POLIS Journal
Journal of Politics and
International Studies
Volume Ten
Winter 2013
ISSN 2047-7651
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Contents
“We are atheists. But course we believe in God”: Clarifying the nature of Islam in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan”
By Tommy Bajorek……………………………………………………………………………………………………….3
Can there be genuine cooperation between Israel and Palestine over security of The
West Bank or will lack of trust generated by political and ideological issues prevent it?
By Tim Baimbridge……………………………………………………………………………………………………..40
The European Union as a regional power and international actor: a coherent approach
to the Eastern neighbourhood?
By Niels Bogegaard…………………………………………………………………………………………………….82
Reconceptualising the Right to Education in the wake of the current learning crisis:
lessons from Zimbabwe
By Jessica Drury…………………………………………………………………………………………………..……132
Rehabilitating Islamist Extremists: Successful Methods in Prison-Centred ‘Deradicalisation’ Programmes
By Marc Jones…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..171
Discounting the Environment in the Political Decision Making Process: The Case of the
Belo Monte Dam
By Lara Schermer…………………………………………………………………………………………..…………222
The Europeanisation of Hungary: Institutional adjustment and the effects of European
Union integration
By Ben Wright…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..271
To what extent the two generations of Chinese women peasant workers are able to
benefit from the factory work opportunities?
By Wei Zhu……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….332
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“We are atheists. But of course we believe in God”:
clarifying the nature of Islam in Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan
Tommy Bajorek
Abstract
Islam is in transition in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. On the one hand, it is
becoming an increasingly individual phenomenon as the grip of the state over
'official' Islam is weakening. On the other hand, its role as the key marker of
Kazakh and Kyrgyz national identity is being gradually marginalised by other
secular forms of nationalism. Whereas before, being Muslim may have been
synonymous with being Kazakh or Kyrgyz, this transitional situation has given rise
to what appears at first to be conflicting and contradictory religious identities
such as the 'Atheist Muslim' eluded to in the title. Nonsensical as this may seem,
this is in fact the manifestation of the flux in which Islam now finds itself.
Understanding this will help avoid crude dichotomies of Islam in the region where
narratives of radicalisation compete with out-of-date depictions of statecontrolled religion.
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Introduction
The quotation in the title of this study is not an attempt on behalf of the author to
create paradox and confusion where none exists. Instead it comes from the mouth of a
55 year-old Kyrgyz woman named Nazgul. The unedited quote is in fact as follows: "We
are atheists. Yes, we are Muslims, but let me explain. We are all Muslim people—
Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Tajiks, Tartars. We are born Muslim. That's it" (McBrien and
Pelkmans, 2008: 87). This quote may have come out of the mouth of someone taught
by decades of Soviet rule to equate 'moderate' Islam with atheism but it is indicative of
a wider and more fascinating trend. Islam is in a state of transition in Kazakh and
Kyrgyz society. It is becoming increasingly individualised whilst, at the same time, its
dominant role as the marker of collective national identity is being actively challenged.
This, as well as the 'Atheist Muslim' paradox presented by Nazgul, poses three key
questions: if Islam is being replaced as the cornerstone of national identity, what is
replacing it?; how does one reconcile the increasing individualisation of Islam with the
simultaneous retreat of Islam from its dominant position as a collective identity
marker?; and finally, how does answering these questions help us make sense of the
'Atheist Muslim' paradox? This study will show that other secular forms of nationalism
are squeezing the influence of Islam in this domain, and that, despite the
individualisation of Islam and the changing nature of nationalism taking place
simultaneously, they are in fact separate phenomena. The result of this, which explains
the 'Atheist Muslim' paradox, is a transitional period in how individuals relate to Islam
as a religion and as part of their identity, allowing seemingly conflicting identities such
as this to arise. Overall, this study also aims to demonstrate that Islam in Kazakhstan
and Kyrgyzstan is complex, dynamic, but generally peaceful and moderate, challenging
the view that any rise in religiosity is synonymous with a rise in various forms of
political Islam.
This study will take as broad and as analytical an approach as possible in order to
demonstrate this. Section I will deal with the history of our region and Islam in the
Soviet Union. Understanding the historical context to today's events is an absolutely
vital step in approaching the specificities of Islam in Central Asia, particularly in
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Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. It will show how the nature of Islam was transformed,
outlining the major events and processes which allowed this to happen. Even though
Islam was never eradicated, it was completely Sovietised through border changes,
ethnic re-profiling, and extensive human suffering. Independent Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan were thus bequeathed an Islam that served almost exclusively as a
traditional marker of national identity and custom, rather than a religion of faith.
Section II will explore Islam in all its guises as it appears in Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan today. It will examine the 'official' relationship between state and Islam
before moving on to construct a 'continuum of Islam'. This continuum has a small
number of extremists, Wahhabi and other fundamentalist movements backed by
foreign powers on one end, and more moderate, personal manifestations of 'unofficial'
or 'popular' Islam on the other. From this it will be clear that Islam is becoming a much
more individual phenomenon.
Section III will grapple with the key questions posed above and address the
changing nature of nationalism in our region. It will clarify the transitional situation of
Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan and in doing so, will solve the 'Atheist Muslim'
paradox.
At this point two questions arise: why Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan?; and why
Islam? Central Asia as a whole is a fascinating and yet understudied region, located in a
vital strategic geographic location. It sits upon vast natural resources of all types, and is
surrounded by global powers—Russia, China, and US interests in the Middle East. It
would be beyond the scope of a study such as this to cover the entire region.
Subsequently, focusing on Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan in particular allows a more
detailed exploration into this topic. Both these countries are unique in that they are
almost identical in history (ancient and recent) and culture, and were created from the
same turmoil of the Soviet Union's break up just over twenty years to go. The fact they
have enjoyed different economic trajectories since only adds to the possibilities of
studying the differences, if any exist, between two near-identical societies with
contrasting economic fortunes.
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The decision to focus on Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan is different. Morgan
Liu (2011: 125) in his review of academic literature on Central Asia complains that, to a
large extent, questions of identity, ethnicity, tradition, and religion have dominated
studies at the expense of other knowledge, reflecting as much the disorder in postSoviet studies generally as what is actually taking place on the ground. Whilst this is
perhaps true, it is important that scholarship continues with its favourite topics of
identity, ethnicity, tradition, and religion in order to get them right. It is in this cause
that this study focuses on Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan—to make sure our
understanding of what the essence of being a Kazakh or a Kyrgyz actually means is as
accurate as possible, so that in future we can better relate to this strategically-vital
region.
Before moving on to the first section, it is worthwhile producing a quick overview
of both the countries under study, as well as the literature surrounding our topic.
Kazakhstan
By ratifying its independence on 16th December 1991, Kazakhstan became the last,
and perhaps most reluctant, of the Central Asian republics to separate from the
crumbling Soviet Union. Kazakhstan stands out from its former-Soviet neighbours in a
number of respects. It is by far the largest, with an area of 2,724,900 sq. km., making it
the ninth largest country in the world. Its territory covers a vast area of steppe land
extending from the Volga in the Russian West, all the way to the Altai mountain range
(which rise to an elevation of 6,995m at Pik Khan-Tengri) in the east. The country's
capital, Astana, lies in this section. North of this lie the Siberian plains whilst to the
South lie the deserts of Central Asia. Kazakhstan shares borders with Russia to the
north, China to the South-East, and Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan
clockwise respectively to the South. The vast plains and steppe lands first attracted the
Kazakh nomads from Siberia about a thousand years ago. Large-scale immigration of
Russians and other Soviet Europeans during and after the Stalin period led to another
statistic where Kazakhstan stood out—at independence, Kazakhstan was the only
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former republic where the titular nationality was in fact in the minority. Today, thanks
to emigration of Europeans and the immigration of Kazakhs from countries like
Mongolia, Kazakhs make up 63.1% of the population; still the smallest titular
nationality percentage in the region. However, where Kazakhstan truly separates itself
from its neighbours is its relative economic strength. Kazakhstan is rich in oil and gas,
as well as commodities such as uranium, copper, and zinc. As a result its economy has
grown by 7.3%, 7.5%, and 5% in the last three years. GDP per capita is by far the
largest in the region at $14,100. Unemployment is at a respectful 5.3% whilst the same
percentage live below the poverty line. For a society influenced by its nomadic history,
urbanisation is fairly high at 53.6% and the urban population is increasing at just below
1% each year (all statistics from CIA, 2013a). Politically, Kazakhstan is stable if not
wholly democratic, with its President, Nursultan Nazarbayev being in charge since
independence. Despite near identical cultural origins as Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan is
almost unrecognisable today from its southern, poorer neighbour.
Kyrgyzstan
Kyrgyzstan gained its independence on 31st August 1991, more than three months
ahead of its northern neighbour. Since then however, Kyrgyzstan has lagged behind
Kazakhstan in almost every aspect. Kyrgyzstan is a land dominated by the Tien Shan
mountain range which rises above 7000m in altitude and cuts through the middle of
the country. To the North lies the capital Bishkek and its surrounding regions, heavily
influenced still by their relationship with bordering Kazakhstan and still markedly
Russophone (indeed, Russian still enjoys official language status). The Kyrgyz are also a
nomadic people who settled the land where Kyrgyzstan lies today around a thousand
years ago, coming originally from Siberia. To the South of the Tien Shan is the poorer
half of Kyrgyzstan. This region's main city is Osh and the nearby, multi-ethnic Fergana
valley, which extends into Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, is the fertile arena where the
region's flash points have originated in the last twenty years. This southern region is
considered more Islamic than the North largely due to its large Uzbek minority who
make up 13.6% of Kyrgyzstan's entire population (almost all of which live in and
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around the Fergana Valley). Kyrgyzstan borders Kazakhstan to the North, China to the
East, Tajikistan to the South, and Uzbekistan to the West. It also hosts a number of
small Uzbek enclaves on its soil—a source of numerous problems. Despite an
abundance of hydropower and largely untapped deposits of valuable metals,
Kyrgyzstan is still a resource-poor country. As a result, immediately after
independence, President Akaev tried to turn Kyrgyzstan into the post-Soviet posterboy for Market-Capitalism in order to secure loans from the IMF and the World Bank.
The failure of this policy led to the 'Tulip Revolution' in 2005 that ousted Akaev,
leading to a period of political instability where a number of leaders came and went
until President Almazak Atambayev came to power in 2011. The instability is just one
marker of the poverty in Kyrgyzstan. Growth has fluctuated (-0.5%, 6%, and −0.9% in
the last three years) whilst GDP per capita is as low as $2,400. 33.7% live below the
poverty line in a country where unemployment is at 8.6% (all statistics from CIA,
2013b).
Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan: the academic context
As the title suggests, the purpose of the following sections is to clarify the nature of
Islam today in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. In other words, this means sifting through
the various literature on the topic, isolating the stronger and more convincing
arguments from the weaker ones, and piecing all this together to form a clearer
picture of how Islam truly manifests itself in our area of interest. It is necessary
therefore to briefly introduce the available literature in order to build an initial picture
of what academic work is available on the subject, as the arguments in later sections
will have more resonance if grounded in an academic context.
Samuel Huntington's (1993) division of the world into competing and
antagonistic civilisations continues to paint a recognisable snapshot of International
politics twenty years later. However, its characterisation of the post-Soviet Islamic
space, in which are found Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, as part of a greater 'Islamic
civilisation' has done a lot of damage to how the region has since been perceived. Its
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unhelpful association, even if only subconscious, with the Middle East led to a focus on
research in the decade after independence in areas favoured increasingly by scholars
of the Middle East, most notably, Islamic extremism. Ahmed Rashid's (2002) work on
the rise of militant Islam is the culmination of this trend and, despite its high quality
research into previously little-known militant groups in the region, falls into the trap
that Dennis Sandole (2007) warned against, namely that there is a tendency for
researchers, development agencies, and other experts of Central Asia to socially
construct the region as rife with conflict, risk, and danger. Intentionally or otherwise,
overstating the case for danger in the region. In dedicating an entire book to militancy,
Rashid unintentionally did exactly that, leaving any reader with an inflated impression
of the real scale of militancy in the region. Nevertheless, the second postindependence decade has seen a subtler approach to researching extremism. Most
work in this field used to, and indeed continues to, feature Uzbekistan most
prominently (Hanks 2007) however, gradually studies have appeared concerning the
region as a whole (Karagiannis and McCauley, 2006; Omelicheva, 2010; Peyrouse,
2007b), as well as Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan individually (Karagiannis, 2005).
Sebastien Peyrouse (who features prominently in many areas concerning Central Asian
society) looks at the rise of political Islam across Central Asia, whilst Mariya
Omelicheva approaches the topic of religious extremism from an ethnic dimension. In
more specialised work, the non-violent political Islamist group, Hizb ut-Tahrir al-Islami
(HUT), is the focus for Emmanuel Karagiannis, both in his own work including social
movement theory, and in his cooperation with Clark McCauley where the examination
of HUT takes a wider, regional scope. Overall, this latest canon of work provides a
balanced and regional-specific approach to 'extreme' Islam that avoids comparisons,
either direct or implied, with the same phenomenon in the Middle East. Whilst these
studies provide a dispassionate assessment of the 'worrying' trends in Central Asian
society, reports from NGOs such as Human Rights Watch (HRW 2008; 2010; 2011) do
not, however they do provide largely accurate information about how the trends
discussed in articles, such as those cited above, manifest themselves in daily life.
As the newly-independent Central Asian states began to attract attention to
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themselves, a glaring hole became apparent to those wishing to study this new region.
Little to nothing was known about the history of these nations and the peoples who
lived there, either before or during Soviet rule. Edward Allworth (1994) was amongst
the first to tackle this issue by editing a deep cultural analysis of the region before and
after the Soviet period. Other attempts from different perspectives were tried
including examining the historical legacy of post-colonialism in Central Asia (Kandiyoti,
2002). However it wasn't until the 2000s that a stream of excellent histories of Soviet
Central Asia were published. As time had past since the earlier efforts, more was
known of life in the Soviet Union as a whole. Shoshana Keller (2001) was the first
history of considerable quality, providing a detailed narrative history of how the Soviet
Regime in Moscow went about consolidating its power in Central Asia going back as
early as the 1920s. Douglas Northrop (2004) in turn focused more specifically on the
cultural battle to Sovietise Uzbekistan in the 1920s and 1930s and its affect on gender
roles in the region. This procession of histories was capped off with the upmost
panache by Adeeb Khalid (2007) whose history of Islam after Communism is the
reference piece for those wishing to understand how Islam, or indeed how Central
Asian society as a whole, appears in its current forms today.
Khalid's book is important for there are many who wish to understand precisely
this. For those who want to get to grips with the nature of Islam in Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan, many make reference to the works of Emile Durkheim (1915) and Anthony
Smith (1991) whose works on religion and national identity frame many of the
arguments in the studies concerning this topic. Attempts at understanding Central
Asian Islam began early. Mehrad Haghayeghi (1996) exalted the moderate and
peaceful trajectory of Islam, unfortunately before the spate of attacks from the Islamic
Movement of Uzbekistan at the turn of the century. There have been attempts to
discern the different types of Islam present in the region, as well as describing and
explaining their origins (Epkenhans, 2011; Gunn, 2003; Aliyev, 2004). Interest in this
topic does not only interest Western scholars. Fuad Aliyev is a Baku-based academic
whilst Aysegul Aydinguen (2007), who writes about Islam and its relationship with
nationalism, is Turkish. Ahmed Rashid (1994), and Hann and Pelkmans (2009) also
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explore Islam and nationalism whilst Pawel Jessa (2006) and Julie McBrien (2006) do a
wonderful job of detailing and narrating examples of everyday-expressions of Islam in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan respectively. The work on Islam in Central Asia, and indeed
on Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, as of 2013, can almost start to become labelled
as 'broad.' In two separate works, the polyvalent Sebastien Peyrouse (2007c and 2010)
examines the interaction between Islam and the authorities. There is even now a niche
for dissenting voices in the literature, for example, Maria Louw (2007), whose book on
Everyday Islam in Central Asia is a refreshing attempt to refute the general insistence
that Central Asian Muslims are not 'sufficiently' or 'properly' Muslim or that their
religious life is only a subsidiary adjunct to their life as Kazakhs, Uzbeks or Tajiks.
It is also worth mentioning works, which, though not directly referring to Islam,
deal with themes, which help develop our understanding of the society in which Islam
operates. It is impossible to clarify the nature of Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan
without addressing the role of national identity in these two countries. In this regard
works by Sally Cummings (2006), O'Beachain and Kevlihan (2011), and most recently
Diana Kopbayeva (2013) are extremely valuable as they each focus on different aspects
of nationalism: legitimation and identification, state-building and nationalism, and,
perhaps most interestingly, how the built environment in the Kazakh capital, Astana is
an expression of Kazakh nationalism. Understanding the cultural, political, and
economic environment is also important for our purposes and as such the works by
Haziz Telebaev (2003), Peyrouse (2008b), and Boris-Mathieu Pétric (2005) must also be
taken into consideration as they in turn breach these topics respectively. More
recently, there have been attempts to quantify Islam through surveys (Junisbai, 2010;
Collins and Owen, 2012), revealing through data how much of a role, and in which
sectors of society, Islam plays in our two countries of interest.
Finally it is important to briefly acknowledge works, which, despite falling outside
the purview of this particular study, nevertheless contribute to our understanding of
the milieu operated by Islam in Central Asia. Mark Saroyan (1997) addresses all the
relevant topics but applies them to Azerbaijan. Cynthia Werner (2000) illuminates
quite brilliantly the nuances that exist in Kazakh culture regarding gift-giving and
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bribery. Mathijs Pelkmans (2006; 2009) in two well-researched pieces exposes the
phenomenon of Protestant Christian proselytising in Kyrgyzstan whilst Sebastien
Peyrouse (2006; 2007a; 2008a), rounds off the literature surrounding Islam in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan by also examining Christian proselytising, as well as other
topics including the fate of ethnic Russians in Kazakhstan since the break-up of the
Soviet Union. This concludes the review of the key available literature. With the
academic context fully-established, it is now the turn of the historical context to be
exposed so that greater clarity can be brought to the later debates dealing directly
with the nature of Islam today in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.
From Nomad to Comrade—Sovietizing Islam
This section will provide a brief overview and explanation of the key events which
transformed the nature of Islam for the Kazakh and Kyrgyz peoples of the Soviet
Union. It will also outline the major consequences of this process, an understanding of
which is vital before one begins to assess how Islam is developing in contemporary
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. Militant atheism in the late 1920s saw the persecution of
Central Asia's religious leaders and the subsequent loss of Islamic knowledge. Society
was further uprooted from its sources of identity by the disasters of collectivisation
and the war against Nazi Germany. Islam was never eradicated but was instead
Sovietised. This was not an easy, quick, or even wholly successful task and required
flexible ideology on behalf of the state, extensive border changes, and ethnic
(re)profiling to succeed. In the image of the Soviet Union before the war, it was a
chaotic process with extraordinary unintended short and long-term consequences. As
a result, during the late Soviet period Islam increasingly became a traditional marker of
national identity and custom, rather than a religion of faith.
The Soviet period was a Pandora's Box of paradox and this sentiment only
increases the more we learn about it. The fate of Islam in Central Asia during this time
was no exception. Despite the evident wholesale transformation of Islam in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, the process was so chaotic that, as Adeeb Khalid (2007: 72)
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puts it, we know more about the destruction of Islam brought about by Genghis Khan
than we do of the Soviet assault that reached its peak between 1927 and 1929. We do
know, however, that the ulama (the religious 'class' whose role is to be the scholarly
'guardians' of Islam) were persecuted with particularly devastating effect, and in doing
so, the Soviet regime destroyed the means through which Islamic knowledge was
produced and transmitted. The persecution inflicted upon the ulama in 1927
irreparably damaged the networks of learning and discipleship that had been the
carriers of Islamic knowledge in the region. Though the destruction was not total, it
deprived the ulama as a class of any prestige and influence for generations to come.
With the communities in centres of knowledge no longer producing new religious
texts, the amount of Islamic knowledge available locally was also vastly circumscribed.
Mosques and madrasas were also destroyed, transforming the social and architectural
landscape of the region. This was significant as mosques were not simply places of
worship, but also the social hubs of villages or urban neighbourhoods. Instead they
were given over to more 'socially productive' purposes such as schools, workers' clubs
or warehouses (Khalid, 2007:81). This took place across all of what we now call Soviet
Central Asia. However, the effects of destroying the ulama were particularly felt in the
nomadic Kazakh and Kyrgyz societies. In such societies, where the tradition of book
learning in madrasas was practically nonexistent, access to Islam lay primarily through
sacred lineages. Communities paid allegiance to individuals, usually Sufi sheiks who
belonged to lineages that had 'brought Islam' to the community generations before
(Khalid, 2007: 33). With no religious community to turn to, the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz lost
almost their entire religious infrastructure.
