonial ties are also of relevance, as sending country policies carry undertones of resistance to continuing dependence on the attitude of receiving countries, not only in the case of India, but also in the case of Mexico where, as shown by Jesús MartínezSaldaña, anti-American sentiment is formulated as critique of the treatment of US Mexicans in the US. And often sending countries are to be found at the weaker end of asymmetrical power-relations with receiving countries. The preceding chapters include several examples of how such relations make sending countries prioritize the maintenance of good relations with the host state over protecting their nationals residing in that country. This, argues Mary Lou Alcid, is manifest in the Philippine government’s inadequate support to Filipino workers in countries such as Saudi Arabia. The creation of a supportive lobby inside receiving countries is clearly an advantage. Needless to say, sending countries are more interested in emigrants if they have settled in a country which is either generally influential in world politics or with whom the sending country has particularly important relations. Here the USA is second to none, not only for sending countries in its own hemisphere, as illustrated by the case of Mexico and the Dominican Republic, but arguably also for all other sending countries presented in this volume. In addition, regional international relations matter, as reflected in Turkey’s interest in its ‘Euro Turks’ residing within the EU, or Cyprus’s interest in the large Cypriot community based in the United Kingdom. Thus Mexican policies towards Mexicans in the US are inseparable from US–Mexican relations, and Turkey’s policies towards Turks in Europe are inseparable from EU–Turkish relations. Sending countries are, however, not unaware that too much overt pressure on their nationals in another country may not be welcome by the host-country authorities, who interpret this as fifth-column activism fragmenting their polity. In order not to strain bilateral relations or, indeed, put their nationals abroad in a vulnerable position, sending countries may hold back on their mobilizing efforts. In any case, the fact that citizens of one country become citizens of another ties the interests


of the countries together as domestic developments in either country spill over to the other. Foreign relations become intertwined with domestic politics, and, as Miller (1981) once formulated it, ‘a spatial diffusion of domestic politics’ occurs. Thus, the case-studies in this volume show that behind the veneer of governments’ efforts to reach out to their citizens lies a much more complex reality. For instance, one single area such as a sending country’s option to extend (or not extend) political rights to citizens abroad has played itself out very differently in the case studies in this volume. There are certainly institutional similarities in several sending country policies. Yet, as the preceding chapters clearly demonstrate, these decisions are not a function of a fixed hierarchy of economic, political or historical determinants. Instead they have to be located in the particular sequence and constellation of historical developments, national and international interests, perceptions and constraints, which we have outlined above.

Transnational responsibilities of the sending state The preceding chapters point to three somewhat overlapping types of responsibilities of the sending state towards its nationals abroad. First, is the extent to which the state generally feels responsible for the plight of its emigrants. Emigrants are often left to fend for themselves as they brave the bottom of the overseas labour market. In cases of stateendorsed or even state-sponsored labour export, as in the guest-worker programme of Turkey or the Bracero Programme of Mexico or more recently the labour export system of the Philippines, the state clearly does recognize its responsibility to ensure the protection of its workers abroad. Yet the chapters in this volume all argue that the sending state does not do enough to stipulate rules or ensure their enforcement by host-country authorities. This issue becomes more complicated the longer migrants reside abroad. For how long is a sending state responsible for its overseas nationals? Clearly those countries whose emigrants have become permanent residents, even citizens, of their country of settlement, feel less directly responsible for their well-being. Still, in cases of discrimination and unequal treatment of these emigrants, the issue again arises as to what extent the sending state should engage itself in these issues. Second, the preceding chapters question if sending states ask for migrants’ support in a responsible manner. Eritreans, argues Khalid Koser, who have otherwise gone to great lengths to support the Eritrean government, feel over-used as the government keeps asking for