There were indirect reasons which also brought a squeeze on the transmission of
Islam. Throughout the 1920s, Soviet control of the frontier was less than effective, and
in Central Asia, many nomadic tribes and a number of surviving ulama were able to go
back and forth to Iran and Afghanistan. By the 1930s however, the government's
control of its border was remarkably strong, effectively sealing the country from the
outside world. Foreign travel was a luxury afforded only to the regime's most trusted
agents and communication in other forms was strictly censored. Islam in Central Asia
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was thus cut off from developments in the rest of the Islamic world (Khalid, 2007: 82).
Without the importation of outside knowledge to act as a shield, or even a brake,
against the Sovietisation of society, what remained of an Islamic way of life was now
more exposed than ever to influence from the state. Occasionally in situations such as
this, societies can bind together to resist as much as possible any enforced change.
One must remember though that this society had recently suffered the demographic
disaster of genocidal proportions that was collectivisation. Nomads responded to
collectivisation by slaughtering their cattle and so, between 1929 and 1933, the
number of livestock collapsed by 91%, plunging the republic into a famine which killed
as many as 1.5 million Kazakhs alone—a third of the entire population (Khalid, 2007:
76). After this, the broken society that survived was hardly recognisable from a
generation earlier. It no longer had the same reference points from which identities
are forged and was thus thoroughly unequipped to effectively resist further
Sovietisation.
Further Sovietisation and disconnection from Islam did come in the wake of the
biggest social upheaval of the Soviet period. One cannot underestimate the impact of
the 'Great Patriotic War' in accelerating the modernisation and civilisation—in other
words the de-Islamisation—of the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz. Universal conscription did not
spare a single family in any region of the Union and the result of this was dramatic.
Kazakh peasants returned from the front as 'Soviet citizens' and the sense of this new
collective identity was evident across all of the non-Russian republics. This new
identity was further galvanised, year after year, through collective memorial events
such as the annual Victory day celebration on the 9th May (Khalid, 2007: 77). A
recurring theme when studying the history of the Soviet Union is that events have
significant unintended consequences. The war, and the regime's decisions during it, is
no exception. Ironically, the cataclysm of 25 million dead Soviet citizens actually put
the regime at peace with its society for the first time since the October revolution and
for Central Asia, this meant the assault on Islam came full-circle; albeit with a twist.
The war gave rise, in 1943, to the formation of the Spiritual Administration of the
Muslims of Central Asia and Kazakhstan (SADUM) (Khalid, 2007: 78). This board did not
14
oppose Soviet rule, and even tried to find similarities between Communist ideology
and Qur'anic values, such as equality of nations and sexes, freedom of religion, or
security of honourable work (Aliyev, 2004: 124). Islam was no longer something to be
destroyed at all costs, but was rather an undeniable part of Kazakh and Kyrgyz national
identity. The twist though, was that this 'official' Islam would do as much long-term to
transform collective perceptions of Islam as the persecutions of the early Stalinist
period. It also helped fuel national identities that were themselves fabrications.
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan never existed as such prior to the reorganisation of
the old Turkestan SSR in the late 1920s and 1930s. The creation of the new republics
was one of the earliest expressions of what would become an obsession with creating
ethnically homogenous geographical units for every identifiable (or created) group.
The thinking behind this was that if each ethnic group had their own territory in which
they could govern their own affairs, they would no longer feel oppressed and
therefore would more readily embrace the communism that had liberated them
(Keller, 2001:78). The Kazakh and Kyrgyz SSRs were themselves created in 1935 and
1936. This whole period of drawing and redrawing of borders in Soviet Central Asia,
while highly inefficient and confusing, served several purposes. It met the ideological
need to form homogenous territorial units. More importantly, it also broke up the
powers that had ruled Turkestan for over 400 years (Keller, 2001:79). In addition to
this, once again, it unintentionally and artificially created loyalties and a sense of
belonging to a virgin geographically-identifiable collectivity. Kazakh and Kyrgyz
nationalism was born. Soviet 'histories' of the Kazakh and Kyrgyz people in which
specific rituals and traditions were attributed to each nationality were created and
internalised. Ethnicities, though not invented out of thin air, were defined by state
ethnographers throughout the 1920s and 1930s: Formerly fluid hybridities and
contextual identifications were stabilised, naturalized, and set into a particular mould
that gave each group a definitive history, physiognomy, mentality, material culture,
custom, language, and territory. These definitions were then institutionalised into
ethnically-coded territorial-administrative structures and rountinised into seven
decades of everyday life from passports and folk dance ensembles, to music, cultural,
15
and educational ministries (Liu, 2011: 118). These new national 'traditions' were
further reinforced by the daily need to conform to them in order to fit into the social
networks of mutual obligations and patronage that lubricated the shadow economy,
crucial to life in the bureaucratic Soviet economy that was prone to chronic shortages
(Khalid, 2007: 100). Once Islam was carefully and selectively rehabilitated into this new
context, the final result was that the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz of the late Soviet period had a
completely different understanding of what role (if any) Islam played in their identity
than in 1920.
Khalid (2007) extracts from this situation two major effects of the Soviet period
on Islam. Firstly, Islam became localised right down to the family unit and became
synonymous with custom and tradition. With Muslim educational institutions
abolished, the ranks of the carriers of Islamic knowledge denuded, and continuity with
the past made difficult with the change to the Cyrillic script, the family became the
only site for the transmission of Islam. At the same time, because no new religious
texts could be published and oral chains of transmission were often destroyed, the
available religious knowledge was vastly circumscribed. This also led to a considerable
homogenisation of Islam, as differences in approach and interpretation were erased.
The few surviving carriers of the learned tradition went underground and, as a result,
Islam couldn't modernise without exposure to new knowledge, but it was also cut off
from its past. The second effect was a significant de-Islamisation of the terms of public
discourse. No public position could be justified with references to Islam and its moral
or ethical values. It is this second, superficially innocuous, legacy of de-Islamisation
that perhaps had the biggest effect. Even if Islam continued to occupy a place in selfidentification, its role in legitimising decisions and actions taken in everyday life was
removed, effectively stripping the religion of its purpose and centrality to life.
There was never much resistance to this reality, even through 'unofficial' groups
who acted outside the official state religious framework. 'Unofficial Islam' during the
Soviet period was not, as many Western observers at the time thought, a form of
political opposition. In many cases in fact, it was quite the opposite as many of these
'unofficial' groups often tapped in to the long local Hanafi Islamic tradition that
16
disavows political involvement in society (Khalid, 2007: 106). It is also a misperception
to suggest Islam was particularly targeted by a Russian- (and therefore Christian)
dominated Soviet elite. The opposite is in fact the case. Kandiyoti (2002: 289) points
out that with regards to culture loss during the Soviet period, the turmoil created by
the Soviet regime has been far greater for the Russians, because the institutions of
Russian Orthodoxy were dismantled more thoroughly than those of Islam, which
received more support at the official level. Indeed, because of this some Russian
commentators are recasting the formerly 'backward' peoples of Central Asia as sturdy
local cultures that have managed to retain and reproduce some immutable cultural
essence. Even if this is more a representation of Russian longing for something that
was lost than the exposé of any historical truth, this is quite revealing. Khalid (2007:
106) summarises nicely when he explains that Central Asians in the late Soviet era
were very conscious of being Muslims, but being Muslim meant something very
specific in the Soviet context. It was a form of belonging to a local community that
marked its members as different from others who lived in their midst. Being Muslim
had little to do with personal belief or observance of ritual and everything to do with
customs and way of life.
Militant atheism of the 1920s, collectivisation, war, and Sovietisation of Islam
besieged Kazakh and Kyrgyz society during the seven decades of the Soviet Union. The
Sovietisation of Islam was not an easy, quick, or even wholly successful task and
required flexible ideology by state, extensive border changes, and the creation of
national histories to succeed. In the image of the Soviet Union before the war, it was a
chaotic process with extraordinary unintended short and long-term consequences. As
a result, Islam served more as a marker of national identity than a religion. Whilst this
situation has developed in the twenty years since independence, the Soviet legacy on
Islam still looms large and must be appreciated before examining the contemporary
situation further. Now that this section has provided an overview and explanation of
the key events that transformed Islam in Central Asia during the Soviet period, and has
analysed the consequences, it is now possible to begin a thorough analysis of the
nature of Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan today.
17
Radical or Moderate?—Constructing a Continuum
The purpose of this section is to explore Islam in all its guises as it appears in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan today. No examination of Islam in Central Asia is complete
without detailing the role of the state in religious affairs and therefore the first section
will be dedicated to illuminating this very point. We will then look at the influence
regional actors such as Saudi Arabia and Turkey have on Islam in our region, and the
Islamic movements that exist because of it. Following that we will question the
received wisdom that 'radical' Islamist movements are a purely foreign phenomenon
before taking a closer look at one such example: Hizb ut-Tahrir al-Islami. Moving to the
other end of the continuum, we will expand upon the concept of 'unofficial' and
'popular' Islam, as well as other trends and observations affecting Islam in Kazakhstan
and Kyrgyzstan, using both mini-case studies and findings from surveys and interviews
to develop this further. Once all this has been covered, it will be clear that Islam in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan is a dynamic and yet increasingly individual phenomenon,
that the influence of extremist groups is exaggerated, and that the state is still an
influential actor in religious affairs even if this appears to be fading.
Islam and the authorities
No exploration of Islam in any part of the post-Soviet Islamic space is complete without
addressing the relationship between the state and religion. As well as being guardians
of 'official' Islam, the state authorities in both Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan fear Islamic
extremism in all its forms, whether real or perceived. This is partly to do with the
violent potential of extremism on evidence across the border in Uzbekistan, but mainly
it is because extremist groups represent an organised opposing ideology that could
threaten the political stability (and regime survival) in their countries.
The government of Kazakhstan, as with other Central Asian governments, has
taken measures to protect the secular nature of their administrations. Although
freedom of conscience is guaranteed, religious extremism is prohibited (Aydinguen,
18
2007: 74). Whereas the role of the state in most Western democracies ends there,
officially the government in Kazakhstan supports an Islamic revival together with a
secular state rather than an Islamic one. In other words, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan as
whole resembles more the post-Soviet authoritarian model on display in Belarus than
the regimes in place in Iran or Turkey: the cultural links between these latter countries
as well as their presence in the Islamic world cannot erase the last two centuries,
where Central Asia became a space in a profoundly Russian paradigm (Peyrouse, 2006:
120). Since independence, the government has promoted a dual vision of Kazakh
Muslim identity that explicitly incorporates the native 'little tradition,' inherited from
ancestors who placed their own stamp upon the 'great tradition' of Islam. According to
this dualist model, the flexible and tolerant Muslim values propagated on the Kazakh
steppe are superior to those of the strident fundamentalism to be observed in other
Muslim countries (Jessa, 2006: 178).
This promotion is facilitated by the state's own bureaucratic religious
infrastructure that leaves control of religious affairs, at an official level at least, firmly
in the hands of the government. The Kazakh state has maintained control structures
created under the Soviet system, which, while nominally promoting dialogue between
religion, the authorities, and society, are actually entirely in the hands of the political
authorities. Officially, religious life thus remains mainly supervised by state
organisations, a situation that puts a question mark over the principle of separation of
state and religion (Peyrouse, 2007c: 248). However, Sunni Islam, as traditionally
practiced in Central Asia, did not use to have a formal hierarchical structure above the
level of the mosque. This changed after Russian interference under the Catherine the
Great in the eighteenth century in Islamic affairs and the establishment of Mufitates as
the 'primary link' between the state and Muslims. Both sides eventually developed a
continuing interest in perpetuating the relationship. The Kazakh, and to a lesser extent
the Kyrgyz, governments have continued the longstanding practice of manipulating the
appointment of the Mufitate to suit their own religious policies (Gunn, 2003: 405). This
intriguing history lesson also serves as a reminder that the Islamic clergy are often
complicit in the promotion of the state's vision of Islam. The state's religious
19
institutions are not simply, as it may appear to a casual observer, tools of religious
repression, but are an efficient means of organising a religious movement many in
power genuinely believe is the most beneficial to the nation.
Conveniently though, the state control over official religion is also deemed to be
the best means to protect the regime against political (Islamist) opposition. The
Central Asian authorities adhere to a very simplistic dichotomous understanding of
Islam that has outlived the Soviet epoch. According to this view, the state-regulated
establishments are taken as legitimate and official, whereas everything else is
extremist and radical. As we shall see, the Islamic groups in question here are much
too diverse for this model. Presenting themselves as the only guarantors of democratic
and secular values, the political authorities have drawn up a schematic in which all
forms of uncontrolled or aspirant independent religiosity is equated to a systematically
fundamentalist political opposition. The religious conspiracy theories appear as one of
the key leitmotifs of authoritarian powers in Central Asia (Peyrouse, 2010: 142). This is
essentially what former Kyrgyz President Akaev said in a speech in 1998, quoted by
Julie McBrien and Mathijs Pelkmans (2008: 91), "Here in Kyrgyzstan, Islam was
assimilated in a rather untraditional form. What we see here are the outward
trappings of Islam without the exalted religious fanaticism and ideology." Repression
against the Islamic 'radicals' is fairly relentless. According to Human Rights Watch
(2008: 9), “in Kazakhstan, the authorities increasingly tend to single out minority
religious groups such as independent Muslims (people whose Muslim affiliation,
beliefs, and practices are at variance with those acceptable to the Religious
Administration of Kazakhstan's Muslims, and are branded as 'extremist'). The
prevailing official practice, as well as proposed amendments to the 'Law on freedom of
religion and religious associations' aim more at controlling and harassing 'nontraditional' groups than at fostering coexistence.” In both Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan
several very restrictive bills regarding religious freedom were put forward. In
Kazakhstan, all religious communities must now be registered—any activity by
unregistered religious groups is subject to penalties. Even if this law does not seem,
thus far, to have seriously restricted religious diversity in the country, several
20
movements, particularly Muslim associations that are trying to remain independent of
the official Spiritual Board, are deeply concerned about increasing government
pressure on them (Peyrouse, 2007c: 247).
Ultimately, the state in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan is suppressing 'extremist'
Islamic groups, perhaps partly out of habit through their inheritance of Soviet state
models of religious control, but also particularly out of a sense of self-preservation.
However, as we will see in the following sections, the state's control over religious
affairs is far from absolute, neither is its vision of Islam at odds with 'unofficial' Islam in
Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. Significantly too, the extremist groups feared by the
governments are in fact of no real threat to the national security or political stability of
these two countries.
Radicals, Wahhabis, and Hizb ut-Tahrir
Following independence in 1991, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan found themselves at the
centre of a political storm as Western governments, NGOs, environmentalists, and
even evangelical Christian groups all jostled with one another for influence with the
hope of moulding these former Soviet States in their own image. Saudi Arabia and
Turkey, as the leading regional Sunni powers, refused to miss out on this opportunity.
The Saudis made the first attempt to extend their own brand of Wahhabism into the
region through a well-funded programme of mosque building, subsidising pilgrims on
the Hajj, distributing free copies of the Qur'an and other literature, as well as
subsidising (Islamic) education (Gunn, 2003: 401). This reached such intensity that in
other areas of the post-Soviet Islamic space, Wahhabism became known as 'Dollar
Islam' (Aliyev, 2004:131). Wahhabism is one of a number of fundamentalist Islamic
movements demanding a return to the 'original' Islam of the days of the prophet. Any
subsequent achievements of Muslim thought and developments in belief and practice
are declared to be prohibited innovation. As Aliyev (2004:129) explains, this is nothing
new. Fundamentalist movements have existed since the eleventh century and in the
eighteenth century, Muhammad Ibn Al-Wahhab elaborated his own version which
21
spawned today's Wahhabi movement. A particular target of Wahhabis is the Sufism
found across Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan and its cult of saints, placing them in direct
conflict with the local understanding of Islam. As a result, these Saudi-funded
movements have particularly targeted local governments and clergy for criticism,
accusing them of corruption and betrayal of Islam. This has occurred particularly in
Kyrgyzstan's Fergana valley—the fertile valley to the south of the country around the
city of Osh—where most of the region's most determined and organised radical
movements are based (Aliyev, 2004:132). Turkey, although officially and formally a
secular state, also subsidises religious education as part of its effort to expand its own
influence among the predominantly Turkic populations of the region. Turkey has also
constructed schools, many of which provide religious instruction. Iran engaged in a few
smaller acts to promote Shi'ism, but abandoned the efforts once they proved unfruitful
(Gunn, 2003: 401).
It is undeniable that much foreign support—financial, logistical, ideological, and
even personnel—is given to the region's 'extremist' groups. This is a truthful, yet
incomplete, narrative. Fundamentalist conceptions of Islam have local roots going back
to Soviet times. From the 1970s onwards, the Fergana Valley became the main region
in Central Asia in which fundamentalist conceptions of Islam crystallised, and a leading
battleground between Hanafite conservatives and fundamentalists inspired by
Hanabalism and Shafi'ism. The doctrines of political Islam did therefore not come to
the region purely via external influences from the Middle East, but were developed to
a certain extent within the Central Asia Soviet milieu itself. Contemporary Islamist
currents, from the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan to Hizb ut-Tahrir, did not spring up
on virgin soil (Peyrouse, 2007b: 52). Neither are these groups exclusively terrorist
organisations. In spite of radical agenda, different movements differ on their repertoire
of contention, which ranges from peaceful religious propaganda to acts of militant
extremism and terrorism. This is compounded by the fact that secularists no longer
have the discursive upper hand they once did. Their Soviet-era arguments about the
inherently ethno-national nature of Muslimness are no longer potent because the
Soviet grip on knowledge was lost in the 1990s, rendering their secularism increasingly
22
archaic (McBrien and Pelkmans, 2008: 98).
The two most infamous radical groups operating in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan
today are the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU) and Hizb ut-Tahrir (HUT). The
IMU is a terrorist organisation with links to al-Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan.
Despite its name, it operates throughout Central Asia, in particular in the Fergana
valley. HUT pursues the same goals as the IMU but officially eschews violence
(Omelicheva, 2010:169). Despite their infamy, how much these groups can be
described as genuinely local movements enjoying any degree of legitimacy amongst a
substantial proportion of the population is debatable. Their success has been helped
by their exploitation of Kazakhstan's and Kyrgyzstan's high literacy rate (a positive
legacy from the Soviet Union) by distributing large amounts of Islamic literature in the
region (Karagiannis, 2005: 139). Despite this, Kyrgyz security sources claim that Uzbeks
constitute up to 90% of the membership of the IMU. Similarly, the growing
radicalisation of Islam in Kazakhstan has also occurred mostly among ethnic Uzbeks.
The IMU has been active in the Kazakhstan's southern Shymkent oblast bordering
Uzbekistan, yet the Kazakh authorities deny the existence of home-grown terrorists
and religious extremists, maintaining that Islamists infiltrated Kazakhstan's southern
region from abroad (Omelicheva, 2010: 171). Of course, due to the source, this
information should be treated with healthy suspicion but it is nevertheless safe to
state that it is indicative of a general truth. When added to this estimates from the
International Crisis Group that place HUT's membership at merely 1000-2000 (McBrien
and Pelkmans, 2008: 92), contradicting much larger claims from the movement itself
and local governments (both with an interest, albeit different, in inflating the
numbers), it quickly becomes apparent that despite all the foreign support and
international 'momentum,' radical Islam is not taking root at a local level in Kazakhstan
and Kyrgyzstan to any significant extent.
The changing nature of ‘moderate’ Islam
As we have seen, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan follow a modified Soviet model of state
23
regulation of religion. Thus, to government officials, religion is often viewed not as the
expression of beliefs, values, and practices related to the divine, but as an instrument
for social control; it is less a right to be protected by a institutional order than an
activity to be supervised by the state (Gunn, 2003: 402). Although the previous section
served as a more detailed foray into the relationship between Islam and the state, one
must be reminded of the existence of an 'official' Islam, controlled by the state, before
one can explore 'unofficial' Islam.
The two, however, are not mutually exclusive. There is history of both the Soviet
and current regimes of failing to control informal 'unofficial' or 'popular' Islam.
'Popular' Islam is frequently linked with Sufism (Islamic mysticism) as a variation of a
tolerant 'out-of-mosque' Islam, a perception that is largely misleading and based on
misconceptions. This results in a plethora of local variations, especially in the practical
application of the daily rituals of Islam in the more isolated and rural parts of our
region. Categorising Islam through these clearly-defined models is misleading at best
for these models fail completely to portray the daily interaction between the 'official'
and the 'unofficial.' For instance, several official Muslim representatives have moved
into parallel Islamic networks and vice versa. Besides, both official as well as popular
religious leaders frequently hold similar views on theological and practical questions.
In other words, inconveniently for narratives linking the rise of religious conscience
with a rise in extremism, 'unofficial' does not necessarily equate to 'extreme' or
'radical.' More generally, western approaches to Islamic communities have seldom
taken this into account. Constant interference with internal religious affairs, corruption
and arbitrary policies have undermined the already low credibility of the official
religious institutions among Muslim communities and strengthened informal networks
in Central Asia (Epkenhans, 2011: 188).
This delicate balance of power between official and unofficial Islam is particularly
pronounced in Kyrgyzstan. Islam was always valued as a part of Kyrgyz tradition and
history, while the intrinsic qualities of Islam as a faith were rarely mentioned in official
rhetoric. This ideology and the accompanying symbols of national unity worked well
enough so long as Kyrgyz independence was a source of common pride and
24
government rhetoric of a transition to affluence remained credible. However, they
began to lose their appeal in the early 2000s as it became increasingly obvious that the
living standards of most citizens were not rising at all. Many Kyrgyzstanis nowadays
date significant changes in the religious landscape from this phase. As examples they
state that larger numbers of women started wearing the veil, while both men and
women observed Ramadan more strictly. This religious revival challenged the hitherto
accepted boundaries between what was religion and what was culture. Being Muslim
began to be disconnected from national affiliation, stressing the supra natural
character of Islam rather than its relation to tradition and history (Hann and Pelkmans,
2009: 1528).
The development of this power balance in Kazakhstan, where economic fortunes
are, on the whole, better, is different. Kazakhstan's religious transformation has
resulted in a general turn towards the values of tradition, in which the great ancestors
are called upon to legitimate the claims and power of new, modern authorities. The
bizarre sacralisation of deceased leaders of the Communist Party is consistent with this
trend. Former secretary-general Kunaev (1912-1992) is nowadays widely seen as the
father of the nation, able to defend Kazakh culture and protect Kazakh citizens'
interests during the harsh years of Soviet rule, so much so that in popular literature
(Ramadan brochures in 2003) he was referred to as a saint and he also has a mosque
devoted to him in the small town of Sozaq (Jessa, 2006: 186). Sufism generally
transcends both official and popular Islam, especially in Kazakhstan. The immigration
of large numbers of Sufi Kazakhs from Mongolia and China following independence has
a lot to do with this. These immigrants faced numerous problems in adapting to a
Kazakhstan that appeared to be highly Russified and secularised. Thanks in part to
their special status as untainted new arrivals however, they came to be perceived as
the bearers of the 'true Kazakh' culture, with privileged access to 'true Kazakh Islam.'
(Jessa, 2006: 187). While it may be imagined that Sunni Islam and Sufism may be
inconsistent with each other, they nevertheless are part of the fabric as it is lived and
practiced in Kazakhstan (and also Kyrgyzstan) today. It would be a mistake to assume
that Sunni imams and Sufi pies are antagonistic to each other. In fact, for many
25
Kazakhs, religious figures who master both Hanafi teachings and Sufi practices are
particularly admired. Moreover, the Hanafi school believes that it is perfectly
acceptable to read the Qur'an in languages other than Arabic. It is also relatively
tolerant in terms of punishments, divorce, almsgiving, and towards women, and
understands differences of opinion as an aspect of divine mercy rather than as a
deviation from an absolute truth. Thus, the Islam recognised by many in Kazakhstan
and Kyrgyzstan as the 'true' Islam of their region may be characterised as traditional,
open to mysticism, and philosophical in nature (Gunn, 2003: 396).
The popular Islam of Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan cannot therefore be understood
as a phenomenon transcending an ethnic sense of belonging: quite the contrary, since
most of the time it is subordinated to it. Popular Islam even mirrors the numerous
divisions throughout the region: social divisions (between rural and urban
populations), cultural divisions (between the more Russified people speaking the
eponymous language), or regional divisions (for instance between Northern and
Southern Kazakhs, between Northern and Southern Kyrgyz) (Peyrouse, 2007c: 252) as
can be seen in surveys presented by Azamat Junisbai (2010), and Kathleen Collins and
Erica Owen (2012). Junisbai tries to find the differences between economic outlooks of
various social groups in both countries and how this is influenced, if at all, by individual
circumstances, including one's religiosity. However, it is Collins and Owen (2012: 508)
who look into this more closely. Religiosity in Kyrgyzstan significantly decreases
support for democracy, especially secular democracy when offered as a choice against
Islamic democracy (not the same as political Islam), fitting in with the modernist
argument that economic development will affect one's religiosity and, by extension,
one's support or not of a particular form of democracy. Interestingly though, in
Kyrgyzstan, those most concerned by corruption are most likely to support secular
democracy (Collins and Owen, 2012: 510). These findings give a clear sense of the
complex dynamics that fuel the competing official and popular Islams. Popular Islam
does gain in influence when the government—the guardians of official Islam—loses
credibility or legitimacy. However, this does not explain why the poor—those most
likely to be 'religious' according the Junisbai's findings— prefer secular democracy as a
26
means of protection against corruption. This somewhat discredits the argument that
popular Islam is simply a religious manifestation of political dissent. Instead it points to
a gradual individualisation of religion in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan whereby Islam,
whether official, popular, or a hybrid, is tailored to meet personal needs on an
individual, family, or community level.
With this in mind, it is interesting that Muslims in our region identify themselves
as 'Muslims' in opinion polls to a far greater extent than 'Christian' populations identify
themselves as 'Christians.' However, one cannot extrapolate the number of believers
from these figures, and even less the number of practicing believers, because it is
increasingly now the individual who is in control of how he uses belief as an identity
marker. This restructuring of the religious phenomenon into subjective identities can
be read in the wider trend of terminological reduction of Islam, which is now divided
globally among the partisans of 'Euro-Islam,' 'neo-Jadidism,' 'Sufism,' 'Salafism' and so
on (Peyrouse, 2007c: 254). This individualisation of Islam is accompanied by a deep
crisis of authority for official Islam. Symptomatic of this are the difficulties experienced
in legitimising the traditional sources of knowledge like the ulama and the Muslim
Spiritual Boards; indeed, there is a gradual birth of a Muslim public sphere, nonexistent during Soviet times, still partly Russian-speaking, where everyone, in the end,
enjoys the right to debate Islam and comment on the holy scriptures.
Official Islam. Popular Islam. Identity. How people relate to these in a society in
transition renders any clear description of what ‘everyday’ Islam may be almost
impossible. A couple of examples can help shed light on the matter.
Examples of everyday Islam
The following depicts the scene in Almaty in Kazakhstan:
Visiting the central mosque in Almaty on a Friday afternoon, one can observe the
flow of people entering and leaving the building. This is the time of Friday prayer,
obligatory for every Muslim. Surprisingly, however, most believers do not enter
27
the main chamber of the mosque but rather proceed to a smaller room
designated the Qur'an Studies Chamber. In the centre of this room a mullah
recites the Qur'an for about ten minutes once a sufficiently large crowd has
gathered. After a short prayer, the believers make a donation and leave the room
to allow a new group to enter. It is believed that making this voluntary donation
after the reading entitles one to articulate a request to Allah. This practice has
little in common with orthodox rituals and the Friday prayer as celebrated
elsewhere in the Islamic world; it is prevalent in Almaty because few local
Muslims can read Arabic, and the majority must rely on a mullah to read the
Qur'an on their behalf. The practice may be viewed as a transplantation to the
central mosque of the rural tradition of shrine-visiting. Under socialism, ritual
visits to coal shrines were the most popular way to meet personal religious needs.
There, a shrine guardian would recite the Qur'an, but, as an integral part of ritual
devoted ultimately to the spirits of ancestors (Jessa, 2006: 171).
Here, Muslims in post-Soviet Kazakhstan are clearly developing their own brand of
Islam and seem quite secure about it. In the central mosque of Kazakhstan's largest
city, the clergy in charge are at ease with the regime in place for Friday prayers. There
is no sign of a foothold for fundamentalist Islam here, comprehensively dismissing the
fear that religious rebirth in Kazakhstan necessarily refers to a radical rebirth.
In Kyrgyzstan, Julie McBrien (2006) describes recent phenomenon of 'new'
wedding parties. As opposed to the old way of celebrating a marriage by the families
concerned hosting a feast for the community, with singing, dancing, alcohol, and even
sometimes impure foods such as pork, these 'new' weddings are religious affairs. Men
and women sit separately at these dry 'feasts' where only pure food is consumed.
Most significantly, at these events, a religious speaker is invited to give a lecture to the
guests on Islam, followed by a question and answer session. McBrien interviews a
number of people in the small town of Bazaar-Korgon about this phenomenon to
gauge their feelings towards and understanding of it.
28
The post-socialist period has witnessed the rise of self-conscious debate over
understandings of Islam and Muslimness. The 'new' weddings, redefined as
overtly religious events whose aim was to invite people to the 'true' path of Islam,
were part of this expansion in religious consciousness and debate. Because the
weddings were semi-public, the community had easy access to them through
either first or second-hand knowledge. The 'new' weddings where the evening
parties were used as a venue to teach a particular interpretation of Islam were a
site as well as a symbol for the renegotiation of ideas concerning Islam and
Muslimness (McBrien, 2006: 345).
The new evening wedding parties in Bazaar-Korgon were popular events,
especially among the youth. This counterintuitive situation becomes clearer when
the new weddings are viewed in a broader context. Not everyone shared the
opinion of the 'new wedding' organisers that other forms of weddings were
unacceptable. The majority of the weddings in town were still held in the 'typical'
fashion which incorporated the evening party. Thus, the popularity of the new
weddings, especially among the youth, did not necessarily indicate support for
replacing a party with a religious event. Rather the weddings were popular
because they were an additional element, and one that provided a place where
people could encounter new ideas and explore their interest in Islam (McBrien,
2006: 349).
Once more, what appears at first to be an indicator of rising fundamentalism is in fact
a complex marker of social transformation and cultural renewal. However, the fact
that this process is encouraging the exploration of new ideas and the development of
new identities (and not because this is a sign of radicalisation as is claimed), the
authorities are particularly wary of this type of religious expression.
To summarise therefore, the state still plays in important role in defining and
controlling religious norms in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. They do this because they
can, because they believe it is right, but also because they fear the potential of
organised 'extremist' Islamic groups to affect regime collapse. In spite of this fear, in
29
reality the threat posed by these groups is in fact minimal, primarily due to the fact
that, despite their financial, logistical, and ideological support from regional powers
such as Saudi Arabia and Turkey, their success at legitimising themselves and imposing
their vision of Islam on the local population has been minimal at best. The capabilities
of these groups are exaggerated by authorities who find it convenient to do so, and by
Western observers who fail to understand the development of other forms of Islam in
the region. As demonstrated by the two examples above, Islam is becoming more and
more the property of the individual as unofficial and popular Islam gains ground over
the official religion.
With this understanding of what Islam today in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan is, it is
now the role of the next section to reconcile this with the questions raised in the
introduction and explain how it is possible to be both atheist and Muslim in our region
today. Ultimately, this will help clarify the nature of Islam in Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan.
Atheists who believe in God?—Islam in flux
This section brings us back to the wisdom of 55 year-old Nazgul, quoted in the
introduction. It is time to make sense of how being both atheist and Muslim works in
today's Kazakh and Kyrgyz societies. After detailing the history of Islam in our region
during the Soviet period, and after analysing modern forms of Islamic expression, it is
time to address the key questions posed at the beginning of this study. We will
reconcile the increasing individualisation of Islam with the increasing collectivisation of
new national identities. We will also address the conundrum of what has or will
replace Islam as the cornerstone of national identity as it retreats into the personal
sphere.
At this point, theory is useful to explain how religion and national identity can
interact. As mentioned in the literature review, the works of Durkheim (1915) and
Smith (1991) are a useful starting point to help understand this dynamic. Durkheim
noted that the religious system in society reflects the 'collective representations' of
30
that grouping, and held that religion functions to generate and solidify sentiments of
social community and unity. To place this thesis in the political context of an emergent
nation-state, such as Kazakhstan or Kyrgyzstan, religion acquires the status of a
fundamental cultural marker or icon, anchoring a concept of identity at various scales,
especially national. Smith builds upon Durkheim's theory by suggesting that religion's
part in constructing what he terms the ethnie, or ethnic community, functions along
social lines as well as spiritual. It logically follows that in societies where other markers
underpinning identity, such as a distinctive linguistic tradition, or a territorial
association of extensive duration are incipient (again, like Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan),
the religious tradition's role in identity, at all levels, is magnified. This condition would
especially hold in those developing societies where such weak icons were at least
partially delegitimised as symbols by their association with a recently-jettisoned
colonial structure (the Soviet Union). These theories provide a helpful, though in our
case not entirely complete, insight into the state-led nationalism currently developing
in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.
New Nationalism
An initial glance at nationalism in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan will reveal a distinct
reliance upon Islam as its cornerstone. Whilst this was certainly true under the Soviet
period of national 'histories,' it would be jumping to premature conclusions to suggest
this was where the buck stopped as far as Kazakh and Kyrgyz nationalism goes. Other
secular forms of the cultural and physical environment are coming increasingly to the
fore to replace a retreating Islam.
Some observers talk about an upward trend in religiosity in recent years in
Kazakhstan, a phenomenon they put down to a 'transitional period in Kazakh cultural
history due to a renewal of the identity criteria of mass consciousness.' A major factor
in this is the appearance of an ideological vacuum following the disappearance of the
old socialist ideology, as well as the natural need of people to live within an 'ideological
zone.' They report that religion has stepped up as a vital element of national culture,
31
tradition, and custom, acting with an aspect of continuity through generations
(Telebaev, 2003: 102). Others point out that Kazakh President Nazarbayev views
religion as a crucial unifying factor in times of national crisis. With this in mind,
Nazarbayev clearly sees Islam as a key part of a cultural revival project necessary for
the formation of national identity and state-building. In other words, Islam is used as
an important element of national self-identification (Aydinguen, 2007: 74). It is also
held that the cultural revival of Islam in Kazakhstan (and Kyrgyzstan) can be seen as a
revolutionary response to the Russofication of the country during the twentieth
century. In contrast to the origins of other notable Islamic movements, particularly in
the Middle East, in Kazakhstan this means Islam does not represent a conservative
movement as it seeks to change society rather than preserve the existing order
(Aydinguen, 2007: 70). Any desire there is to reintegrate their societies with the
umma, the global Muslim community, is not motivated by the same forces that
engendered the Iranian revolution or the rise of al-Qaeda. The Islamic renaissance in
Central Asia over the last decade has been driven not by a rejection of modernity as
perceived by Western cultural imperialism, or alarm over the erosion of traditional
Islamic values, but rather by a process of cultural regeneration in the wake of seventy
years of repression (Hanks, 2007: 218). Whilst all these observations are true to a
certain extent, they are misleading as to the true driving force behind modern Kazakh
and Kyrgyz nationalism. It would be convenient for the West, obsessed with Islam, for
the revival to be spearheaded by Islam, as it would fit both the narrative of continuity
with the Soviet period—a lazy substitute for real lack of knowledge of the region—and
the narrative of the global spread of 'political' Islam.
The above observations are misleading due to a number of reasons. Firstly, when
powerful political leaders, such as President Nazarbayev, make gestures seemingly
promoting Islam (for example his visit to Saudi Arabia on the Hajj with his wife),
communities feel obliged to fulfill, at least partially, their self-ascribed national myth of
Islam being central to being Kazakh (Cummings, 2006: 183). Nazarbayev has also been
to the Vatican in order to appease the large Christian minority in his country, exposing
the political nature of his religious impulses (remember this is a man who was a
32
member of the atheist Communist Party for most of his career). Secondly, there are
many other forms of national expression that are being developed to reduce the
importance of Islam in this sphere. Even though Islam represents an assertion of local
identity against the Russians and that the building of mosques has as much to do with
asserting this Kyrgyz or Kazakh presence in the physical landscape as any thing else
(Khalid, 2007: 119), other secular building projects are becoming far more prominent.
None are more prominent than the construction, from scratch, of Kazakhstan's new
capital, Astana. The geographic location of Astana fits in with the general narrative of
'Eurasianism' embraced by the Kazakh government and promoted as one of the
centrepieces of a new national identity. In Kazakhstan, the Eurasian concept was
initiated by President Nazarbayev and highlights its 'unique' position between Europe
and Asia. In order to promote this Eurasian consciousness further, the capital needed
to move as, according to Nazarbayev, Almaty in the southeast of the country was not
able to fulfill this role as a 'bridge' between Europe and Asia. Its central location also
helps unify the Russian-dominated north with the Kazakh south (Kopbayeva, 2013:
802). Clearly, Islam had nothing to do with the monumental decision to build a
completely new capital.
Neither has Islam been responsible for the period of Kazakhisation that followed
independence. This included changes to street names, a new flag, and a stirring new
anthem. Within Kazakhstan, organic intellectuals have worked to support this position
through the publication of scholarly texts supporting primordialist Kazakh claims
(O'Beachain and Kevlihan, 2011: 4) and the rehabilitation (and indeed appropriation)
of national heroes of the past. Kazakh nationalism is also manifest through the
promotion of the Kazakh language. Since the end of the 1990s, all public sector jobs
require knowledge of Kazakh. State employees and university students are also
required to pass an exam in the language. In 2002, public administration exclusively
used the national language in several regions of the country, and other regions were
on course to adopt the same policy. Even in the areas that still use both Kazakh and
Russian, non-official pressures give favour to native Kazakhs. This is despite the fact
that, in 2000, 75% of state employees—who are mainly Kazakh—still used Russian as
33
their main language of communication (Peyrouse, 2007a: 485). Originally it was
anticipated that this policy would be implemented immediately but a lack of
competent staff and adequate provisions for language instruction has meant that the
deadline has been continually extended (O'Beachain and Kevlihan, 2011: 5). The fact
that Kazakh barely exists as a unified single language and yet the government is still
determined to use it as the sole official language of government shows how keen the
authorities are in finding sources other than Islam with which to spearhead the
creation of modern Kazakh nationalism.
These new markers of national and ethnic identity are largely independent of
Islam. Indeed, when taken too far, in Kyrgyzstan they have led to numerous cases of
clashes between Muslims in the Fergana valley. Ethnic clashes between Kyrgyz and
Uzbeks have been relatively frequent, the most serious of which, in June 2010, led to
the mass exodus of Uzbek refugees over the border into Uzbekistan. During these
clashes, "the security forces seemed to respond differently to acts of violence
depending on the ethnicity of the perpetrators...The security forces seemed to focus
resources on addressing the danger presented by Uzbeks, but not by Kyrgyz, even after
it became clear that Kyrgyz mobs posed an imminent threat…the forces took very
limited, if any, operational measures to protect the Uzbek population" (HRW, 2010: 5).
There are historical and cultural reasons (historic regional dominance by Uzbeks and
sedentary versus nomadic historical traditions) for the tension between these two
ethnic groups that are outside the scope of this study. However the recent realignment
of Kyrgyz nationalism along ethnic, linguistic, and cultural, rather than purely Islamic
lines, has contributed to the further deterioration between these two sets of Central
Asian Muslims.
Even though Islam still plays an important role in the national and cultural
identification of Kazakhs and Kyrgyz alike, its part is being constantly edged out by
more secular symbols of national identity such as the built environment, ethnic
histories, and language. This results in an ambiguous role for Islam in the daily lives of
people in our region as it finds itself in a state of flux.
34
Islam in flux
It has been made clear thus far that we should not be misled as to the nature of any
apparent rise in religiosity in social practices, public life and identification discourses.