economic contributions without regard for its diasporas’ financial constraints in their countries of settlement. Moreover, those emigrants who feel they have been left to fend for themselves abroad do not warm to their country of origin’s call for support as much as they otherwise would have. Both Mexicans and Turks feel that their state of origin is asking for something for nothing. Similarly, a homeland like Cyprus, says Madeleine Demetriou, does not hesitate to use the word ‘duty’ and ‘obligation’ when calling for overseas Cypriots’ economic and political support, but the diaspora is disappointed that the state’s own responsibilities extending beyond the state border are much less defined. Panossian describes how the Armenian government calls for ‘the responsibility of all Armenians towards their homeland’ at the opening of its second conference with diaspora representatives from all over the world. Meanwhile the question of what responsibilities Armenia does have towards its diaspora is left as a discussion point in one of the sessions later in the conference. Indeed, the preceding chapters all mention that emigrants, refugees or diasporas do not feel that their calls for protection, dual nationality, and political influence have been fully met. Overseas nationals are left with the impression that their needs come second to those of the homeland. Third, migrants and diasporas are concerned about whether their sending state is ‘responsible’ in its use of their resources. Migrants, in particular if they have to offer their political and economic support, may question issues such as corruption, political and legal reforms, minority policies and handling of domestic conflict. They demand more transparency and accountability if they are to contribute. Khalid Koser argues that diasporas are often in a position to hold their sending states to account. Yet, in other cases, it is rather the case that domestic concerns are prioritized above the concerns of the diaspora. Diasporas and emigrants are rarely voters; in most cases where sending states have allowed for dual nationality an absentee voting system is not in place, and only a small part of the overseas electorate volunteer to travel home to vote. Still, sending states may not wish to lose their overseas support and therefore come to realize that if long-distance relations are to be sustained, they cannot ask for something for nothing.

The capability gap of sending countries One final issue, which stands out in the contributions to this volume, is what we called in the Introduction the ‘capability gap’ of sending countries in their efforts to turn emigration into an economic and political


advantage. On the one hand, there is the gap between government rhetoric and its actual implementation in policies towards overseas nationals. The number of constraints that sending states face has already been mentioned in the above discussion of why sending states have different responses. Emigrants may be heralded as heroes and promised absentee voting rights, but this may turn out to be more difficult to realize because of domestic opposition, constitutional constraints, and the wish not to upset those countries where the citizens reside. Of course, one can argue that diasporas are not unique in being let down by governments or in complaining that not enough is being done to meet their demands. What major section of civil society does not complain in this way? On the other hand, there is the gap between sending country policies and their expected effect. Have the reaching-out policies of sending states resulted in better relations with their overseas communities? Several cases in this volume and observations elsewhere reveal that emigrants are usually not bothered about their home state. Rates of dual citizenship and overseas voting, with a few exceptions are universally low. Among Mexicans in the US, for instance, there has been little takeup of dual nationality. Arguably, sending country policies are in some cases still at a decidedly embryonic and experimental stage. Moreover, the chapters on Mexico, Turkey and India show that relations do not change over night. Official policies to reach out to emigrants may lack credibility among their target community because it is not easy to convince a formerly neglected community of the sincerity and depth of official interest after years of estrangement (see also de la Garza et al.). The case of India shows that while policies aimed at the diaspora are not unwelcome, they are not enough. Patriotism and a renewed licence to belong cannot alone attract the needed investments. Overseas investors are waiting for much more comprehensive economic and political reforms before they deem it worthwhile to invest their funds in their country of origin. Finally, the contrasting cases of Turkey vs. other southern European sending countries engaged in labour export in the 1960s (Portugal, Spain or Greece) show that the social capital upgrading of overseas nationals is best promoted through economic growth and political confidence in the country of origin. Emigration and the continued engagement of emigrants in their countries of origin have clearly had a profound effect on these countries. One of the lessons of the chapters in this volume is, however, that there is no reason to overstate the ability of sending states to ‘control’, ‘tap into’ or ‘channel’ the transnational practices that span the multi-level


field of relations between migrants and their country of origin. This does not mean that migrants’ transnational practices pose an insurmountable challenge to sending states. Rather it remains for these states to take up the challenge of getting the balance right between their rhetoric and action, their demands and responsibilities, between the interests of the emigrants and the state itself, and between alienating and including migrants’ resources in processes of democratization or economic development.

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Index Note: all abbreviations are given in full the index entries–to identify the full version of an abbreviation, please consult pages x–xi, (page numbers followed by n refer to a note). Abadan-Unat, N. 77, 82, 97n accountability of sending states 109, 112, 117, 222 Adamson, F. 8 Adler, S. 10, 11 Africa Cypriots in 192 dual citizenship in 19 remittances to 15 see also individual countries African migrants 10 African Americans 43 African identity of Dominicans 71–2 agricultural migrant workers in Hawaii 101 in the USA 36, 42 agricultural economics 115, 187–8 Al-Ali, N. 8, 23 Alanis Enciso, F. S. 38, 39 Albanian migrants 8 Alcid, M. L. 11, 17, 27, 99, 212, 220 Alevis 81, 88, 94 Alliance of Migrant Workers and Advocates for the Amendment of RA 8042 (AMEND) 114, 116–18 Ammassari, S. 10, 12, 13, 16, 30n Ankara Association Agreement 80 anti-imperialism 126, 217 Aponte, S. 61 Apparsamy, B. 124 Aquino, Corazon, C. 100 Armenia 7–8, 140–68, 195, 211–17, 219, 222 Armenia Fund 146, 167n Armenian Development Agency 149, 150, 151, 152, 158 Armenian lobby 90, 92, 98n Armenian Genocide 98n, 141, 151, 153, 212 236

Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) 145, 146, 156, 162 Arnold, F. 16 Arroyo, Gloria M. 100, 104, 118n, 217 Asia see Central Asia, South Asia and Southeast Asia Asian Americans 43 Asis, M. 106 asylum 3 asylum seekers from Eritrea 172 asylum seekers from Turkey 78–80, 93–4 asymmetric international relations 10–11, 25, 34, 55, 209, 220 Atkins, G. P. 4 Australia 123, 128, 139n, 187, 189, 192, 202 Austria 97n Azerbaijan 165n, 166n, 212, 217 Bahadur Singh, I. J. 134 Ball, R. 114 Bangladesh 9, 122 Bartra, R. 37 Basch, L. 191 Bascom, J. 172 Bauböck, R. 4, 18 Belgium 97n Bello, W. 105, 107 Bharatia Janata Party (BJP) 28, 121, 129, 134, 138, 139n black box analysis 4, 23 Black, R. 8, 10, 12, 13, 16, 30n Blanc, S. 191 Bolt, P. J. 16, 17 Boswell, T. D. 73 Bosnia 23 Bosnian refugees 8 Bracero Programme 7, 40–2, 221

Index 237 brain drain 9, 102, 127 Bray, D. B. 61 Britain see United Kingdom British Empire, India under rule of 123–4 Brunei 100, 103 Bueno, L. 63, 64, 70, 72 bureaucracy and migration management 52, 68, 96, 106, 110–11 as obstacle to migrant investment 82, 128, 130–31, 133, 136–7, 212 as transnational actor 14 Burma 123, 126 Bush, George W. 52 Bustamante 45 Canada Armenians in 167n Eritreans in 172, 173, 176, 178 Filipinos in 103 Greek Cypriots in 187, 188, 192, 196–7, 204n relations with India 123 relations with Mexico 43, 53 Turks in 95 Candazo, R. 107, 108 capability gap 5, 222–4 capitalism 13, 45 Cardoso, L. A. 36 Caribbean 15, 19, 23, 57, 60, 71, 123 Carpizo, J. 46, 50 Carranza, Venustiano 38 Castañeda, J. G. 38, 51, 56n caste, in India 121, 132, 134, 136, 219 Castles, S. 10, 34 Castor, S. 73 Castro, M. J. 60 Catholicism 40 Central America 13, 15 Central Asia Armenians in 142 remittances to 15 Central Europe 19 Chicano movement 35, 45 China, relations with Chinese emigrants 8, 17, 25, 102, 137, 218 Christianity, in Armenia 150, 151, 164

civil rights movement 71 civil society 21, 108, 110, 158, 176, 223 see also NGOs and migrant associations citizenship see dual citizenship clandestine migration 3, 65, 78, 79, 103, 105 see also illegal migration, trafficking; smuggling Clapham, C. 174 Cohen, R. 29n, 224 Collier, P. 8 colonial rule and migration 10, 188 and policies of sending countries 25, 123–5, 131, 188, 220 Commission of Filipinos Overseas (CFO) 99 Commonwealth 125, 139n, 187, 188, 196 CONAPO 33 conflict Armenia’s conflict over Nagorno-Gharabagh 165 Cyprus conflict 185–203 Eritrean—Ethiopian wars 171–84 Kurdish conflict 78, 79, 93 remittances as sustaining 16 sending countries’ use of emigrants in 7–8, 24, 28–9, 212, 217–18 Congress party (India) 129 Connell, D. 173, 179 Constantinou, S. T. 188 Constas, D. 98n, 190, 196, 197, 201 consulates surveillance of emigrants 37, 48, 85, 94–5, 175 protection of emigrants 38, 41, 47 and visa policies 59, 64 and citizenship policies 83 see also embassies; diplomatic representations Consultation Commission in Turkey 85–6 Cordova, A. 35 Cornelius, W. 5, 46 corruption, in sending countries 12, 35, 47, 148–9, 151–2, 159–60, 222