In keeping with the individualisation of Islam, faith is from now on no longer a matter
of manifest social reality but a matter of personal belief amongst the majority in our
region. The atheism of the Soviet system was only one of many potential versions of
secularisation in the modern world, and the collapse of that system does not signify a
return to an earlier situation but the continuation of the process of secularisation that
suits Kazakh and Kyrgyz society. Most of the population recognise the need for a
secular state, and the rate of religious observance in the strict sense of the word
(attendance at places of worship) is almost as low as in the West. A systematic
rehabilitation of faith does not therefore mean that people, even religious believers,
are committed to systematic observation of the precepts of their religion (Peyrouse,
2007c: 253). Indeed, the categorical name 'secularist' indicates the large spectrum of
the Kazakh and Kyrgyzstani public who assert their identity as Muslims and participate
in life-cycle rituals which, for them, confirm religious affiliation, but who are, in their
own words 'not interested in region.' They increasingly identify themselves in contrast
to those they label as 'religious' and deny the keeping of any religious observance,
except the belief in God, which is a pre-condition for being a Muslim (McBrien and
Pelkmans, 2008: 89). In other words, in modern Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, pride in
Islam can coexist with a complete lack of observance or indeed any belief at all (Khalid,
2007: 121).
Consequently, Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan finds itself in a state of flux:
from being the main national identity marker during Soviet times, it is now a part of a
wider, broader, and more complex national identity; from being a largely cultural
phenomenon, it is now what people in the West would recognise as a religion, with
people not only choosing whether or not to believe, but also how to believe. Yet
because this process is still in transition, complex identity paradoxes, such as the one
raised by Nazgul in the introduction, can arise. In a context of religious freedom
(relative to Soviet times), people are free to not believe in Islam and to label
35
themselves as atheists on an individual level, and yet desire to be part of the collective
national identity, where being 'Muslim' is still an important, albeit decreasing, aspect.
Once this separation of the individual and the collective, understood in a context of
transition, is made clear, the concept of 'Muslim Atheists' is no longer as mystifying.
Another consequence of the breakdown of the Soviet universally-held cultural
belief in one's Muslimness, is the propagation of as many complex identities as there
are people in our region. This makes the Western desire to label Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan as bastions of 'liberal Islam' or crucibles of increasing 'radicalism' rather
futile. Whilst it is true that the Islam inspiring Kazakh and Kyrgyz nationalism is one
that can be described as moderate, this, as we have seen, no longer necessarily has a
direct baring on the type of Islam practiced on an individual level in the region. It just
so happens that, currently, Islam as an individual faith is struggling to flourish in most
areas of our region, with the notable exception of the Fergana valley.
In summary, Islam's role as the key marker of national identity is being
undermined by other forms of cultural, architectural and ethnic nationalism. The
separation between individual and collective understandings of Islam has left Islam in a
state of flux that allows for what at first appear as complex religious identities.
However, once this transitional period is understood, identities such as 'Atheist
Muslim' begin to make sense as people's individual faith clashes with the lingering role
of Islam as significant, though no longer dominating, national identity marker.
Conclusion
In the introduction to this study, a contradictory quotation from a 55 year-old Kyrgyz
woman claiming to be both atheist and Muslim posed three key questions: if Islam is
being replaced as the cornerstone of national identity, what is replacing it?; how does
one reconcile the increasing individualisation of Islam with the simultaneous retreat of
Islam from its dominant position as a collective identity marker?; and finally, how does
answering these questions help us make sense of the 'Atheist Muslim' paradox? The
earlier sections helped answer these questions by looking at the historical context
36
surrounding the topic, analysing the nature of Islam in modern Kazakhstan and
Kyrgyzstan, and by trying to piece together the evidence in order to address the key
complexities which hindered the response.
Section I dealt with the history of our region and Islam in the Soviet Union in
order to enhance our understanding of the historical context to today's events. It
showed how the nature of Islam was transformed by outlining the major events and
processes which allowed this to happen. Even though Islam was never eradicated, it
was thoroughly Sovietised by, among many others, border changes, ethnic re-profiling,
and extreme human suffering. Independent Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan were thus left
with a legacy of Islam that served almost exclusively as a traditional marker of national
identity and custom, rather than a religion of faith.
Section II explored the continuum of Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan today. It
examined the 'official' relationship between state and Islam before moving on to
describe the 'continuum of Islam' in more detail. This continuum ranged from a small
number of extremists, Wahhabi and other fundamentalist movements backed by
foreign powers at one end, to more moderate, personal manifestations of 'unofficial'
or 'popular' Islam at the other. From this it became clear that Islam is becoming a
much more individual phenomenon.
Finally, section III grappled with the key questions posed above and addressed
the changing nature of nationalism in our region. It clarified the transitional situation
Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan finds itself in and, in doing so, explained the
'Atheist Muslim' paradox.
Ultimately, this study has brought us to the conclusion that other secular forms
of nationalism, such as ethnicity, language, or the built environment, are squeezing the
influence of Islam in this domain, and that, despite the individualisation of Islam and
the changing nature of nationalism taking place simultaneously, they are in fact
separate phenomena. The result of this, which explains the 'Atheist Muslim' paradox,
is a transitional period in how individuals relate to Islam as a religion and as part of
their identity, allowing seemingly conflicting identities such as this to arise. Moreover,
37
this study has also demonstrated that Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan is complex,
dynamic, but generally peaceful and moderate, challenging the view that any rise in
religiosity is synonymous with a rise in various forms of political Islam.
These findings are significant on a number of fronts. They challenge the view that
Islam in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan is subject to the same dynamics and reference
points as Islam in the Middle East. They also dispute the assumption that any change in
the role of Islam in Kazakh and Kyrgyz society from its role during the Soviet period
must be the result of pressure from fundamentalist Islam. Most significantly however,
in arguing that Islam exists on both an individual and collective level, and that Islam in
both these spheres is changing, this study is alone in combining these two aspects to
explain the complexities of what constitutes the religious and national identity of the
Kazakh and Kyrgyz peoples. This is a different, and in many cases, a more nuanced
approach than other studies which have tried to place Islam and its corresponding
identities into labels that suit either Soviet or pan-Islamic paradigms. In the
introduction, it was mentioned in response to the question "why Islam?", that it was
important to understand as accurately as possible how Central Asians see themselves
if we were to gain a better understanding of a strategically important region. The fresh
approach this study offers, whilst by no means complete in or by itself, is a further
stride towards this important goal.
Maps
Map 1: Kazakhstan
Source: European Dialogue, 2013(a)
Map 2: Kyrgyzstan
38
Source: European Dialogue, 2013(a)
Map 3: Fergana Valley
Source: UNEP, 2005.
39
Can there be genuine cooperation between Israel
and Palestine over security of The West Bank or will
lack of trust generated by political and ideological
issues prevent it?
Tim Baimbridge
Abstract
In 1993 Israel and Palestine signed the Oslo accords which set out the political and
security structures for the West Bank and Gaza strip. The following years saw a
high degree of security development and cooperation. More radical elements
within both societies however saw cooperation as collaboration and military
confrontation as the only answer. This culminated in 2000 with the outbreak of
the second intifada which lasted until a change in Palestinian leadership and the
impact of attrition brought it to an end in 2005. Whilst the late 1990s were seen
as the halcyon days of security cooperation, the political will of the Palestinian
leadership, the extensive involvement in Palestinian security sector reform by
Western governments, and a majority public desire for a negotiated peace are
leading back to a more stable and secure West Bank. The lasting concern however
is how much control either side has over their religious right wings.
40
Acknowledgements
Firstly I would like to thank Dr Alan Craig for helping narrow down my choice of subject
matter, enabling me to focus on an area of personal and professional interest.
Professional thanks to Neil Page, the USSC’s policing advisor for giving me a frank
insight into their operation. A former senior British police officer Neil gets stuck in on
the front line of the issue in places where the Americans are literally prevented from
going. The two case studies in section 3 detail incidents that demonstrate the
apparently arbitrary nature of ISF/PSF cooperation. I was directly involved in both
incidents and was guided through these particular political and tactical minefields by
the Quartet’s police and military liaison officer, Jack Parnell. Seconded from the UN,
Jack along with Neil Page are two of the most experienced officers on the ground and
anyone seeking guidance in this complex area would do well to seek them out – Neil,
Jack, thanks for everything. Finally I want to thank my family for putting up with my
physical as well as mental absences during the past few months. Fortunately my wife,
with more degrees than a circle, understands the pressures of academic study.
Introduction
This document will address the question as to whether there can be genuine
cooperation between Israel and Palestine over the security of The West Bank, or
whether lack of trust generated by political and ideological issues will prevent it. To
fully understand the current situation and how significant the need for cooperation is,
it will be necessary to explore recent historical background, particularly the Oslo
Accords and the Second Intifada. The timeframe chosen for the purpose of this review
therefore will be 1993 to 2013. It will be argued that the events occurring during these
two decades have shaped the political and security situation facing the current
administrations as they resume their peace negotiations sponsored by the current US
Secretary of State John Kerry.
The document will be made up of a review of existing, publicly available
literature, as well as internal documents from the USSC’s office. For reference
41
purposes these documents will be attached in the Annex. Additionally it will draw on
primary research via semi-structured interviews, discussion and operational
deployments with a number of individuals directly involved in developing security
capabilities and operations on the West Bank.
Through this format it will be seen that the security of the West Bank is a
critical factor in the ongoing peace process and that neither party is able to deliver the
level of security required on their own. Substantial efforts have been made, along with
significant progress, at various points over the past twenty years. However on each
occasion the process has collapsed and extreme levels of violence have followed. The
physical damage to individuals, property and infrastructure was only matched by the
long term damage to the capability of the Palestinian security services and the trust
the two sides needed to make the security cooperation work. Trust, its critical
importance to security cooperation, and the impact of its absence, will form a central
theme throughout this discussion.
Section 1 will show that the last significant positive development on security
cooperation, the Declaration of Principles on Interim Self-Governance Arrangements,
also known as the Oslo Accords, set in place a period of high expectation and no
insignificant amount of delivery towards a secure two state solution to the
Israeli/Palestinian issue. This was a period of hope bracketed by the two intifadas. The
first, 1987 – 1993, had demonstrated Israel’s inability to impose a purely military
solution to their security problem (Celso, 2003: 69). The level of both strategic and
tactical cooperation demonstrated by the two sides through to late 2000 were
unprecedented in modern times. The Second Intifada beginning in September 2000
was foreseen by the respective leaders however its extent and consequences were far
from anticipated.
Section 2 will show that the Second Intifada was a political as well as security
disaster for the Palestinians and a perceived vindication of the lack of trust on the
behalf of the Israelis. The post-Intifada years, 2005 to date, will also be discussed in
this section and it will be seen that they have been dominated by attempts to restart a
process that had long been frustrated by a mutual lack of political trust. This therefore
42
became the focus of a number of countries and organisations, building trust between
the two sides. Key amongst these were the efforts of the EU and US who continue to
work to develop the capabilities of the Palestinian Security Forces (PSF) to a degree
where they are capable of stabilising the Palestinian controlled areas of the West Bank.
These missions built on the security cooperation structures generated by the Oslo
Accords and effectively mothballed during the Intifada. This developmental work will
be discussed in detail in section 3.
Once stabilisation was achieved the parallel goal was to help create an effective
Palestinian Civil Police (PCP) who could continue the Security Sector Reform (SSR) by
engaging in consensual and democratic community based policing. A stable and
effective security apparatus, working in tandem with the Israeli Security Forces (ISF) to
keep all parties safe and secure, remains a cornerstone of successive peace
negotiations.
As former Palestinian PM Fayyad identified, by building institutions of a
modern state, enhancing personal security and vigorously establishing a monopoly
over the use of force, Palestinians can regain the international community’s and
Israel’s confidence, neutralise a key Israeli argument against statehood and thus pave
the way for independence (International Crisis Group, 2010: 4). However others go
further, believing that the success of an independent Palestinian state – indeed its very
survival – is inconceivable in the absence of peace and security for Palestinians and
Israelis alike (RAND, 2005: 4).
The overriding question going forward into the latest round of negotiations
however is not whether the respective governments are prepared to make the
necessary compromises to attain a lasting security - it will be shown here that they
have the will for that – more whether both sides can develop the trust to work
together to prevent the more extreme elements within their populations from
derailing the peace process in favour of a more drastic resolution.
The Oslo accords to the second intifada
43
The First Intifada ‘Shaking off’ ended in 1993 and whilst having been dominated with
violence and death on both sides, the Israelis in particular realised that they would not
be able to dominate the Palestinian territories simply through the use of
overwhelming military force (Celso, 2003: 69). As a securitized nation with a
perception that they faced an existential threat on all sides, it was hardly surprising
that they had sought to resolve this Palestinian issue through military means.
The Palestinian structure at this time was significantly fragmented, both
politically and geographically, and was also beginning to realise that armed resistance
against Israel would not, on its own, bring them the liberation they sought.
This then was the backdrop to the initially secret meetings in Oslo that
eventually led to the very public signing of the Declaration of Principles on Interim SelfGovernment Arrangements, which would become known collectively as the Oslo
Accords. The accords reflected the political and public mood of the age where
considerable concessions and compromises were demonstrated by both sides.
The agreement between Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin of Israel and President
Yasser Arafat, long-time antagonists and mortal enemies, was widely hailed in Western
diplomatic circles as a triumph of reason over destructive hatred, and the accord was
seen as promising a new era of peace (Celso, 2003: 68). However both sides were
taking a gamble on the outcome.
Rabin calculated that Arafat had made a sincere transformation from terrorist
to democratic statesman and that only the PLO could be trusted to quell Palestinian
terrorism. Arafat, accordingly, renounced terrorism and revoked PLO charter
provisions calling for the destruction of the Zionist state. The Palestinian leader’s
conversion was, in essence, the linchpin that would govern the success or failure of the
accord (Celso, 2003: 69).
Certain key issues such as the future of East Jerusalem as a Palestinian capital
and the right of return for Palestinians were not addressed in detail. Combined with a
likely withdrawal from substantial areas of the West Bank, it should not have been a
surprise that the extreme elements within each society felt that the agreements were
44
unacceptable and that their respective leaders had ‘sold them out’. It would be these
disaffected elements within each society, whilst relatively small but prepared to use
extreme acts of violence as an effective force-multiplier, who would eventually lead to
the collapse of the agreements and the ushering in of the second intifada.
At the time however the central theme of the Oslo accords (I and II, signed in
1993 and 1995 respectively) was the establishment of a viable security apparatus that
would ensure the safety of both peoples. The PA security leadership was expected to
devise a Palestinian national security policy that would lay out a plan for tackling the
intricate Palestinian security situation (Hussein, 2007:46), with Oslo II detailing the
complex security, legal and political arrangements and coordination offices between
the new PA and Israel (Pacheco, 2001:182).
Whilst Israel were prepared to enter into a security partnership with the PA in
order to bring stability to both sides, the elements of the agreement were very much
focused on creating a structure which would primarily ensure the security of Israelis.
Restraints on Palestinian security responsibilities were repeatedly highlighted in the
Accords. Israel would maintain responsibility for border security, and for internal
security and public order of settlements and Israelis (Kristoff, 2012:3). The Palestinians
on the other hand agreed to establish a strong police force in order to guarantee
public order and internal security for the Palestinians of the West Bank and the Gaza
Strip (Kerkkänen, Rantanen & Sundqvist, 2008:5).
This provided an early indication of the extent to how far security cooperation
would be allowed to go. Israeli military law would be applied to Palestinians in the
West Bank, however settlers living in the same location would be subject to Israeli
civilian law, giving rise to dual legal systems that suggested ‘discrimination based on
origin or nationality’ (Duaibis, 2013:3).
The Oslo II agreement split the West Bank into three administrative areas, A, B
and C. Covering 5,700 square kilometres it has a population of approximately 2.4
million Palestinians. Around 1.8 million are spread across villages or small towns. That
leaves approximately a quarter residing in the main urban centres. Due to the non45
contiguous nature of the administrative areas, cities exercise a disproportionate and
indeed decisive influence on national politics and society (International Crisis Group,
2004:7).
The PA was given full administrative control, including responsibility for
security in Area A. However geographically this only amounted to 17.7% of the West
Bank. The PA were to have administrative responsibility for Area B, which makes up
21.3% of the West Bank and includes some 450 villages and cities, with Israel
maintaining security control. Israel would have full control in Area C which covers
almost 61 % of the total area. In addition to these three areas Hebron in the south was
split into two security zones, H1 and H2. The Palestinian police would control the
smaller H1 area while Israel controlled the larger area H2 (Bouris & Reigeluth, 2012:5).
Local law and order in the various parts of Area A would be enforced by a fortythousand-man Palestinian security force (Celso, 2003:71).
The security problems generated by the Oslo accords begins to emerge when it
is identified that in total 43% of the West Bank is allocated to settlements and the
number of Jewish settlers living in this area is double that of Palestinians (Duaibis,
2013:3), none of whom are therefore subject to any Palestinian laws.
It can be seen therefore that the PA were facing an uphill battle to garner
public support for the accords. The agreements allowed for the continuation of the
Israeli occupation of most of the West Bank and failed to put an end to the expansion
of Israel settlements (Lia, 1999:159). Worryingly a large majority of the Palestinian
population continued to support attacks against Israeli targets. The PSF began to be
seen as collaborators (ibid.).
Israel would not be prepared to reduce its security presence until it could be
certain not only that the Palestinian Authority itself no longer represented a physical
threat to Israel and its citizens, but, as importantly, the PA could ensure its own
internal security by maintaining control of and eventually eradicating militant and
terrorist groups.
46
This need for reassurance and confidence would be seen running through all
elements of the negotiations that were to come and despite what were clearly
extensive efforts on both sides to build this trust alongside the PA’s capability, it would
remain fragile and with the coming of the second Intifada virtually impossible to
maintain. However in the immediate post signing period both sides were committed to
developing the Palestinian capability.
The accords created detailed structures for ensuring cooperation and as
importantly de-confliction between the two armed entities, the IDF and the fledgling
PSF. These tiered groups would oversee the strategic, tactical and operational
deployment of the resources from both sides.
The Joint Security Committee (JSC) sat at the strategic level. It was made up of
several command rank members from each side. The intention was for JSC decisions to
be reached by agreement between the two sides. Its role was to recommend security
policy guidelines for the approval of the Joint Israeli-Palestinian Liaison Committee and
subsequently implement approved guidelines. Critical to the effectiveness of the JSC
would be the regular meetings held between the commander of the Israeli military
forces and the commander of the Palestinian Police in the West Bank. The JSC would
ensure an open channel for exchanging information and provide directives for the Joint
Regional Security Committees (RSCs) and for the Joint District Coordination Offices
(DCOs) (Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2013).
The unpredictable nature of security operations required each side to operate
an RSC office 24 hours a day, with direct and constant communication links between
the two sides. These offices would coordinate the activities of the operational units
under the locally based DCOs. They also operated on a 24 hour basis with at least one
duty officer from each side, on duty at all times (ibid.).
In addition to ensuring de-confliction between the two sides, the DCOs directed
the joint patrols. These patrols would be the public face of security cooperation on the
West bank. Each one consisted of two vehicles, one Palestinian and one Israeli, each
vehicle containing an officer and three uniformed and armed guards. They patrolled 24
47
hours a day as directed by the DCO. To further prevent friction and potential conflict
with local groups, it was directed that on roads under Israeli security responsibility, the
Israeli vehicle would lead and on roads under Palestinian security responsibility, the
Palestinian vehicle would lead (ibid.).
When the structure went live the RSCs and DCOs were supported by the
Palestinian Military Liaison (PML) officers. These were located in eight HQs in the West
Bank and two in Gaza (Joint Security Committee, 2012:3). In addition to the
operational coordination they supervised the redeployment and transfer of new
territories to the PA and monitored implementation of the Interim Agreement (ibid.).
The coordination and apportioning of security responsibilities was successful
during the early years, the IDF for example generally did not enter Area A, even in hot
pursuit and in some parts of Area C there was a formalised Palestinian presence. As
much as the PA would request Israeli permission to take action beyond its operational
area, so too the Israelis asked the PA for permission to enter Area ‘A’ (International
Crisis Group, 2010:22). It can be seen therefore that considerable effort and thought
had gone into making operational security cooperation an effective and viable reality
on the West Bank.
The positive effects of this structured and mutually beneficial approach were
seen on the ground. The PA was credited with palpable improvements in personal
security. To a significant extent this was due to their mere existence and numbers of
officers deployed, however police and other security forces were generally considered
effective in preventing, prosecuting, and reducing crime (International Crisis Group,
2004:18).
These therefore were the halcyon days of security cooperation in the West
Bank (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30, 2013). The JSC and PML coordinated
daily joint patrols and the relationships between the soldiers and police on the ground
was professional and effective.
That said, whilst the coordination protocols made it look like a balanced
partnership the asymmetry showed through when it came to how the PSF were
48
required to deal with Israelis. In this matter the PML were required to apprehend,
protect and hand over any Israeli citizen or settler who gained access into the PAcontrolled territory. This included any Israeli military personnel. This extended to a
requirement to hand over any Israeli who was apprehended for having committed any
irregularity or crime in the PA-controlled territory, after examining their ID card and
seizing any objects (Joint Security Committee, 2012:8).