238 Index cosmopolitan 74 countries of origin see sending country countries of settlement see receiving countries Craig, A. L. 46 crime, transnational 8, 11 of returned migrants 62 Croatia 19, 20 Croats 8 Cross, H. E. 40 Cuba 24, 57, 59 Cultural Revolution 17 culture of migration 105 migrants as challenge to 60, 132–3 and sending country policies 24, 81, 84–5, 152–3, 186, 214–15 Cyprus 28, 185–203, 212–13, 217, 220, 222 Turkey’s mobilization of Turks on conflict 86, 97n, 98n de la Garza, R. O. 12, 18, 23 DEHAI 177–8, 180 Dekmejian, H. R. 204n Demetriou, M. 28, 202, 218, 222 demilitarization, of Cyprus 195 Democratic Left Party (DSP) 85, 86, 89, 98n democratization 173 migrants’ engagement in 6–8, 21 and sending country transnational activity 24, 26, 50, 217, 224 Denmark 79, 93 dependence, of sending countries on migration 58, 74 on remittances 105 on receiving countries 220 deportations 39, 62, 65, 68, 103 de-territorialized 20, 21 development and foreign investment 122, 128, 131–5, 147–52, 211–12 and migration 10, 12, 108–9 and remittances 5–6, 16–17, 61, 66, 77–8, 211–12 development aid 5, 15 diaspora definition of 7

organizations 23, 151–3, 155, 166n, 213 see also migrants; refugees Díaz, Porfirio 35–8 diplomatic representations 94, 213 discrimination 11, 211 of Armenians 144 of Chinese in Southeast Asia 25 in Dominican Republic 63, 67, 70 of Filipinos 99, 102, 114, 115 of Indians 123, 125 of Mexicans in the US 38, 39, 41, 45 of Turks 83, 84, 92, 95 dissidence 4, 8, 17–19, 78, 92–5 Diyanet 82, 97n Department of Labour and Employment (DoLE) 102, 103, 109, 111, 115–16, 118n domestic workers 103, 113–14 Dominican Labour Code 68 Dominican Republic 57–75 immigration policies of 218 overseas election campaigns 217 remittances to 15, 212, 216 transnational outreach of 8, 210 Dore Cabral, C. 14, 60 drug smuggling 11, 62–3, 75n dual citizenship 19–21, 213, 217, 218, 222–3 in Armenia 145, 152, 156, 164 difference from dual nationality 19 in Dominican Republic 65–8, 72, 73 and relations between sending and receiving countries 25, 91–2 in Mexico 49 in the Philippines 100–1 in Turkey 83–4 dual nationality see dual citizenship Eastern Europe 7, 15, 142 Ecuador 15 elections see voting; transnational elections El Salvador 15 e-mails 61, 177–8 embassies 94, 107, 167n, 175, 199 see also consulates; diplomatic representations

Index 239 employer sanctions 42 EOKA 188, 203n Eritrea 171–84, 212–14, 217, 221 taxing of diaspora 8, 211 Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF) 179 Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) 173, 174, 179, 181 Eritrean Relief Association (ERA) 174, 178 Eritrean Relief and REfugee Commission (ERREC) 172, 176 Esman, M. J. 8, 19 Ethiopia 28, 171–9, 212 ethnic minorities 24, 80–2, 136, 179 associations of migrants 88, 93 EU relations with Turkey 77, 78, 79–80, 90–1, 96, 212 accession of Cyprus to 194 European migration, to the Dominican Republic 58 to Mexico 35, 36 to the USA 14 exile 19, 59 exilès 7, 18, 37, 214, 224 Faist, T. 10 family reunification 42, 64, 78–9 fascism 7, 40 Fawcet, J. T. 10 feminization of labour Philippine industry 100, 103 Fernández, Leonel 66, 74, 76 fifth-column, migrants as 25, 29, 92, 213, 220 Fiji 122–3, 126 Filipino diaspora 99, 217 Filipino migrants 27, 101–16, 220 see also Philippines Foner, N. 14, 30n foreign currency 9, 10, 24, 82, 100, 128 foreign direct investment see investment foreign policy 43, 137 impact of emigration on 80 and migration policies 43, 11, 51, 137, 220

migrants’ role in 4, 22, 88–92, 95, 196, 198, 209 Fox, Vincente 26, 33, 34, 38, 51–6 France 78, 97n, 98n, 151, 167n, 192 Freeman, G. 83 Freinkman, L. 143, 159 fundraising, by migrants 66, 166n, 174, 178, 194 Gabaccia, D. R. 25 Galarza, E. 41 Gamio, M. 36 Gammeltoft, P. 15 Gandhi 121, 137 García y Griego, M. 40, 43 gender 16, 70–1, 105, 110, 114 see also women generations and relations with sending countries 84, 163, 186, 192, 197–9, 201–3 Georgallides, G. S. 187 Georges, E. 59, 60, 69, 70 Germany 8 Eritreans in 172, 173, 175, 176 Turks and Kurds in 78, 81–2, 84–7, 89, 91–6, 214 Ghana 19 Ghosh, B. 11, 12 Gjerdes, J. 14, 30n Glick Schiller, N. 13, 14, 21, 191, 202 globalization 14, 74 of Filipino labour export 101, 107, 110, 114, 117 and Indian domestic economy 138 and state power 22 González, N. L. 64, 69 Grasmuck, S. 60, 69 grassroot 23, 89 Greece Armenians in 151, 165 and Cyprus 187, 188, 192–3, 203n relations with Turkey 98n Greek lobby, in the USA 18, 90, 98n, 189, 190, 195, 204n Greek Cypriots see Cyprus Guarnizo, L. E. 5, 13, 14, 18, 20, 23, 60, 63, 70 Gulf countries, Indian workers in 127, 128

240 Index Haiti 15, 67, 68, 71–2, 210 Haitians, in Dominican Republic 65, 67–8, 72–4 Hanson, A. H. 126 Happiness Party (SP) 88 Hatzipanayotou, P. 11 Hawaii 101, 102 Heimsath, C. 124, 126 Hernández, R. 71 Hernandez Medina, E. 14, 60 Hindus 130, 217 Hispanics 71 homeland definition of 7 see also sending countries hometown associations see migrant associations host-countries see receiving countries Hong Kong 100, 103, 113 Howard, D. J. 26, 37, 57, 75n, 218 Huerta, Victoriano 37 human capital 9, 12 human rights 20, 48 human rights regimes 20 humanitarian aid 5, 147, 148, 158, 167n, 195 identity policies 17, 214, 218–19 ideology 28, 37, 38, 192, 220 Federal Electoral Institute (IFE) (Mexico) 48, 49, 50 illegal migration 11–12, 62–3, 65, 79, 94, 113, 166n see also clandestine migration; trafficking; smuggling Illo, J. 105 images 61, 62, 105 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 5, 10, 16, 82, 104, 110, 111, 129 Immigration Act (1965) (USA) 42, 187 Imperial Conferences 123–4 independence movements 7 India 27, 121–39 comparative analysis of 210, 211–13, 215–17, 219, 220, 223 type of sending country 8 Indonesia 9, 19, 202 Inegi, N. G. 35 informal economy 11, 12

Infotur-RD 62 Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) 34–5, 38, 46–7, 49–51, 53, 56n Inter-American Development Bank 33 Inter-American Human Rights Court 68 interdependence 10 International Co-ordinating Committee Justice for Cyprus (PSEKA) 185–6, 192, 194, 196–7, 200 international relations 22, 121, 219, 220 Internet 152, 177 interventionism 38, 43 International Organization for Migration (IOM) 29n, 224 investments 15–16 in Armenia 145, 146, 148–55, 157–60 as development aid 5 in Dominican Republic 60, 69, 70, 75 in Eritrea 177 in India 128, 130–9n and good governance 4 policies to attract 16, 22, 211–12, 216–17, 223 in Turkey 82, 89, 95 Irish Republican Army (IRA) 8 Irbec 78 IRCA 42, 43 Irish, Y. Z. 8, 18 Irish diaspora 8 irregular migration 11, 42, 53, 103, 110 see also illegal migration Islam 30n, 82, 88, 92, 93, 214 see also Sunni Muslim; Alevi Israel 7, 20, 25 Italy 17, 23, 25, 30n, 100, 103 Itzigsohn, J. 14, 18, 23, 24, 60 Iyob, R. 173, 174, 175 Jacobson, D. 20 Japan 100, 103 Jewish diaspora 99, lobby in the US 18, 90, 92, 138

Index 241 Josselin, D. 22 jus sanguini 67, 212 jus soli 67, 212 Justice and Development Party (AK Party) 88, 89 Kanlungan Centre Foundation 99, 100 Keck, M. E. 22 Keely, C. 16 Kiliç, M. 87 Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) 8 Kocharian, Robert 140, 145–8, 151, 155–6, 158, 160, 163 Korea 25, 103 Koser, K. 8, 23, 171, 212, 218, 221, 222 Kurds as asylum-seekers 79 and human rights regimes 21 political opposition of 77, 92, 96, 218 and US—Turkey relations 195 Kuwait 103, 127 Kyle, D. 13 Labour Code of the Philippines 106 labour exporting countries definition of 6–8 see also sending countries labour recruitment programmes 7, 12, 40–2, 79, 81, 112–13 Lall, M. 27, 121, 219 Latin America 15, 18, 19, 23 legitimacy 37, 52, 114, 141, 164, 219 Lessinger, J. 15 Levitt, P. 7, 14, 20, 24, 58, 60, 66, 69 liberalization of exit rules 9 of Indian economy 122, 130, 135–9 of Mexican economy 47 of Philippine economy 107, 110, 114 Lok Sabha 126, 132 long-distance nationalism 171, 172, 218 López y Rivas, G. 45 loyalty 17, 18, 194, 197, 202 Lycklama, G. 102