Between January and July 2013 for example, 313 Israelis were detained for
illegally entering Area A. All were immediately handed over to the IDF unharmed. Of
those 313, a total of 67 were armed members of the IDF who had allegedly strayed
into Area A by mistake (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30, 2013).
Unfortunately it would in part be this close, public cooperation that began to
cause friction within the more militant elements on the West Bank. The PSF, with their
roots in the PLO and other resistance groups were beginning to be seen as agents of
the occupying force, the very people they should have been fighting to overthrow.
Some commentators such as Said felt that the agreements gave official
Palestinian consent to continued occupation and that the PSF would effectively
become Israel’s enforcer (Said, 1996:147).
Consequently the Oslo Accords were denounced by both Jewish and Palestinian
extremist groups (Celso, 2003;70). The anger felt by the extreme right in Israel at the
‘collaboration’ between Rabin and Arafat quickly spilled on to the streets of Israel. In
1995 Rabin was assassinated by a Jewish extremist student caught up in a building
right-wing backlash against negotiations with the Palestinians (Peri, 2000:34). Rabin’s
assassination is seen by many commentators, even at this early stage, as the beginning
of the end of the Oslo accords.
Carmi Gillon, the Head of the Shin Bet or ‘Shabak’ at the time was under no
illusion of the impact the assassination of Rabin had on the Oslo Accords and the peace
process in general: ‘It showed very clearly that some punk of an assassin with a pistol
that could barely shoot could eliminate hope and an entire peace process’ (Moreh,
2012).
49
The key element, trust, needed to deliver joint security had gone. Even though
Rabin’s killer was a Jew, the shock that reverberated through the establishment,
particularly within the Shin Bet, was extreme. The problem post Rabin was not
necessarily at the tactical or operational level. It was the lack of faith at the political
level. As another former head of the Shin Bet Ami Ayalon puts it: ‘We wanted security
and we got more terrorism. They (the Palestinians) wanted a state and they got more
settlements’ (Moreh, 2012).
The processes set out in the Oslo accords continued despite this cooling in the
Israeli/Palestinian relationship. PM Netanyahu continued the process however he was
less inclined towards Palestinian development. He had made his position on security
cooperation with the Palestinians clear three years earlier just after the Oslo accords
were signed when he wrote in his book, ‘Fighting Terrorism’ that: ‘The continued
expansion of an armed, independent Palestinian domain is merely a stepping-stone to
the eventual escalation of conflict and the continued march of Islamic militancy in the
Middle East and beyond’ (1995:120).
Despite this however he bowed under American pressure to sign the Wye River
agreement in 1998 that ended Israeli military occupation of portions of the West Bank
and expanded the jurisdiction of the PA (Celso, 2003:71).
Behind the scenes and at the tactical level, the Israeli security agencies
continued to work towards improving and expanding their relationship with the PSF.
Ami Ayalon had been a senior commander in the IDF when Rabin was assassinated. He
took over the Shin Bet shortly afterwards. He realised that being able to combat
terrorism by use of force wasn’t enough and had failed to prevent the assassination by
an Israeli Jew of one of the strongest exponents of peace. He identified that despite
the Shin Bet preventing more attacks each year, achieving greater security each year,
the most significant achievement was the cooperation they built with the Palestinians
(Moreh, 2012).
Under his leadership he and the Shin Bet teams met with the Palestinian
security officials on a monthly basis to coordinate their intelligence efforts. During
50
these meetings the Palestinians were quick to remind him that they did not see
themselves as agents of Israel. They did not put Hamas members in prison for his
benefit, they did it because the Palestinian people believed that at the end of the day
they would have a state alongside Israel. If however the Palestinians ever stopped
believing in that then the cooperation would end (Moreh, 2012).
Despite the best efforts of the Israeli and Palestinian security apparatus, peace
and the Oslo accords began to fall apart as Hamas launched a campaign of suicide
bombings in Israel, specifically targeting civilians (Montefiore, 2011:611).
It has been postulated that increases in Palestinian and Jewish terrorism,
however, had paradoxical effects: empowering, rather than weakening the peace
process, as both the Israeli government and the PA sought to prove the critics wrong
(Celso, 2003:71).
Even with the continued lack of security on the West Bank Netanyahu’s
successor, Ehud Barak pushed forward with the principles of the Oslo Accords and the
security reforms and partnerships at their core. In 1999 Barak was the first Israeli PM
to endorse the concept of a Palestinian state in the occupied territories (Barak,
2008:541).
The desperation of the West and in reality Israel and Palestine, led to the ‘make
or break’ summit at President Clinton’s retreat, Camp David in early 2000. It was
arguable that the Oslo accords were already dead by this stage and as such the Camp
David summit was the final attempt by an outgoing US President to rescue what had
been seen as the most promising chance at peace in the Middle East.
The 14 days spent behind closed doors led to no agreement between the two
sides. The storm clouds brewing over the West Bank and Gaza were not, it is generally
believed, ignored by Arafat and Barak. More likely was that they both believed that
some limited conflict would strengthen their respective negotiating position and
remind the public on both sides of the reality of a broken peace process. It is generally
held that by the conclusion of the summit Barak had made Arafat what was seen as
the deal of a lifetime: most of the West Bank, partial Palestinian sovereignty over East
51
Jerusalem including control over Muslim shrines located on the Temple Mount, and
substantial financial assistance for the PA. Arafat, reportedly, was unwilling to
negotiate over Palestinian claims of sovereignty over East Jerusalem and refused to
renounce an unlimited right of 4 million Palestinian refugees to return to the historic
homeland. When the talks broke down, Arafat was widely perceived as the major
obstacle to achieving a historic settlement (Celso, 2003:72). The Oslo accords, which
had always been predicated upon the sincerity of Arafat’s conversion from terrorist to
democratic statesman, had exhausted themselves (Celso, 2003:73).
Whether Arafat felt that a brief conflict would make Barak even more
amenable, or whether by that point he had lost so much control of the militant groups
he knew that any deal with Israel would not receive support at grass roots level, will
remain unknown. What is known is that within days of the collapse of the Camp David
summit the second intifada had broken out bringing with it a violent end to security
cooperation and the subsequent deaths of hundreds of Israeli and Palestinian civilians.
The decade had begun with the creation of a genuinely cooperative security
infrastructure that promised to deliver the building blocks for an independent
Palestine living safely alongside Israel. It would end with the IDF directly targeting the
PSF infrastructure they’d helped to create, crippling it and leaving the West Bank
effectively lawless.
The second intifada to date
The exact trigger for the second intifada remains debated and is to a greater degree
irrelevant for this discussion. What is significantly relevant is that the Israeli response
to escalating Palestinian violence was fierce (Catignani, 2009:107).
According to Amos Malka, Israel's director of military intelligence at the time,
during the first month of the intifada, the IDF fired 1.3 million 5.56 mm bullets, with
850,000 on the West Bank alone (International Crisis Group, 2004:22).
52
The impact on the established security cooperation was equally dramatic.
Within a few days of the start of the intifada a PSF officer shot and killed the Israeli
commander of their joint patrol (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30, 2013). It
was the immediate end of joint patrolling and the start of a rapid collapse of their
operational relationship. As a result, Israeli-Palestinian security cooperation ceased
and the US and other governments curtailed or halted their security assistance to the
PA (US Government Accountability Office, 2010:8).
The PML attempted hard to address field problems and alleviate friction.
Military liaison personnel faced physical risks while they were present under fire,
leading to the death of a number of liaison officers (Joint Security Committee, 2012:3).
Arafat may not have deliberately started the intifada but he appeared content
for it to run for a limited period at least. In the early weeks he opened the PA jails and
freed Hamas and PIJ activists, breathing new life into the organisations (Byman,
2012:828). Since coming to power he had, through design, created a security structure
that answered almost directly to him. He was concerned for the stability of his own
position, even before the collapse of the Oslo Accords, and had deliberately designed
the PSF to have conflicting and overlapping agencies.
Unfortunately however whilst this made it harder for any group to threaten his
position it also meant that when isolated from him, as they became the more his
movements were restricted by the IDF, the agencies splintered and became individual
fiefdoms. Arafat, and the PA central command in general, quickly lost control of the
PSF and in turn the ability to restrain the violent militant groups he had at least tacitly
supported. The Intifada spiralled out of control and the authority and reach of the PA
collapsed as quickly. An unintended consequence of Israel’s attack on the PA
leadership was the Palestinians’ diminished capacity to fight terror even if they had
chosen to do so (Byman, 2012:841).
The PSF, with no direct strategic control resumed their primary role of
protecting the Palestinian people. Unfortunately the IDF had once again re-emerged as
the primary threat and the PSF found themselves in direct armed conflict with the
53
soldiers they had, until recently, been patrolling partners with. The stronger the
military action from the Israelis the more the policing role of the PSF began to fracture.
In many cases, Palestinian policemen took off their uniforms, joined the demonstrators
and opened fire on IDF troops (Luft, 2000:3).
Israel responded to this wave of violence through a series of measures
including targeted assassination of terrorist leaders, closing the border, imposing
curfews, cutting off financial aid to the PLA, and increasing security check points
(Celso, 2003:73).
All pretence of ongoing cooperation ended as the IDF began to directly target
PA facilities. Initially, the attacks consisted of one or more missiles fired at facilities
belonging to the security forces, preceded by an informal warning (International Crisis
Group, 2004:4). However as the terrorism in Israel increased, particularly the suicide
bombings targeted at civilians, so in turn did Israel’s response, with the targeting of
security headquarters, vehicles and other infrastructure. In October 2001 for example,
after Hamas gunmen entered an Israeli settlement in Gaza and killed two Israelis, the
IDF responded by demolishing ten Palestinian police posts nearby (RAND, 2005:40).
Palestinian security personnel were detained and disarmed en masse, their facilities
largely destroyed, and many PA civil institutions ransacked (International Crisis Group,
2004:4). The Palestinian administrative infrastructure was now to be a target in the
resumption of absolute Israeli control (Craig, 2011:185).
Police infrastructure suffered heavily due to Israeli attacks. Some 45 police
buildings and complexes across the West Bank and Gaza Strip were destroyed,
including the Forensic Laboratory at Police Headquarters in Gaza City and the police
complex at Ramallah (Kerkkänen, Rantanen & Sundqvist, 2008:10).
The rationale and legality for the targeting of the PSF under these
circumstances is of course debatable, as is the long term wisdom of destroying the
security infrastructure of an occupied territory. However, at the time the PA was
dominated by the Fattah political party. One of the primary militant groups targeting
Israel during the initial stages of the intifada was the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, a
54
military spin-off of Fattah. According to some estimates as many as 80% of the
Brigades were also members of the security forces (International Crisis Group,
2004:26).
In the first two months of the Intifada the Palestinians counted 247 dead. UN
officials claimed that almost ten thousand Palestinians were injured in this period,
almost half of whom were children (Byman, 2012:827).
The Israeli government changed its approach after a suicide bomber struck in
the Park Hotel, Netanya. 30 Israelis were killed and 250 injured, the victims were
mainly elderly and children (Tyler, 2012:444). Israel responded in March and April 2002
by launching Operation Defensive Shield, an operation to reoccupy much of Area A. It
began with the seizure of Arafat’s headquarters compound in Ramallah, and followed
with IDF operations in the other key Palestinian population centres in the West Bank
(Byman, 2012:830). The compound was assaulted by IDF armour and Arafat’s isolation
from the PSF was almost total.
Israel’s aggressive policy in response to the intifada was linked to their
conviction that they faced an existential threat. This was part of the motivation that
took them to strike first in the 1967 war. The problem however was that by targeting
the Palestinian security forces they damaged a potentially powerful ally in dealing with
the militants. The PA was equally motivated to restore order to retain control of the
West Bank however they needed resources to do so. As Byman identifies, the PSF
could have been far more effective in counterterrorism than the Israeli’s, as they knew
their own community and could have gained its support to neutralise radicals (ibid.).
Israel had clearly given up on cooperation as a realistic option. Neither
negotiating nor diplomatically forcing the Palestinians to police themselves was seen
to have worked. Now it was about imposing a settlement that it was hoped would
eventually convince the Palestinians that violence would not lead to victory. As Byman
identifies, Israel was giving up on its Palestinian partner (2012:830).
55
As a result of Operation Defensive Shield Israel decided to close down joint
DCO HQs, confiscated weapons and expelled Palestinian liaison officers (Joint Security
Committee, 2012:4). Cooperation, at tactical and now strategic level was over.
In 2001, Israel suffered 207 deaths, in 2002 the toll was 452, and in 2003
another 208—staggering figures for a country of seven million (Byman, 2012:825). The
intifada was now a war of attrition. Israel’s increased security restrictions and
militaristic response to the increasing civilian death toll within Israel proper began to
show results. In 2004, Israel lost 117 citizens to terrorism, almost half that of the
previous year and a quarter of the Intifada’s height in 2002 (ibid.).
Israel’s tactics, whilst effective, not only destroyed Palestinian cooperation it
drew criticism from the international community and the UN. In September 2002,
Terje Roed-Larsen, Special Coordinator for the Middle East Peace Process and Personal
Representative of the Secretary-General said:
The past weeks also witnessed a number of IDF operations, including widespread
arrests and ongoing assassinations, as well as a tightened closure regime and
curfews. According to the Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs,
these curfews confine to their homes, on average, almost half a million
Palestinians in more than 20 cities and towns, sometimes for days at a time.
Yesterday, troops fired into a crowd of schoolchildren protesting a curfew in the
Amari refugee camp in Ramallah, killing a 9 year-old boy (UN, 2002).
Whilst the final trigger for the start of the intifada was unclear, the change of tempo
and its eventual end was less ambiguous. Israel simply destroyed, disrupted, and
deterred individual terrorist cells and eventually whole groups, rendering them unable
to function (Byman, 2012: 838).
The eventual reduction in attacks in Israel led to a softening of the IDF’s
activities in the West Bank. Whilst it was certainly not a return to full cooperation, and
the Palestinian Police were still in disarray, by mid-2003, they began to patrol most
56
cities in uniform. However they did not carry any weapons as the IDF had warned that
any armed Palestinian risked being shot on sight (International Crisis Group, 2004:6).
While they were able to rise to the occasion when confronted with a particularly
severe case their commanders or political leaders were determined to resolve, it was
beyond their capability to do so regularly (International Crisis Group, 2004:19).
However there would be no significant change in the Israeli/Palestinian
relationship until Arafat’s death in 2004. In February 2005, PA President Mahmud
Abbas, who became the leader of the Palestinians after Arafat died, declared that the
PA agreed to stop all acts of violence. Hamas-linked militants agreed to a ‘period of
calm’, and then following Hamas’s lead, the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades also agreed to a
ceasefire (Byman, 2012:833).
The election of President Abbas and his prime minister, Salam Fayyad, was seen
as an opportunity by both sides to begin to rebuild the trust and cooperation that had
given the region at least a degree of security in the late 1990s. There was a strong
feeling in Israel that they both genuinely sought peace. The problem however was that
due to the IDF’s targeting of the PSF during the intifada they inherited ruined
institutions, a destroyed infrastructure, and an increased military occupation of
Palestinian areas (Byman, 2012:842). The whole security sector was deeply
dysfunctional and in severe disarray after years of intifada violence and Israeli countermeasures (Sayigh, 2009:3).
‘Rebuilding capacity, rebuilding trust.’
On coming to power the Abbas government set out to rebuild and reform the PSF and
legal sector. In order to restart security cooperation it would be necessary to bring the
PSF in line with democratic governance. Abbas therefore ordered all PA security
organisations to merge into three branches – Internal Security Forces (Civil Police,
Preventive Security, Civil Defence), National Security Forces (National Security Forces,
Military Intelligence, Naval Police, Military Liaison, Presidential Security/Force 17), and
General Intelligence (Hussein, 2007:58).
57
Rather than having the agencies report directly to him, as was the case under
Arafat, they would report to the Ministry of the Interior and National Security. The
previous approach had been deliberately divisive and had reflected Arafat’s autocratic
leadership. The new structure was intended to not only improve security but also
restore the faith of the Palestinian people and, in time, the Israelis as well.
However despite these efforts friction in Gaza and a lack of unity within the PA
prevented significant improvements in Palestinian relationships with Israel. The Israeli
army continued to encircle Palestinian population centres through checkpoints and
roadblocks and invaded them at will. Israel also relentlessly pursued its policy of
assassinations, triggering retaliation from militant groups and further destabilising the
precarious security situation in the Palestinian Territories (Hussein, 2007:62).
With neither an effective PSF nor a cooperative relationship with the IDF the
situation in the West Bank continued to deteriorate. The UN identified that in major
cities such as Nablus lawlessness and gang rule were common (International Crisis
Group, 2010:24).
The election of Hamas in Gaza in 2006 and their subsequent internal conflict
with Fattah across the Gaza Strip in 2007 led to a political split between the two
territories. Whilst this would cause complications for the wider peace process in the
long term it actually made matters easier for Abbas in the West Bank. Abbas and
Fayyad therefore formed an emergency government in Ramallah in April 2007 (Sayigh,
2009:2).
With the creation of the new government the ceasefire with Israel grew
stronger. Fayyad focused on the public’s weariness of the lack of security across the
West Bank and their realisation that the violence of the intifada had not only failed to
remove the ‘occupiers’ but had in fact made their situation and daily lives worse.
Fayyad worked with Israel to rebuild the faith and trust that had been such an
important pre-intifada element. He negotiated the removal of a number of Palestinian
names from Israel’s wanted list and in return the PA ensured that the men gave up
their weapons. Politically this amnesty offered the fighters an honourable way to
58
resume a normal life and allowed the PA to focus on those who were simply thugs
masquerading as freedom fighters (Byman, 2012:834).
Abbas renounced violence against Israel then and has continued to do so since.
In 2012 in a letter to PM Netanyahu he stated:
We know that violence and terror whether committed by Palestinians or Israelis is
not the way. I know that it erodes both of our public’s trust in peace. Therefore, I
reiterate our full commitment to a policy of zero tolerance against violence
(2012:193).
With the IDF now backing away from directly targeting the PSF, Abbas made their
restructuring a priority. However even without interference from the IDF, this was
going to be a significant challenge. As Kerkkänen and his colleagues identified:
The establishment of a policing operation and a credible, accountable and
functioning police force in a non-state setting, amid territorial fragmentation,
within an extremely complicated and vulnerable political context and political
transformation, presents a huge challenge (Kerkkänen, Rantanen & Sundqvist,
2008:10).
Conscious of the issue the direct support for the IDF had created last time, combined
with the ongoing weakness of the PSF, more discrete cooperation was needed to
remove the threat from the militants. The JSC and to a lesser degree the PML still
operated and had their liaison lines if not liaison officers into the IDF. Intelligence
began to be exchanged, predominantly one way, PSF to IDF, about the location and
activities of militants. The IDF would carry out incursions into the PA controlled areas
to make the arrests.
59
The IDF were less inclined to share detailed intelligence with the PSF as they
were concerned that they would use it as a means of rooting out informers. The
cooperation was returning but the trust would be slow to follow.
Speaking in 2008, Major-General Jibril Rajoub, former National Security Adviser
to the PA President, analysed the main challenges in providing security for the citizens:
The Palestinian context was unique in terms of security sector governance
because the PA was not a state: The occupation of the Palestinian Territories and
the constant lack of stability make up for a large part of the problems faced by the
PA in enforcing security. The occupier tends to exploit the Palestinian security
agenda for its own security needs’ (DCAF, 2008:2).
President Abbas, the PA and the international community all recognised that if the
impact of the damage caused to the PSF infrastructure and capability by the second
intifada, and the destabilising influence of the militant groups operating across the
West Bank was to be reversed then external assistance would be required.
The PA sought support from external donors for assistance through funding,
training and the provision of modern security equipment. The Oslo accords had
stipulated the number and type of weapons that the PSF could have and as a result of
the intifada it was highly unlikely that Israel were about to show much flexibility
around that issue.
Prior to the Abbas emergency government the international Quartet had
published their Roadmap for peace. This offered a new framework for the post-Oslo
era. Building on the sentiment from the original accords the roadmap called on the PA
to ‘undertake visible efforts on the ground to arrest, disrupt, and restrain individuals
and groups conducting and planning violent attacks on Israelis anywhere’ (Kerkkänen,
Rantanen & Sundqvist, 2008:11).