Madero, Francisco I. 37 Mahler, S. 9, 14, 18, 210 Makarios, Archbishop 191 Malaya 123 Malaysia 100, 103, 202 Maney, G. M. 8 Mansingh, S. 124, 126 Marcos, Ferdinand E. 106, 107, 217 Martin, P. 10, 43, 64, 77, 78, 79, 80, 82 Martínez 58 Martinez-Saldaña 12, 17, 33, 47, 220 Massey, D. 10, 39 media and democracy 50 globalization of 14, 98n image of migrants in 46, 60–2, 65, 75n migrants’ campaigns in 18 as mobilizer of migrants 91–3, 147, 152, 179, 194, 213, 215 methodological nationalism 30n Mexican Americans 35, 39, 45, 47, 52, 53, 212 Mexican Programme for Mexican Communities 12 Mexico 26, 33–55 comparative discussion of 23, 210–17, 220–1, 223 dual nationality in 8 protection of Mexican emigrants 12 remittances to 15 as sending and receiving country 9 Meyer, L. 35, 37 Middle East 127, 142, 144, 177, 205n migrant associations 20, 213, 215, 216 Filipino 107, 110, 114, 117 Mexican 44, 47–8 Turkish 81–2, 86–8, 90–3 see also diaspora organizations migrant networks and migration 10, 64, 105 transnational 30n, 48, 58, 143, 174, 212 migration management of sending countries 3, 6–7, 9–13, 209, 217–19 migration hump 10, 29n, 224 aggregate 29n

242 Index migration systems 9, 10, 23 military intervention 37, 59, 79, 93, 173, 203n military occupation of, Dominican Republic 73 military service 19, 83, 94, 156, 192 Miller, M. 34, 221 Milli Görüs¸ 88 minority policies 24, 94, 218, 222 Mitchell, C. 59 money laundering 11 Morocco 24 Motherland Party (ANAP) 85, 89, 91 Motwani, J. K. 133 Moya Pons, F. 71 multicultural 93 multilateral relations 25, 77, 95, 212, 220 multiplier effects 16 Muslims 179, 217, see also Islam NAFTA 43–4, 47, 48, 212 Nagorno-Gharabagh (Karabakh) 147, 148, 212, 217 Narasimha Rao, P. V. 129 national interest 14, 34, 134, 210, 216 National Movement Party (MHP) 88 nationalism, and Armenian politics 145, 162 in Dominican Republic 71–3 and Indian politics 125 and sending country policies 218 and Turkish political parties 88–9 see also long-distance nationalism; revolutionary nationalism nationality see dual citizenship nation-building 24, 27, 141, 219 nationhood 18, 60, 162 nativist 39 naturalization 19 Nehru 121, 125, 126, 131, 136, 137, 220 Nehruvian ideology 125, 127, 130–1, 137 neoliberal policies in Mexico 37, 45, 48, policies in the Philippines 101, 107–10, 113, 115, 117 theory of migration 9 Netherlands, The 58, 92, 93, 97n

New Zealand 123, 139n NGOs 20, 22, 88, 106–7, 110, 114, 174, 178 see also civil society and migrant associations Nicaragua 15 Nicodemus, M. F. 106 Nigeria 188 non-intervention 43 Nyberg-Sørensen, N. 5, 15, 16 Nyiri, P. 17, 25 Oakley, R. 188 obligations, of sending states 11, 19, 21, 34, 83, 193, 213 Office of the Undersecretary for Migrant Workers Affairs 107 Ögelman, N. 83 Olesen, H. 15, 29n, 224 Ollivier, M. 123 Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) 10, 78, 79 Orozco, M. 12, 18, 23 Østergaard-Nielsen, E. 5, 18, 20, 21, 29n, 77, 80, 81, 88, 92, 96n this volume 11, 12, 17 Ottoman Empire 98n Overseas Workers’ Welfare Administration (OWWA) 107, 115 Özcan, E. 88 Özdemir, C. 83, 91 Paisano Programme 12, 46 Pakistan 15, 122, 135, 137, 217 Panchon, H. P. 12, 18, 23 Panossian, R. 28, 140, 145, 162, 219, 222 PAN-PVEM coalition 51 Pantoja, A. D. 12, 18, 23 Paz, O. 44 People’s Front for Democracy and Justice (PFDJ) 175, 180, 183 Peru 20 Pessar, P. R. 60, 70, 71 Philippine Overseas Employment Administration (POEA) 101, 104, 106, 108, 110–13, 115, 116–18

Index 243 Philippine Overseas Labour Office 115 Philippines, The 15, 99–117, 210–12, 216–18, 221 Pink Card 83 Person of Indian Origin (PIO) 122, 134, 193 Piper, N. 114 Pittelkow, R. 79 Plant, R. 65 Platias, A. 98n, 190, 196, 197, 201 political economy 10 political migration see also asylum-seekers 37, 59 political parties and Dominican migrants’ right to vote 66–7 and Mexican migrants’ right to vote 38, 47–9, 54 as transnational actors 14, 20, 88–9, 96, 198, 214 Portes, A. 8, 13, 14, 17, 18, 42 Portugal 25, 223 post-colonial 7, 9, 11 post-communist 9 post-conflict reconstruction 8, 28, 210 post-nationalists 20 Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD) 47, 48, 51, 53, 59 privatization 107, 110, 129 Program for Mexican Communities Abroad 47 Proposition 187, 43, 44 protectionism 122, 130 public policy 5, 6, 115 Puerto Rico 62, 63, 65, 72 Puri, S. 15 RA 8042 108–11, 118n Raat, W. D. 37 race 45, 47, 71, 121 racism in Dominican Republic 67–8, 71–2 against Filipino workers 102, 114 against Turkish migrants 84, 86, 99 Ramos, F. V. 107, 108 receiving countries and integration of migrants 5, 20 and migration management 3, 10–12, 219

relations with sending countries 5, 25, 214, 220 sending countries as 10, 218 referendums 172, 174–5, 177, 181 refugees from Cyprus 188, 189, 199 (see also asylum) from Eritrea 172, 173 and engagement in homeland conflicts 7–8 repatriation of 12 transnational relations of 13–14, 17, 18, 21, 209, 222 from Turkey 93, 94, 96 religion 121, 214, 219 religious movements 87, 88, 89 as transnational actors 14, 20, 22, 48, 88 religious education of migrants 17, 82, 84, 214, 215 religious minorities 24, 80–1, 218 remittances 15–17 and conflict 16, 30n and development 5, 9 and good governance 4 policies to attract 13, 15, 211–12 repatriation 12, 38–40, 59, 128, 186 Republican People’s Party (CHP) 83, 89, 91 re-territorializing states 21 return policies, of sending countries 12–13, 45–7, 81, 83, 173 revolutions 17, 36–8, 40, 47 revolutionary nationalism 37, 45, 53 Richardson, B. C. 57 Ritzema, T. 15 Rogers, A. 13, 29n, 30n, 118n Rogers, R. 12 Rosewarne, S. 104, 113 Rumbaut, R. 42 Russia 19, 137, 142, 144, 146, 151, 165–7 see also Soviet Union Salinas, C. 43, 46, 47 Samonte, E. 101 Sandos, J. A. 40 San Juan, E. Jr. 99, 102

244 Index Sargsian, Vazgen 146–9, 156, 157, 160, 167n, 168n Saudi Arabia Eritreans in 172, 175, Filipinos in 100, 102, 103, 115, 118, 220 Indians in 127 Schwalgin, S. 165 seasonal workers 40, 42, 70 sending countries capability gap of 4–5, 222–4 definitions of 6–9 migration management of 8–12 responsibilities of 4–5, 221–2 transnational engagement of 8–20, 209–21 separatist movements 25, 93 Shah, N. M. 9 Shain, Y. 9, 14, 17, 19, 23, 24, 25, 29n, 92, 224 Sheffer, G. 19 Sikkink, K. 22 Singapore 100, 103, 108 Smith, M. P. 13, 14, 18, 20, 23, Smith, R. C. 8, 14, 21, 23, 24, 176 smuggling, of migrants 11, 103 social capital 71, 219 upgrading of 18, 80, 90, 211, 223 social costs of migration 105 South Africa 9, 139n, 187, 192 Indian migrants in 123–4 South Asia remittances to 15 Southeast Asia 13, 25, 100, 137 sovereignty, national in Dominican Republic 67, 72, 73, 75 in India 130 and Mexican—emigrant relations 38, 46, 53 in the Philippines 117 Soviet Union Armenians in 141–4, 157, 159, 164, 165n, 166n and dual citizenship 19 Soysal, Y. 20 Sri Lanka 16