If there was to be a realistic chance of returning Israeli and Palestinian security
forces to close working relationship then the PSF would need to change from being re60
badged freedom fighters and ex-militants into a professional security force with clear
delineation of roles and responsibilities, command and control, and civilian oversight.
The PA now used this need as a way of leveraging practical and fiscal support
from the international community. It was within this framework that the European
Coordination Office for Palestinian Police Support (EU COPPS) was conceived and
delivered by the bilateral DFID project and financed, to a large extent, by Denmark and
Norway (ibid.).
The PA pushed hard for the involvement of the US who was seen as critical for
adding legitimacy and non-lethal aid to the PA efforts. They were however reluctant to
become involved, possibly fearing the impact it may have on their relationship with
Israel. However, in March 2005, the US sent Lieutenant-General William Ward, then
Deputy Commander of the US Army in Europe, with an adviser team to the region and
informed the PA that the Ward Mission would be regarded as the only channel for
international aid in security. Washington also pledged $3 million of assistance to the
reform process (Hussein, 2007:54).
With the involvement of the US, the international effort began to gain pace and
focus. The international community realised that political and practical solutions
needed to be combined. While it remained the case that the two-state solution could
only be cemented by a negotiated agreement top-down, it was also vital that parallel
bottom-up initiatives underpinned the political track (Blair, 2013:17). In 2008, foreign
ministers and representatives of over forty countries and international organisations
met in Berlin for a conference in support of Palestinian civil security and the rule of
law.
As a result of this conference the US and EU formally divided the
responsibilities for assisting the reform of the PSF. The US, with their pre-deployed
military advisory team under Gen Ward, took on the role of training the NSF so that
they could act as the initial stabilisation force on the West Bank. The EU, via the relaunched EUPOL COPPS took on the Palestinian Civil Police (PCP), the Justice
61
institutions such as the Ministry of Justice, Judges, The Attorney General and the
prosecutors and defence council (Bulut, 2009:288).
The two main training operations, USSC and EUPOL COPPS differed in their
approach as a result of both the styles of the two elements, the EU and US, but also
the long term goals of the agencies they were training. The USSC were involved in the
full lifecycle of the NSF officers, from selection through basic and specialist training.
The EU on the other hand only delivered training to substantive police officers. Their
approach was one of building a long term capacity to the PCP so that they could
continue in their legacy training and development once the EU’s three year rolling
mission had concluded.
The initial goal for all parties however was to stabilise the West Bank. Israel was
not prepared to work with militant groups who presented an existential threat to them
or at the very least promoted armed resistance. The US and the PA therefore focused
on building the capability of the National Security Force (NSF).
The Palestinians were not permitted to have a military under their agreement
with Israel and so the NSF was badged as a ‘Gendarmerie’. The US administration’s
choice of military officers with no formal civilian, or military policing experience such
as Gen Ward and subsequently Gen’s Dayton and Moeller, and latterly Admiral
Bushong, to train and mentor the NSF demonstrated the realisation that bringing
stability to the West Bank would not be achieved through the use of community
policing.
The NSF therefore became a lightly armed and equipped force charged with
supporting the civil police; delivering law and order; and combating terrorism, but
short of acting as a true military force (US Government Accountability Office, 2010:13).
The semantics between ‘gendarmerie’ and ‘para-military’ were necessary as
the fledgling Israeli/Palestinian security cooperation began to re-emerge. The US
mission was to ensure that the NSF were formidable enough to enforce stability across
the West Bank but not enough to threaten the dominance of Israel as the hegemon.
62
This was not only a political but also physical challenge considering the abilities and
weaponry available to the dissident militants the NSF were charged with pacifying.
The balancing act was not always successful. The Palestinian public increasingly
blamed General Dayton’s NSF for the human rights abuses and growing atmosphere of
political intimidation generated by the intelligence agencies (Sayigh, 2009:5).
Additionally, in May 2009 General Dayton made a speech in Washington during
which he commented on Israel’s satisfaction with the way the NSF were dealing with
militant groups. Many Palestinians interpreted this as evidence that the NSF were
being rebuilt as a subcontractor of the Israeli occupation. The PA’s response was to
end USSC access to PSF area commanders, and to require the USSC to channel all
contacts through the Ministry of Interior (Sayigh, 2009:6).
The stabilisation of the West Bank was always going to be a difficult time for
the Abbas government. It could be argued of course that conversely it helped the
relationship with Israel as the NSF acted against those who were still intent on
launching attacks on Israel.
Dr. Ahmad Musleh, Professor in Law at Birzeit University believes however that
the security forces involvement in the struggle against elements of the Palestinian
resistance contributed to the dramatic loss of trust and credibility in the eyes of the
Palestinian people (DCAF, 2008:4). Whilst this may be a slightly generalised position
there were certainly public displays of anger about security cooperation. These were
particularly vociferous after incidents such as the IDF killing of three militants during a
night-time incursion into Nablus using information allegedly provided by the PSF
(International Crisis Group, 2010:36).
Human Rights Watch believed that the PA was extremely lax in prosecuting
security officials for torture and ill-treatment of detainees. Between 2007 and 2010 for
example, the period when the NSF were carrying out their stabilisation operations, the
PSF had allegedly been responsible for the deaths in custody of eight detainees in the
West Bank. Palestinian detainees registered 106 complaints of torture with the human
63
rights commission from January through to September 2010 (Human Rights Watch,
2011:208).
The public began to resent the presence and actions of the NSF. The
intelligence and security services were seen as functioning outside the scope of the
law. NGOs pointed to increased use of torture and illegal detentions (Bouris &
Reigeluth, 2012:5). This was not lost on those sent to train the NSF. Neil Page, policing
advisor to the USSC, observed that when talking to Palestinian civilians they often told
him that ‘When I see a green uniform (the NSF) it might as well be an Israeli, we’re
swapping one occupation for another’ (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30,
2013).
As a result of their research, the Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed
Forces (DCAF) suggested that the PSF promoted force instead of gradual institution
building and reform. Those in charge of the security forces, DCAF believe, needed to
make a mental shift in order to address the changing nature of the challenge (2008:2).
At the same time as the US was training the NSF, the EUPOL COPPS set out to
rapidly professionalise the civilian police in the West Bank. The mission’s objective was
to assist the PA in building the institutions of a future State in the areas of policing and
criminal justice under Palestinian ownership and in accordance with the best
international standards (Bulut, 2009:288). Accordingly the training focused on
community crime fighting and maintaining public order. These therefore would be the
police officers who would, it was hoped, resume the day to day liaison and partnership
with the ISF.
The role of EUPOL COPPS was to provide support to the PCP for both
immediate operational priorities and longer-term transformational change. In order to
do this they adopted a more holistic approach to their task. They advised the senior
leaders of the PCP, and ensured liaison with Palestinian and international stakeholders
and coordinated and monitored donor assistance (Kristoff, 2012:5). This civilianisation
of the Palestinian police was linked directly into the PA’s strategic thinking. The
Ministry of Interior believed that a professionally trained and self-sufficient Palestinian
64
Civil Police was the cornerstone of law and order which would eventually lead to a
secure and independent Palestinian state (Bouris & Reigeluth, 2012:8).
The EU operation delivered a breadth of courses including inter alia, human
rights, proportionate response to force, community service, communication skills,
crowd control, crisis management, manoeuvring skills, defensive techniques and first
aid. The ethics of the course are based on the idea that the police should serve the
citizens (ibid.).
As a result of the EU training the PCP now numbers approximately 7,300
officers. They are responsible for daily policing, including arresting criminals,
controlling traffic, and keeping general order. A relatively small, special rapid
deployment unit handles complex situations such as riots or counterterrorism activities
(US Government Accountability Office, 2010, p13). This public order unit within the
PCP, the Special Police Unit (SPU) is 1350 officers strong, trained by the French CRS and
operates at a standard equally comparable, and probably better than most European
agencies (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30, 2013). The capability of this unit
means that the need for the NSF to be deployed on the streets has significantly
reduced.
The EU and US however were not the only countries providing training to the
PSF. In 2011 for example PSF officers undertook training courses in Jordan as well as
seminars in the West Bank (Faayad, 2011:19). Other countries such as Russia and China
have trained and supported the PG in advanced tactics whilst Turkey has delivered
extensive traffic police training for the PCP (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30,
2013).
The training was seen as not only a chance to build the capability of the
Palestinians but also as a way of reintroducing the security cooperation between the
two sides. Prior to the second intifada face to face interaction between the ISF and PSF
had been a positive daily occurrence. Meetings at both strategic and tactical levels had
been routine. The EUPOL COPPS and USSC programmes included the opportunity for
joint training courses and seminars. As with the political level, trust and faith in the
65
intentions and capability of both sides were seen as critical for rebuilding cooperative
security protocols.
Whilst the international community was focused on building competence and
capacity within the PSF, the Palestinians and Israelis were rebuilding the liaison
structures that had, to a degree, lain dormant during the intifada. Initially the Israeli
coordination with the PA was limited to prior notification when incursions occurred
into Area A, during which the Palestinians were required to withdraw in order to avoid
friction between the two forces (International Crisis Group, 2010:22).
However as the confidence and trust began to return so did the extent of
cooperation. In 2009 for example there were over a thousand coordinated activities
(Byman, 2012:842).
At both strategic and tactical levels the Israelis and Palestinians resumed their
regular rounds of information sharing and coordination meetings. These ranged from
the IDF and PSF commanders meeting on a monthly basis, through joint workshops on
counter-narcotics and vehicle crime, to exchange visits (N. Page. Personal
communication, July 30, 2013). In 2011 the JSC structure held 440 meetings and in the
first six months of 2012 (the most recent figures available) they held 300 meetings
(ibid.).
By 2012 the PML was once again an effective coordination unit. However the
legacy of the loss of trust between the two sides at operational level as well as
strategic/political caused by the early stages of the Intifada in 2000, clearly remained.
The PML’s tasks therefore focused now more on de-confliction rather than active
cooperation (Joint Security Committee, 2012:3).
It would be naïve to think that the liaison structure, particularly at the
operational level, proceeded without occasional negative frictions. However, by 2013
the PML had resumed all tasks of coordinating movement of military convoys and
patrols from Area A to all other areas within the West bank. Its role includes the
coordination of police operations, including armed escort of dangerous criminals and
detained persons, distribution of judicial warrants, arraignment of wanted culprits,
66
regulation of the flow of traffic, dealing with mines, suspicious objects and Israeli
unexploded ordnance, and coordination for persons detained by Palestinian General
Intelligence, Preventative Security, and Military Intelligence (Joint Security Committee,
2012:5).
Case study 1 – Murder of Palestinian male
Ramallah can be accessed from Israel proper by a number of Israeli checkpoints,
one of which is at El-Jeeb. Due to the geographical boundaries of Area A around
Ramallah the PSF are not allowed to approach the crossing without significant
coordination. The reality is that their area of routine operation falls several
kilometres short of the crossing. On the 20th of August 2013 a Palestinian male
was murdered and his body abandoned on the main road to Ramallah from the ElJeeb crossing approximately 2 km outside the PSF’s normal area.
The IDF responded to the scene and after an initial investigation formed the
theory that this was a Palestinian inter-family matter best dealt with by the PCP.
With hostile and emotional families gathering in the heat of the day authority was
sought for the PCP to travel the 2 km from Ramallah to take over the
investigation.
In line with protocols the coordination was managed through the IDF’s Civil
Administration Office (a partner office to the DCO) for Judea and Samaria, a
department based in Beit-El within Israel’s military command known as COGAT
(Coordinator Of Government Activities in the Territories).
The authorisation took six hours to arrange.
By this time rival families had turned up, roads were blocked, the crossing was
closed and rumours circulated that the victim had been shot by the IDF. The PCP
resources required to manage the scene and the developing incident were
increased therefore by their delay in arriving. More units were called for and the
authorisation cycle continued.
In the years leading to the second intifada this incident would have been dealt
with immediately by a joint patrol. It would seem that the legacy of the intifada is
67
such that the lack of trust remains and as a result these types of incidents will
continue to be unnecessarily complex (J. Parnell, personal communication, August
20, 2013).
Whilst joint patrols have not returned the exchange of tactical information has. The
Shin Bet provides lists of wanted militants who are then arrested by the PSF. As far as
the IDF and Israeli intelligence officials are concerned the cooperation has never been
as extensive with ‘coordination better in all respects’ (International Crisis Group,
2010:21). Furthermore, extensive International Crisis Group interviews with IDF
personnel reveal that the IDF believe that whilst in the recent past the PSF were
divided and internally ill-coordinated, leading Israel to work with only some of them,
their current more centralised Palestinian apparatus, enables Israel to coordinate
across the entire PA region (2010:21).
Case study 2 – PG VIP movement
Only two days after the murder at El-Jeeb a UK protected VIP movement took
place from Jerusalem across the border at Hizma near Ramallah, travelling north
to Nablus and then back out through Jal Joulia into Israel proper. This would
involve starting and finishing in Area C whilst crossing through a number of zones
within Areas A and B.
A request was made for support from the Palestinian Presidential Guard (PG) for
the sections within their authorised operational zone, Area A.
The request was routed through the UN, to the Civil Administration in COGAT, the
DCO, the PML and then the PG. The process took three days however the result
was unexpected. The PG were authorised to undertake the full movement from
Hizma to Jal Joulia. They were permitted to be armed and unescorted by IDF. The
only restrictions placed on the PG were that they covered up the blue lights on
their vehicles and travelled in plain clothes.
This not only demonstrated significant faith by the IDF in the capabilities and
professional restraint of the PG it also represented a significant risk of
68
compromise considering the proximity the convoy would have to sensitive areas
within the West bank.
This was not a decision the IDF would have taken lightly and was an
unprecedented authorisation. Although the IDF did not deploy on the ground with
them, so there was no actual joint working, it demonstrated a level of trust that
would not have taken place a few years ago.
The training and capability of units such as the PG are, it can be argued, beginning
to influence the relationship they have with the ISF (J. Parnell, personal
communication, August 20, 2013).
‘One step forward, two steps back.’
The history of the Middle East peace process is littered with incredulity around the
actions of both sides. The ability to literally snatch defeat from the jaws of victory is a
trait seen time and again. The Rabin assassination and Arafat’s refusal at Camp David
have already been discussed, however as the 2013 Kerry sponsored negotiations
begin, three perennial hurdles to a negotiated peace and generator of friction between
the ISF and PSF again emerge – the disparity of the two legal systems, IDF incursions
and roadblocks, and the settler issue.
Currently half-a-million Israelis now live in illegal settlements in the West Bank
and East Jerusalem. More than 1700 military orders have been issued by the military
commander who has legislative, executive and judicial powers over two and a half
million Palestinians and at least 730,000 Palestinian men, women and children have
been prosecuted in military courts and imprisoned (Duaibis, 2013:3).
Whilst Israeli settlements on the West Bank dominate the political debate they
also have a significant impact on the relationship between the Palestinian and Israeli
security forces.
The IDF’s formal, primary mission in the West Bank is to protect Jews from
Arabs, not Arabs from Jews. This has led to a situation where assaults upon Arabs and
their property by settlers are not viewed by the IDF as its responsibility (Aronson,
69
2012:209). However, with no joint patrolling with the PSF, and restrictions placed on
how close the PCP can get to settlements the Palestinian response to these incidents is
limited. The Oslo requirement to hand over Israelis detained and the fact that
Palestinian law does not apply to Israelis on the West Bank, further frustrates the
population and damages any attempts to create an impression of joint security
responsibility.
Settler attacks on Palestinian residents tripled between 2009 and 2011.
Extremist settlers launched almost 300 attacks on Palestinian property in 2011 alone,
which resulted in over 100 Palestinian casualties and caused extensive property
damage for Palestinian farmers, who lost approximately 10,000 trees (Madsen,
2013:20).
The settlers however do not reserve their aggression solely for the Palestinians.
In 2011, 100 Israelis protesting the impending court-ordered evacuation of a
settlement outpost travelled from Jerusalem to assault a military base in the West
Bank. A crowd of 50 entered the camp, threw rocks, burned tires and otherwise
vandalized military vehicles before retreating. There were no arrests. The IDF, which
defends its people, found itself defending itself against its people (Aronson, 2012:209).
However as Byman identifies, if Palestinian security forces try to increase the
scope of their activities, they would run afoul of Israel’s settlers in the West Bank,
inevitably bringing confrontations. A decline or even collapse of security cooperation
remains a constant risk (2012:843). Former Palestinian PM Faayad is in agreement but
adds the stark warning that; ‘the window of opportunity to secure a viable two-state
solution is now mortally threatened by Israel’s settlement policy, the continuation of
which will undermine the remaining opportunity of building an independent
Palestinian State’ (2011:5).
The cooperation that developed between the PSF and IDF in the initial postOslo years led to concerns and claims of collaboration. The inability to undertake joint
patrols and operations now generates a situation where the IDF carry out their
incursions into PA controlled areas on their own. This has in turn generated a
70
paradoxical situation with the IDF now accused of making the PSF look weak as they
are perceived as not being able to protect the Palestinians from these military
incursions. As one West Bank governor observed, ‘It is a question of respect. Nothing
undermines Palestinian civilians’ respect for their security services more than Israeli
incursions into the heart of our cities’ (International Crisis Group, 2010:19). It is
suggested therefore that the security forces are losing their legitimacy because they
cannot protect the people against Israeli military actions and incursions (DCAF,
2008:6).
According to USSC figures for the period 1st to 15th of December 2012 there
were 425 incursions and raids into PA controlled areas by IDF troops, 15 assaults on
PSF staff and 25 assaults by settlers (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30, 2013).
The lack of public security coordination would seem to be as damaging if not
more so than the previous accusations of collaboration. Byman believes that Israel
must enhance the status and capabilities of Palestinian security forces in the West
Bank. As Palestinian forces stand up, Israeli security can stand down, creating a benign
circle: Palestinian credibility will grow, and their ability to fight terrorism will increase
(2012:844). Israeli counterterrorism therefore must change, he states, with measures
including working with, as opposed to undermining, Palestinian security forces in the
West Bank (2012:827).
It is not simply the IDF’s incursions damaging the PSF’s reputation that impacts
on their ability to effectively police the West Bank communities, particularly the more
remote ones. There are numerous official and unofficial road closures, as well as the
non-contiguous nature of the West Bank Areas which prevent the PSF responding to
the public they serve. The IDF however move across the West Bank unimpeded. As one
US analyst put it ‘Israel recognises the divisions between Areas A, B and C when it
comes to defining Palestinian zones of operation but tends to ignore them when it
comes to defining its own’ (International Crisis Group, 2010:20).
In June 2009 for example there were road 613 closures within the West Bank,
68 of which were permanently staffed checkpoints (Byman, 2012:833). It can be seen
71
then that whilst large numbers of Israeli checkpoints and road closures enhance
Israel’s security they in turn frustrate the development of the PSF’s capability (Kurtzer
& Lasensky, 2008:44).
Furthermore PSF officers claim that they are regularly treated disrespectfully by
their Israeli counterparts, even in public. When PSF vehicles pass through IDF
checkpoints, they are often searched and occasionally IDF soldiers order Palestinian
officers to dismount their cars during inspections occasionally in front of Palestinian
civilians (International Crisis Group, 2010:23).
As is often the way with practical police officers, the PCP have tried to find a
way of working around these closures and restrictions. If the circumstances warrant it
for example, the PCP will get into plain clothes, leave their weapons behind and drive
in unmarked cars to get to their destination. They have also, on occasions, arrested an
individual and then crossed back through the checkpoint with the prisoner in the boot
of their car (N. Page. Personal communication, July 30, 2013).
Frustrated by their inability to reach those in need some PCP officers have
resorted to handing out the telephone number of the local IDF commander in
response to requests by villagers for protection against marauding settlers (Aronson,
2012:208). Former Palestinian PM Fayaad is unambiguous about the impact of IDF
activities, he believes that military incursions and other activities undermine the PA’s
national security efforts, and impacts on their ability to meet the safety and security
needs of Palestinians outside Area A (Faayad, 2011:17).
Conclusion
Security cooperation between Israeli and Palestinian forces has existed on the West
Bank, was effective and improved the security of both sides, for a limited period.
However as has been shown the perceived line between cooperation and collaboration
is a thin one, which poses a virtually insurmountable challenge for the PSF’s efforts to
win Palestinian hearts and minds (International Crisis Group, 2010:36).
72
The military are an entwined aspect of Israeli society at all levels, most
importantly within the political sphere. For this reason the key decision makers within
the Israeli government will understand the need to empower the Palestinian security
forces. The two-state solution cannot progress without a secure and stable West Bank.