Stahl 16 stereotyping, of migrants 11, 44, 55, 61, 65, 72, 75n, 134 Styan, D. 175 subversive influence of migrants 4, 19, 94, 212 Sudan 172, 173, 192 Sunni Muslim 81, 88, 92–3, see also Islam supranational 21 Swadeshi 122, 131 Sweden 97n, 173 Taiwan 103 taxes, from migrants 17, 148, 175, 180, 182–3, 211 Taylor, J. E. 10 Ter-Petrosian, Levon 140, 145 terrorism 11, 30n, 53, 93 Thailand 9, 19 Tharoor, S. 130 Themelis, A. 204n Thunø, M. 16, 17, 25 Tölölyan, K. 186 Torres-Saillant, S. 71 totalitarian regimes 24, 217 trade unions 11, 41, 42, 94, 107 trafficking, of migrants 11, 79 Tran, B. N. 16 transnational communities 3, 29n, 202, 224 transnational crime 11 transnational elections 66, 86–9, 96 transnational households 66, 70–1 transnational practices critique of research field 13–14 economic 15–17, 211–12 political 18–20, 212–14 socio-cultural 17–18, 214–15 and the state 5, 6, 14–25, 209–10, 215–24 transnational spaces 4, 6 transparency, of governance 4, 148, 222 Tronvoll, K. 173 Trujillo, Leónidas 59 Türk Federasyon 88

Index 245 Turkey 77–98n comparative discussion of 8, 12, 20, 21, 210, 212–18, 220–1, 223 relations with Armenia 144, Greek Cypriot lobbying against 190, 195, 196, 197, 204n Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) 189 Turkish Secret Service (MIT) 94–5 Twaddle, M. 124 Ukraine 19, 142 UN Convention for the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers 108, 116 under-employment 61, 104, 188 undocumented migrants 11, 42–4, 53, 62–4, 68, 99 see also illegal migration; clandestine migration unemployment and labour export 9–10, 61, 78, 104, 106, 187, 189 among migrants 80, 84, 89, 182 UNHCR 97 United Arab Emirates 103 United Kingdom Armenians in 167n Eritreans in 172, 173, 176, 177, 178 Filipino migrants in 103 Greek Cypriots in 187–9, 192, 202, 204n and India 124, 139n United States Armenians in 142, 146, 167n bilateral agreements with Mexico 12, 41, 45, 51–3 diaspora politics in 18, 90, 98n, 190, 195–6, 204n, 205n and Dominican immigration 58–67, 69, 71–5 Eritreans in 172–9 European migration to 14 and the Filipino diaspora 99, 100–2, 217 and Greek Cypriot immigration 187, 189, 192 and Mexican immigration 33–40,

42–55, 220, 223 and remittance policies 30n studies of migrant transnationalism in 13, 202 USSR see Soviet Union; Russia van Hear, N. 16 Vazquez, O. 14, 60 Vertovec, S. 16 visas 3, 11, 59, 61, 64–5, 79, 100 voting of Eritrean refugees in Eritrean elections 172, 175 as means for diaspora political lobbying 18, 91–2 of migrants in countries of origin 5, 20, 213, 214, 216, 222–3 as right for Armenian diaspora 157 as right for Dominican migrants 66–7 as right for Filipino migrants 100, 114 as right for Mexican migrants 34, 46–51, 53, 54 as right for Turkish migrants 87–89 Wallace, W. 22 Walraff, G. 12 war see conflict. Watanabe, P. 204n Welfare Party (RP) 88 Wiarda, H. J. 61 Wimmer, A. 30n Wilson, L. C. 74 women as Dominican migrants 70, 73 as Filipino migrants 100, 101, 103, 105, 110, 114 as Turkish migrants 78, 79 as participants in Armenia diaspora conferences 147 see also gender World Bank 5, 16, 69, 104, 111, 149 world capital system 23 world economy 25, 58, 130, 187, 209

246 Index World Federation of Overseas Cypriots (POMAK) 185–6, 192, 194, 199–200 World War One 38 xenophobia Yugoslavia

39, 68, 114 8

Zaire 188 Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) 48 Zedillo Ponce de León, E. 50 Zentrum für Türkeistudien (ZfT) 79, 81, 89, 97n Zimbabwe 188, 192 Zolberg, A. 9

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