The West Bank cannot be secure without an effective and capable PSF. The PSF in turn
cannot be effective without the support and committed cooperation of the IDF at both
strategic and tactical levels. As most conceivable variations on a Palestinian-Israeli final
status accord will leave one or other rejectionist group unsatisfied and prepared to
continue to fight against Israel (RAND, 2005:41), the challenges are convincing firstly a
nervous population on both sides of the Security Wall that cooperation is not the same
as collaboration, and secondly the political right from both sides of the Western Wall
that a compromised peace is better than a third intifada
The settler issue and its impact on a cohesive security process has dogged the
process since the signing of the Oslo accords. In September 1995, only two months
before Rabin’s assassination, a group of rabbis from various settlements called for
religious soldiers within the IDF to refuse orders involved in the implementation of the
accords (Pedahzur & Perliger, 2011:100). As one Israeli commentator explained;
‘Today it seems that the biggest threat to the quiet in the territories comes not from
the Palestinians, but from irresponsible provocations of the zealous, insane margins of
the Israeli right wing’ (Aronson, 2012:208).
The problem however is not simply, if that is the right word, about the internal
extreme politics of both sides. The PSF on the West Bank has to contend with a zone of
operations that is both fragmented and far-flung. They cannot move personnel,
vehicles, or arms between different PA autonomous areas without prior Israeli
permission. They are compelled to scatter or duplicate human and material resources,
making centralised administration difficult (Sayigh, 2011:8).
Due to this fragmentation and the legacy of the intifada, it is Israel that largely
decides the scope and content of the cooperation, and the PSF has to comply. The
result is that Palestinian officials often claim that the IDF treats them as
73
subcontractors, which furthers the image of coordination as a form of collaboration
(International Crisis Group, 2010:23).
There will always be those who see cooperation as collaboration. However it
could be argued that the more covert the cooperation the more suspicious it looks.
Commentators such as the Christisons believe that the fact that the PCP patrol Nabulus
(in Area A) during the day but pull out at night to enable the IDF to conduct raids
signifies that the PA are simply a tool of the occupation (2009:121). If this position
becomes the dominant public view then it is unlikely that there will ever be a truly
cooperative approach to security on the West Bank.
The evidence however does not all point towards a negative outcome. As the
Quartet maintain, the ability of the PA to conduct effective law enforcement has
improved and that this shift is reflected in an enhanced public sense of security and
stability (Blair, 2011:14). Maintaining that public confidence and trust is the critical
challenge.
Therefore the work that continues to be put in to rebuild the trust and
cooperation between the Israeli and Palestinian security forces will be wasted unless
the public on both sides, and the Palestinians in particular, come to embrace the new
concept of security as cooperation over collaboration as the only way to secure a
Palestinian state. The future should not be dominated by the past. Daniel Taub, the
Israeli Ambassador to the UK was a negotiator during previous rounds of Palestinian
talks. His view on this is clear:
When negotiating with the Palestinians you have competing voices from your own
side. Particularly significant are those of the grandparents calling for revenge and
the grandchildren calling for a peaceful future. Your responsibility as a negotiator
is to ensure that the voices of the grandchildren are at least as loud as those of
the grandparents’ (D. Taub, personal communication, February 15, 2013).
74
Finally, Ami Ayalon, who admits that on retiring from the Shin Bet all officers become a
bit leftist, has a warning for his successors that is equally valid for the Palestinians;
‘Victory is creating a better political reality. The tragedy of Israel’s public security
debate is that we don’t realise that we face a frustrating situation in which we win
every battle but lose the war’ (Moreh, 2012).
Glossary
al-Aqsa
Terrorist organisation associated with Fattah formed during the second intifada.
Martyrs
Brigade
DCO
District Coordinating Office – Sits below and reports to the RSC tasking and
monitoring joint operational deployments.
DFID
Department For International Development – UK government Ministry
EUCOPPS
European Coordination Office for Palestinian Police Support,
EUPOL
European Police Coordination Office for Palestinian Police Support – Successor
COPPS
to the EUCOPPS,
Fattah
Primary political group within the PA.
Gendarmerie
Civilian police officers with military leadership.
Hamas
Current De facto government of Gaza however still recognised by most
governments, including the UK and USA, as a terrorist organisation.
IDF
Israeli Defence Force – Unified branches of the Israeli military.
ISF
Israeli Security Forces – Generic grouping for military, police and intelligence
agencies.
JSC
Joint Security Committee – Coordination unit created by the Oslo Accords.
NGO
Non-Governmental Organisation
PA
Palestinian Authority
PCP
Palestinian Civil Police
75
PG
Presidential Guard – Palestinian security force reporting to the President.
PIJ
Palestinian Islamic Jihad – Terrorist organisation predominantly operating
within Gaza.
PLO
Palestinian Liberation Organisation
PML
Palestinian Military Liaison – Palestinian link into the JSC
PSF
Palestinian Security Forces – Generic grouping for military, police and
intelligence agencies.
Quartet, The
Joint Middle East Peace initiative formed by America, Russia, the UN and EU
RSC
Regional Security Committee – Sits below and reports to the JSC.
Shin Bet /
Israeli internal security and intelligence agency.
Shabak
SSR
Security Sector Reform
USSC
United States’ Security Coordinator.
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The European Union as a regional power and
international actor: a coherent approach to the
Eastern neighbourhood?
Niels Bogegaard
Abstract
This study analyzes the EU’s European Neighbourhood Policy towards its nearest
Eastern neighbours on the basis of coherence. It does so, because coherence is a
prerequisite for international actorness and therefore also for the EU’s visibility,
effectiveness and credibility as a foreign policy actor. When analysing the ENP, the
study is inspired by Cremona’s multi-layered conceptualization of coherence with
some alterations in how it is conceptualized and applied. The study finds that the
ENP is rather incoherent, but also that the coherence of the policy has improved
since a review in 2011. The core issue in the ENP is a lack of overall guiding
principles and substance. On the basis of this analysis, the paper discusses how
the EU acts in its neighbourhood based on the parameters of visibility,
effectiveness and credibility leading to a conclusion which questions the EU’s
ambition of becoming a recognized and influential international actor.
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Acknowledgements
I would first of all like to thank my supervisor Dr Neil Winn at the School of Politics and
International Studies, University of Leeds for giving me guidance and support. I would
also like to express my gratitude to Grethe and Odd. Thank you for opening up your
house for me and giving me support. Also, thank you Mike for the invaluable
comments and constructive feedback during this process. Your positive attitude and
encouragements are greatly appreciated. Furthermore, a big thank you to my parents
for always believing in me and helping me when I need it. Last, but not least Thea,
without you this project would never have happened. You are my inspiration and
guiding light.
Introduction
What kind of actor the EU is internationally has preoccupied academia for a long time,
especially since the establishment of the European Political Cooperation in 1970 when
the foundation for the current Union’s foreign policy system was laid. This has resulted
in a long, diverse academic tradition discussing the scope and width of the EU’s
international clout (see for instance Manners (2002), Zielonka (2006) or Bretherton
and Vogler (2006)). These different assessments reveal how difficult it is to evaluate
the impact and weight of the Union’s policies abroad. Often research in this area
focuses on enlargement as a special kind of foreign policy. Whether arguing that the
EU is a normative power house such as Manners (2002); some kind of neo-medieval
postmodernist Empire such as Zielonka (2006); or “just” an international actor with its
own values, such as Hyde-Price (2006) or Youngs (2004), it is fruitful to examine the
EU’s policy in its near abroad. The CEEC enlargement process showed that the EU’s
impact vis-à-vis its neighbors is greater than towards other actors. Therefore proximity
policies offer the best way of examining the EU’s regional (and global) clout. Thus, this
paper will focus on the ENP.
There is a genuine need to examine the EU’s foreign policy, and especially the
neighborhood policy, in relation to coherence. Although research has been done in this
particular field, little agreement exists on how to measure and define the subject.
83
Building upon that, this paper will reflect on the implications of the level of coherence
in the ENP on the EU’s ambition to be a more influential international actor. From the
Laeken declaration it can be read that the EU aims to be a power that can stabilize
international affairs and offer guidance to other countries and peoples (Council, 2000:
2). To do this, the EU needs visible, effective and credible policies, and coherence plays
a significant role as a prerequisite for achieving this. Thus, the ENP will be analysed on
the basis of its level of coherence. It will be argued that the EU’s neighbourhood policy
is rather incoherent and significant reasons exist for the EU to try to increase the
policy’s overall coherence. This process is already in motion to some extent, since a
review from 2011 has improved the coherence of the policy. Still, the core issue in the
ENP is a lack of overarching, guiding principles and substance. Following this analysis of
the ENP, the second part of the paper will consider the implications of the lack of
coherence on the EU’s level of actorness, based on the parameters; visibility,
effectiveness and credibility.
When applying the framework, the paper will focus on the nearest Eastern
neighbours; Ukraine and Moldova. Belarus will not be considered, other than
observing here that developments in the political and economic ties between Belarus
and the EU have been miniscule. No real progress has been apparent, since the
isolation of Belarus by the EU in 1997 (Smith, 2011: 319). This research strategy also
means that the Mediterranean and Caucasian part of the neighbourhood policy will
not be investigated, primarily because the former perspective has been included in the
policy due to political considerations and (post-colonialist) agendas of specific Member
States, such as France (Bechev and Nicolaïdis, 2008), and the latter only after the Rose
revolution in Georgia in 2003, forcing the EU to reward the region (Primatarova, 2005:
24). Furthermore, the countries in those two regions do not have a membership
prospect as the EU has rejected such a claim on principle. Therefore, only the nearest
western CIS countries are potential members – bringing into play the
partnership/membership dynamic, which has led Ukraine to view the ENP in a preaccession light (Sasse, 2010: 188). Therefore, the primary focus of this study will be on
84
Ukraine as it is the largest and most important neighbor in the Eastern dimension of
the ENP.
As part of the preparation of accession of the CEEC, Malta and Cyprus in 2004
and 2007, the ENP was formulated as the EU’s response to the new dividing lines in
Europe. Since its first introduction in 2003 the policy has been continuously developed
– most recently with a review in 2010/11. This development has been in the
background of what some authors have coined a growing “enlargement fatigue”
[Erweiterungsmüdigkeit] (Faber, 2008: 61). For the EU, the prospect of an ever larger
Union is undesirable. According to former Commission President Romano Prodi,
“accession is not the only game in town” and therefore, relations with the neighbors
should be based on the notion that the EU has to offer “more than partnership but less
than membership” (Prodi, 2002: 4). Approaching the neighborhood in this manner
raises interesting questions on whether the ENP offers a framework for the EU to
address the political, economic and social challenges on its border to serve the foreign
and security interests of the Union. As the ENP has been designed as a particular
expression of a multi-pillar, multi-institutional and multi-level policy, it offers an
interesting academic possibility for discussing coherence in relation to foreign policy.
According to Cremona and Hilion, the ENP is a “policy designed to meet the challenge
of ensuring coherence between the three EU pillars” (Cremona and Hilion, 2006: 1).
Yet, what is coherence?
Conceptual and theoretical framework: Coherence
As a concept, coherence has been part of the agenda of the European Union for a long
time. Already in 1969, during the heads of state meeting in the Hague, the notion of
coherence was referred to in this quote: the EU needs “to stick together to bring
weight on international events and to exercise international responsibilities” (quoted
in Nuttall (2001: 2). Coherence can therefore be seen as a prerequisite for asserting
influence abroad and to protect itself from unwanted influence at home (Ekengren and
Sundelius, 2004: 110).
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The emphasis on coherence increased gradually as the complexity of the Union rose.
For instance, when the European Political Cooperation was formalized as an
intergovernmental component supplementing the internal community with a foreign
policy dimension in the Single European Act of 1987, the importance of how this new
foreign policy dimension could be reconciled with the supranational institutions rose
significantly (Tietje, 1997: 214). Coherence is therefore closely linked to EU integration.
With the formal establishment of the CFSP under the Maastricht Treaty and the
creation of the intergovernmental pillar, the need for ensuring unity became even
more important as the institutional setup was complicated further (Gebhard, 2011:
104). The civil war in the Balkans, and the ensuing humanitarian crisis, showed that the
EU faced significant challenges in becoming a visible, effective and credible
international actor, since it had huge difficulties in matching strategies with
expectations and providing resources for implementation – something Chris Hill coined
as the expectations-capabilities gap (Hill, 1993). After internal policy development,
High Representative Solana presented the ESS in 2003 as a response to the critique on
the EU’s handling of the crisis on the Balkans, the 9/11 terror attack, and the European
split over the American invasion of Iraq (Lucarelli and Manners, 2006: 211). It is
therefore not a surprise that the ESS highlights coherence as a prerequisite for
improved international performance of the EU (Solana, 2003). Yet, achieving
coherence while expanding with ten additional members proved challenging. The
Lisbon treaty therefore introduced changes to how the EU operates, for instance by a
drive for ‘de-pillarization” and the creation of new institutions, such as the EEAS. Still,
it can be discussed how much has really changed. The CFSP remains subject to special
provisions and procedures outside OLP and beyond the jurisdiction of the Court of
Justice (with exceptions). Furthermore, there is an attempt to avoid crosscontamination between the CFSP and other (community) policy areas, meaning that
they work within their own sphere (Cremona, 2008b: 32).
As can be seen, coherence has received more and more attention in Brussels –
yet, it highlights some conceptual issues, especially as it has been seen as both a
political requirement in the EU and a source of (normative) concern to policy-makers
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and scholars. It is clear that the concept’s interdisciplinary character combined with
the complexity of the EU makes it difficult to conceptualize and it has also preoccupied
both legal and political scholars in the academic literature.
For legal analyses see for instance: Bertea (2005), Cremona (2008b), Dworkin
(1986), Gauttier (2004), Hilion (2008) and Tietje (1997); for political analyses:
Christiansen (2011), De Jong and Schunz (2012), Duke (2012), Koehler (2010), Missiroli
(2001), Missiroli (2005), Nuttall (2001), Nuttall (2005), Portela and Raube (2009),
Reynart (2012), Smith (2001), Thomas (2012), and Trauner (2011).
The concept has been the subject of heated discussions and is essentially
contested. Thus, there is a lack of agreement on how to define and measure it (Bertea,
2005: 159; Thomas, 2012: 458). While some authors focus on the institutional
perspective (such as Bertea (2005), Christiansen (2011), Cremona (2008b), Duke
(2012), Missiroli (2001b), Missiroli (2010), Reynaert (2012), M.E. Smith (2001), Tietje
(1997) and Tulmets (2008)), others focus on the policy-output (such as Aubert (2012),
De Jong and Schunz (2012), Dwan (2001), Economides (2001), Thomas (2012) and
Trauner (2011)). Some of these differences are purely analytical, but some also
concern conceptual understandings. As an illustrative example of this disagreement on
what to call the concept, article 7 of the TFEU states: The Union shall ensure
consistency between its policies and activities, taking all of its objectives into account
and in accordance with the principle of conferral of powers. (emphasis added)
As can be seen, the term ‘consistency’ is used in the English version. In the
continental translations however, the term ‘coherence’ is used (i.e. cohérence in
French, coherencia in Spanish and Kohärenz in German (Gebhard, 2011: 105)).
Although used interchangeably in the treaties, there are important differences
between these concepts, which the treaties do not take into account (Tietje, 1997:
213). This also relates to the academic use of the term. Tietje (1997) argues that
consistency is the lack of contradictions, while coherence is a quest for synergy and
added value (see also Missiroli (2001b), Reynaert (2010)). Therefore, as Missiroli
(2001b: 4) writes “it is quite conceivable that something is more or less coherent”.
Coherence is a matter of degree, while consistency is a static notion of either or not.
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Tietje argues that consistency is a necessary condition of coherence, but not a
sufficient one (Tietje, 1997: 213). Following this line of thought, Bertea (2005: 159)
argues that coherence is made up of more primitive elements and should at least
include consistency, comprehensiveness, completeness and continuity. His
conceptualization is, however, rather inaccurate. Although Bertea acknowledges the
need to weight and balance these different notions, his operationalization of the key
concepts is too vague. Cremona (2008b), on the other hand, offers a much more
fruitful conceptualization. She suggests a multilayered definition comprising three
concepts operating on both the horizontal and vertical level: horizontal coherence
refers to the application of EU foreign policy mechanisms between different EU
institutions, while vertical coherence denoting the degree to which Member State
policies support common EU positions (Nuttall, 2001). The first concept is clear rules of
hierarchy to ensure conflict avoidance and the resolving of conflicts. For instance,
Community rules have primacy over national rules. Secondly, tasks must be allocated
effectively to avoid duplication and gaps through rules of delimitation. For instance,
each institution should work inside their own domain. Thirdly, the concept also
involves synergy between norms, actors and institutions through principles of
cooperation and complementarity (Cremona, 2008b: 14-16).
Rules of delimitation can therefore function on both a horizontal and a vertical
level. This might be counterintuitive, since rules of delimitation can be seen as
inherently horizontal, because they are used to settle and prevent “turf wars”.
However, they are also relevant on the vertical level in the respect that turf wars also
need to be settled between the EU institutions and the Member States. One key
criticism of Cremona that can be raised is an apparent inconsistency, rather
paradoxically, in distinguishing between the horizontal and institutional perspectives
of coherence. She includes the institutional level within the horizontal level, since she
defines it as the inter-policy and inter-pillar coherence (Cremona, 2008b: 19), but also
includes an individual analysis of institutional coherence. While it lowers her analytical
credibility somewhat, it does not alter the way this paper employs the framework by
adhering to the horizontal and vertical perspective as Nuttall (2001) conceptualizes
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them. For a discussion of the different definitions of coherence see for instance
Gebhard, 2011 and Nuttall, 2001 who disagree on the definition of horizontal and
institutional coherence. This author agrees more with Nuttall’s conceptualization in
that his definition is more analytical stringent.
Operationalization and methodology
Unlike Cremona (2008b), who uses three levels, this analysis will rely on two levels:
rules of hierarchy and rules of delimitation. The former will be used to investigate the
objectives and political goals of the EU’s neighborhood policy. Is it possible to identify
a hierarchy of the policies, programs and initiatives within the remit of the
neighborhood policy? If it is not clear that a hierarchy exists on a political level it points
towards incoherence. The latter, rules of delimitation, will be operationalized as what
instruments and methodologies are used to implement the policy. Are these in
concordance with the political aims and goals, and is the policy clearly
operationalized?
Because Cremona’s conceptualization is based on a legal tradition, the way she
has conceptualized the framework there is a solid focus on the rules of the political
game, both substantially and normatively. Within the framework, therefore, the
hierarchical and delimitating levels are employed to investigate levels of consistency,
with the third level, cooperation and complementarity, investigating whether or not
the actors within the EU system, including the Member States, are faithful to the
principles of the policy on the implementation level and to what extent they work
together to further those principles. Yet, I would argue that the latter becomes
redundant by the way this paper conceptualizes the framework, as focus is more on
policy and implementation. Thus, Cremona’s third level, cooperation and
complementarity, is an inherent part of my conceptualization, as these notions are
essentially involving how the ENP is instrumentalsed and implemented. Furthermore,
Cremona’s conceptualization is a general framework offering scholars an opportunity
to investigate the coherence of the general political system of the European Union,
meaning that it is not specifically aimed at investigating the ENP or any other policy
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specifically. By adjusting the framework it can more readily and more precisely be used
to perform an analysis of the ENP, as the ENP is a Union policy with Member States
primarily only playing important roles in furthering the policy as rotating presidents of
the Council (and by being sovereign nation states with independent foreign policies).
Of course, interesting perspectives concerning (in)coherence can be identified in this
respect, but these can without any issue be covered with the proposed research
model.
When applying the framework, the paper will primarily rely on content analysis
of political and legal documents produced within the EU system supplemented by
studies carried out by other scholars. Content analysis is understood in its broadest
conceptualization offered by Ole Holsti as “any technique for making inferences by
objectively and systematically identifying specified characteristics of messages” (Holsti,
1969: 14). In this regard, the theory can be said to be used to “split” the empirical
world into manageable parts, in this particular instance meaning the ENP and the two
levels it is analyzed on, which allows for consideration of specific contexts within the
foreign policy of the EU (Beach, 2012: 9). However, this is not an explanatory analysis
pointing to why or why not the ENP is incoherent, but rather focusing on the nuances
of how it is or is not coherent. Approaching the study thusly allows for taking into
account the highly complex matter of the subject of analysis, and being very context
(and case)-specific. This means that the approach will rely on the “classical”
International Relations methodology of scholarly interpretation of events and
observations (Jackson and Sørensen, 2007: 41). King, Keohane and Verba argue that
the goal of any social science research should be to generate scientific inference and
thus to provide knowledge beyond the immediate observations (King, Keohane and
Verba, 1994: 8). This study will besides empirical inference also provide what Yin has
termed theoretical inference in that the boundaries of the chosen theory can be
assessed as well as its strengths and weaknesses (Yin, 1994: 37).
In what follows, I will assess the level of coherence in the EU’s policy under the
ENP towards the nearest neighbours, using the above theoretical framework and
operationalization, which will be followed by a reflection on the implication of this on
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the EU’s ambition and attempt at becoming a more visible, effective and credible
international actor. Lastly, an evaluation of the theoretical framework and a conclusion
will be offered. First, a brief introduction to the ENP.
The genesis of the European Neighborhood policy – actorness and security
Stability, prosperity, shared values and rule of law along our borders are all
fundamental for our own security (Javier Solana and Chris Patten, 2002). With the
decision in 2002 to enlarge the EU with ten new countries, demands were made that
the EU needed a framework to deal with the redrawn map of Europe, as the Union’s
neighbourhood was expanded far into Eastern Europe and the Southern Caucasus.
Right on the border of the EU would be political instability, poverty, corruption and
high rates of crime. These new neighbours posed a significant, potential threat to the
security of the Union, and this prompted a reaction. Former High Representative Javier
Solana and Commissioner for External Relations Chris Patten therefore wrote a paper
called Wider Europe that initiated a debate on how the Union should approach its
expanded neighbourhood. Yet, only seeing this as a response to enlargement is too
narrow; equally important was the question of how the EU could increase its foreign
policy strength to become a more credible and recognized international actor
following the calamitous mishandling of the civil war in the former Yugoslavia in the
1990s and the expansion of the Petersburg tasks in the treaty of Amsterdam (see also
article 42 in the TEU).
After the Council of the European Union had agreed on the big bang
enlargement in late 2002, Solana expanded on the Wider Europe letter by formulating
the ESS that also serves as the basis for the ENP. It is in the European interest that
countries on our borders are well-governed. Neighbours who are engaged in violent
conflict, weak states where organised crime flourishes, dysfunctional societies or
exploding population growth on its borders all pose problems for Europe (Solana,
2003: 8). It has therefore been argued that the ENP can be seen as the
operationalization of the ESS (Biscop, 2010: 73, Cremona, 2008a: 244) and a way to
further its objectives (Whitman and Wolff, 2010: 7). This argument is based on the
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three overarching objective sstability, prosperity and security, being evident in the ENP
(see also the above quote).
Interestingly enough and as an indicator of the importance given to the policy
as part of EU foreign policy, the legal basis for the ENP is found in article 8 (1) in the
TEU, which states the Union shall develop a special relationship with neighbouring
countries, aiming to establish an area of prosperity and good neighbourliness, founded
on the values of the Union and characterized by close and peaceful relations based on
cooperation.
It is quite significant that the basis of the ENP is outside the TFEU dedicated to
the EU foreign policy and rather included the TEU. It might be explained by the
enlargements in 2004 and 2007, where the new eastern members, especially Poland,
pushed for putting a neighbourhood policy on the agenda of the TEU (Tulmets, 2008:
113). They were concerned about the lack of EU engagement and policy in Eastern
Europe, and thus became vocal in furthering the ENP. In 2003, Poland issued a nonpaper calling for an Eastern dimension to EU foreign policy in which relations should be
differentiated, based on bilateral relations with each capital. The Polish proposal relied
to a large extent on the Polish experience with enlargement and their proposal
excluded Russia, because Russia did not aspire to become an EU Member (Kratochvil
and Tulmets, 2007: 4). But also other new members, such as the Baltic States, have
taken part in shaping the EU’s relations with the neighborhood; for instance by
pushing for the EU to support democratization efforts in Belarus and Ukraine
(Kratochvil and Tulmets, 2007: 4). These efforts show the importance given to the
policy from both a Member State and institutional perspective.
On the EU level, it is primarily the Council and the Commission who are
involved in the policy – the Parliament plays only a minor role in the ENP as it partakes
in deciding the size of funding to the ENPI and by ratifying AAs and PCAs. The
Commission is responsible for drafting the specific APs with the partner countries and
annually publishing progress reports on the implementation of these. The Council
decides on the overall policy objectives, on issues related to CFSP and ESDP and policy
management (Tulmets, 2008: 116). As with other policy areas, the Council is therefore
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more involved in policy dialogue with the Commission responsible for managing the
policy.
This division of labour is also seen in how the policy has been conceptualized. It
functions on both a general and bilateral level. On the general level, the ENP’s setup is
characterized by strategy papers and other “soft” policy documents, while on the
bilateral level it is characterized by APs. The idea inherent is that the specific APs can
be designed to meet the needs and challenges within each neighbouring country. The
APs are structured by the notion of conditionality – a principle the ENP has borrowed
from the enlargement process. When the Commission was tasked with developing the
policy in 2003, many of the resources came from DG enlargement – which partly
explain why the notions underpinning enlargement were used (Kelley, 2006: 30;
Tulmets, 2008: 115). It can also be identified by how, then President for the
Commission, Romano Prodi proposed and articulated the new “proximity policy”, as he
said in a seminal speech he gave in 2002: “I admit many of the elements which come
to my mind are taken from the enlargement process” (Prodi, 2002: 4).
Yet, when drafting the ENP, a decision was basically made to exclude the
countries with some sort of an accession perspective (at the time: the Balkan states,
Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey) (Commission, 2003: 5). In other words, by excluding
those countries, the draft also excluded the Western-most NIS countries from
membership prospects in the near future (Whitman and Wolff, 2010: 5). There is
therefore an inherent tension within the policy between the objectives of the policy on
the one hand and how these are thought to be achieved on the other. This conflict will
be expanded upon in section two.
This brief introductory section has shown that security has played an enormous
role for the EU when developing the ENP, with ideas of how the EU can increase its
actorness and impact the neighborhood also influencing its inception and
development. These needs are, however, conditioned on the level of coherence in the
policy, and while it has been argued internally, in the EU, that the ENP has been
constructed to meet the need for coherence across the EU (Cremona and Hilion, 2006:
1), the extent to which this actually is the case is unknown.
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Application of the concept of coherence: Policy and implementation: Rules of
hierarchy: Multi-pillar security policy – the ENP
Remembering the operationalization, this section will analyze the extent to which the
policy level is coherent in relation to the horizontal and vertical levels – that is on the
EU level, and between the EU and the Member States. Looking at recent European
history and the history of EU integration, it can be maintained that the EU has had a
certain way of engaging with its neighbours and nearby regions (Soderbaum and Van
Langenhove 2005; Smith, 2005: 361). Following the process of EU integration, only
after the establishment of an independent Union foreign policy, has the EU engaged
actively in impacting its near abroad from a normative perspective (Gebhard, 2010:
93). Now norms, values and EU rules are an inherent part of any relationship the Union
tries to establish with other actors. The accession process the CEEC went through
illustrates clearly the EU’s capabilities in influencing and transforming third parties to
the EU’s liking. Most importantly in this respect, is the use of conditionalities linked to
political, economic and societal developments. Conditionality as an instrument will be
addressed in more detail in the next section.
Therefore, the accession process has also influenced the ENP. As Gebhard
argues, it is a process of “external governance projection through conditional
integration” (Gebhard, 2010: 93). While looking at the treaty text introducing the ENP,
the ambiguity of the wording is striking (see previous section). The text does not give
any hints as to how specifically the ENP should be formulated, other than on the basis
of EU norms. Interestingly enough, emphasis is on the values of the European Union
and not shared values with the ENP countries or indeed any other values. It is
seemingly assumed that they share the values of the EU. Going back to the objectives
of the ENP (security, stability and prosperity), they might well be shared, but when
trying to operationalize these overall objectives, priorities may vary greatly: the EU
above all seems to emphasize security (Council, 2007), while the neighbouring
countries to a much larger extent would emphasize prosperity (Meloni, 2007: 101).
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This gap adds to the incoherence of the policy and it is difficult to breach. By the EU,
prosperity and stability are viewed as preconditions for security and they are used to
underpin the security dimension – Cremona and Hilion contend that the security
dimension is not incidental, but fundamental to the entire framework (Cremona and
Hilion, 2006: 4). This emphasis, argue Cremona and Hilion, stems from the eastward
enlargement removing the internal barriers on movement of people and thus
increasing the importance of well-governed external borders. However, it poses a
challenge to the extent, rather paradoxically, that important notions to achieve
security are found in stability and prosperity and there is a genuine risk that these are
downplayed in the EU’s effort to secure itself. This is because, in the long-term, the EU
will need to develop a sustainable vision for how the eastern neighbors can be
integrated that takes into account the prosperity and stability perspectives – for
instance, through better developed institutional setups in relation to these parameters
which would improve the coherence of the policy.
To some extent this has already been done. For example, cooperation between
the EU and the partner countries in key policy areas are thought to strengthen security
(Council, 2004). Yet, there is an issue with prioritization within this. Looking at the
action points elaborated in December 2004, they “amounted to a long shopping list of
very diverse items without any visible hierarchy” (Missiroli, 2010: 261). The range of
topics covers almost every conceivable field of politics including political dialogue and
cooperation, trade, aspects of internal market policies, energy, transport, information
society, environment, research, and innovation, social policy and people to people
contact (Commission, 2004: 3).
This lack of prioritization is problematic for the level of coherence of the policy.
The list of priorities is long and diverse, benchmarks are many, and incentives for
change are few (K. Smith, 2011: 318). However, this is an area where the policy has
improved over the years. A review was initiated in 2010 aimed at improving the policy,
since the impact of the policy was lower than expected (Commission, 2011: 1). The
priorities have been better linked with the goals of the policy, increasing the focus on
democratization and economic development. Nonetheless, the policy can still be
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criticized for being too ambitious; as the EU wants “to build and consolidate healthy
democracies, pursue sustainable economic growth and manage cross-border links”
(Commission, 2011: 1). Even within the EU, some Member States face problems in
living up to these ambitions, so it is valid to ask if such bold goals perhaps are
problematic and adding to the incoherence of the policy. Interestingly enough
however, the ENP seems to reaffirm the EU’s belief that democracy and economic
development are necessary if “deeper roots of insecurity are to be resolved
effectively” (Dannreuter 2006: 201). Yet, this brings back the discussion of coherence
and whether or not it is problematic to believe that security is preconditioned on
prosperity and democracy? Developing long-term sustainable democracy requires
much effort which often does not result in more stability – developments in Egypt in
July 2013 are unfortunately a good illustration of how implementing democracy does
not necessarily equate stability or indeed prosperity. This discussion is therefore a
reflection of long-term vs. short-term goals, with the former relating to stability and
prosperity and the latter to security. Larive (2012: 197) argues, in relation to how
security is conceptualized inside the EU, that the Council, by its intergovernmental
nature and responsibility for the CFSP and ESDP, focuses to a much larger extent on
security issues and crisis-management. The Commission on the other hand, by its
supranational nature and responsibility for development, instead focuses on good
governance and conflict-prevention. Although it could be argued that this would
ensure that both perspectives are included, it is rather problematic from a coherence
perspective that lack of agreement is apparent between the two main bodies dealing
with the ENP inside the EU, because there is a risk for competition on which notion
should be promoted more.
Moreover, the EU might risk being criticized for acting in self-interest. The first
sentence in the paper proposing the EaP mentions how the EU suffers when Russia
cuts off gas supplies to Ukraine (Ferrero-Waldner, 2009: 1). Incidents such as this has
led Sven Biscop to argue that the EU has favoured stability, economical and energy
interests over reform, which limits the EU’s soft and normative power (Biscop, 2010:
76). The implication of this is that, in the region, the EU is seen more as a status quo
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actor that tries to take care of its own interests than a proactive actor that could drive
bilateral relations forward and find common ground with the ENP countries – leading
to incoherence and a lack of credibility. Biscop’s argument is persuasive, but it seems
the EU is becoming more aware of how its policy can be perceived. For instance, in the
review from 2011, an attempt was made at better delivering what the partner
countries seek from cooperation with the EU, particularly concessions in trade related
issues. As preparation for the Eastern Partnership Summit in Vilnius in November 2013
the EU has prepared for signing an extended AA that would include a DCFTA that could
deepen the economic integration and political cooperation between Ukraine and the
EU (Commission, 2013c: 1; Commission, 2013d). However, this is conditioned on
Ukraine fulfilling specific requirements before then. At the time of writing, it is
unknown whether or not the Summit will lead to a substantial policy development
between the EU and Ukraine in this area. Also in relation to visa-free travel much
remains unknown, although there have been efforts in this area. For the EU, focus is
on Ukraine to implement a specific visa liberalization AP before liberalization can
happen (EEAS and Commission, 2012: 6). Based on the arguments presented here, it
can be maintained that there is a lack of coherence on the horizontal level – although
not as bad as some authors claim.
The vertical perspective
It is emphasized in EU policy documents that the ENP is a policy of the Union, and the
Member States should therefore align their own bilateral policies to support its overall
political objectives (Commission, 2011: 1). However, the treaty also states that
competences not conferred to the Union remain with the Member States (TEU, 2010:
article 4 (1)) and that “national security remains the sole responsibility of each
Member State” (TEU, 2010: article 4 (2)). On one side therefore, the importance of
trying to ensure coherence on the vertical level between the Union and the Member
States is acknowledged, but, at the same time, clear boundaries to the Union’s
influence are evident in Member State foreign policy. Balancing these two concerns is
the responsibility of each Member State and is a difficult balancing act when the
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Member States partake in the Union political apparatus as presidents of the Council.
This is mainly how the Member States (besides taking part in the Council) has
contributed and impacted the policy.
Still, the inception of the ENP was primarily on the premise of Member States’
initiatives. Germany, the Baltic States and especially Poland insisted on developing the
Eastern dimension of the neighborhood policy (Kratochvil, 2007: 191). As noted in
section one, France, proposed as president of the Council to include the Barcelona
Process into the ENP, so it could maintain relations with its former colonies (Bechev
and Nicolaïdis, 2008). The pushing of own agendas has meant that the ENP has been
subject to rather incoherent conditions. With rotating presidencies of the Council
every six months and the presentation of new agendas for each new presidency,
developing coherent policies has proved difficult. For instance, the German presidency
in 2007 proposed strengthening the Eastern dimension with a new Ostpolitik, in line
with Germany’s traditional orientation towards the East (Rynning and Pihlkjær Jensen,
2010: 144). But with the new Portuguese presidency after Germany, focus was
oriented towards the South, after which Slovenia - being both a Southern and Eastern
Member State tried to bridge the two dimensions (Missiroli, 2010: 265). Missiroli
(2010: 265) even argues that this lack of coherence in policy priorities can be identified
within the traditional geographical blocs in the EU – for instance between Germany
and Poland, and Denmark and Finland.
Yet, Missiroli offers no real explanation for this. I believe a reason for this
internal divide can be the fact that the wide scope and focus of the ENP adds a
perverse effect that impedes discipline and favours nationally motivated agendas –
adding to the incoherence of the policy. Poland, sharing a border with Belarus, of
course wishes to focus on that aspect of the neighborhood policy, with Germany
focusing to a larger degree on the greater geo-political relations to ensure the supply
of gas – for instance, by pushing for building the Nord Stream pipeline in the Baltic Sea
from Russia to Germany, circumventing Ukraine (De Jong and Schunz, 2012: 173). It
therefore seems it could be speculated that: “the ENP does not discipline the Council
presidency and instead invites conflicts over foreign policy resource allocation” (2010:
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153). Of course, one reason for creating the EEAS was that the HR/VP could
theoretically help to clarify this and better the coordination of national priorities within
the policy. After the Lisbon treaty, the HR/VP does chair the Foreign Affairs Council and
thus could help to heighten the coherence of EU foreign policy. The extent to which
this actually will be the case, only time will tell. Section three will elaborate more on
this. Yet, what can be deduced is that by reducing the role of the rotating presidency, a
source of incoherence has been attempted lessened. Still, it is not eliminated –
Lithuania having the presidency in the second half of 2013 has identified the Eastern
partnership as a key priority, while Cyprus focused on the Southern dimension while
having the presidency in second half of 2012 (Lithuanian presidency 2013: 16; Cyprus
presidency, 2012: 3).
The Member States try to coordinate the rotating presidencies and one of the
main responsibilities of the presidency of the Council has been to try to ensure
coherence (Trauner, 2011: 19). One instrument for doing this is the so-called “trio”
that consists of the three following presidencies, where the Member States can come
together and discuss policy objectives. This allows for some coordination – but is
mostly relevant for long-term internal projects such as the MFF. For the 2014-2020
MFF - finalized in spring 2013 - several years of negotiations were necessary before
agreement was reached. This shows the difficulty faced by the EU in ensuring coherent
policies. When such an important area, which affects the daily politics within each
Member State, is so difficult to reach agreement on, what does that not say about
other areas of politics, such as the ENP?
After focusing on the policy level, the next section will concentrate on rules of
delimitation – that is the methodology and instruments underpinning the ENP.
Rules of delimitation: Neighborhood policy based on enlargement template:
differentiation and conditionality
On the methodological level, the ENP is to a very large extent based on the
enlargement and pre-accession template used towards the CEEC in the 1990s and
onwards. With the review in 2011, even more focus was put on differentiation
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(Commission, 2011: 2). Differentiation potentially allows for many different tempi for
the countries involved. Despite bringing a disparate group of countries together under
one heading, differentiation is achieved by developing individual APs and priorities for
each country. Arguably, this could give more teeth to the EU foreign policy (Missiroli,
2010: 261). Differentiation allows for flexibility and taking into account country specific
conditions, which therefore - if done correctly – could give more sway to the EU
foreign policies, compared to more traditional policies based on financial assistance.
Yet, this argument does not consider that one of the main political objectives of the
policy, security, is not easily achieved on a bilateral basis and therefore by
implementing the policy through differentiation, a broader, regional approach to
achieving security is hindered.
Additionally, an important part allowing for this differentiated approach is
conditionality. Using the principle of conditionality in a policy towards geographical
neighbours reduces the potential effect the policy could have. Conditionality is an
effective policy, when substantial benefits are achievable. But the ENP offers very little
in substantial incentives and therefore the attractiveness of adopting the acquis –
which is basically what the ENP countries are being asked to – lessens (Whitman and
Wolff, 2010: 13). Additionally, enlargement is based on finalité – but since EU
membership is out of the picture – the Union loses its most powerful instrument in
transforming the countries to its liking (Missiroli, 2010: 261). The ENP has been
described as an “enlargement fatigue” policy, as it relies much more heavily on
socialization processes that together with reputational pressure is thought to provide
incentives for change (Faber, 2008: 65; Gebhard, 2010: 94). Yet, this is a rather weak
instrument that relies on well-defined, coherent objectives based on credible political
aims. As the first part of the analysis showed, the ENP is lacking in this respect. K.
Smith goes even further in arguing that the instruments are inadequate and used with
little sense of urgency (K. Smith, 2011: 320). It does seem a bit too critical to argue that
they are used with only little urgency, because the ENP receives large amounts of
attention in Brussels. Yet, the attention primarily amounts to “soft” policy documents,
strategy papers, political meetings and the like, while “harder” instruments such as the
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amount of money per capita allocated is rather low. €12 billion is set aside for the ENP,
but considering that the policy includes well over 120 million people and the money
covers a seven-year period, it is not a significant amount for such ambitious objectives.
Of course, it is not only the amount of money that is important, but also how it
is spent. In 2007, the EU replaced the TACIS and MEDA financial instruments with the
new ENPI, which has been thought to better coordinate the financial part of the ENP,
making it more efficient. The ENPI is the main tool for implementing ENP-related
initiatives. The ENPI has been designed to provide better coordinated support for
subregional cooperation across the external borders of the EU, which according to
Dannreuther (2006: 193) was very difficult to do with the earlier financial instruments.
Additionally, this would allow for more coherence between the objectives of APs and
the support provided by the ENPI.
Yet, this is only achievable if priorities stated in the APs are clear and
consistent. Looking at the AP for Ukraine it amounts to a long list of quite diverse
items, which are not clearly prioritized. It therefore more reflects EU priorities rather
than the sectoral policy approach as seen in enlargement (Cremona, 2008a: 276) in
which the EU and the accession countries can exchange ideas and formulate common
visions. The APs are rather vague and illusive, with little or no clarity on which policies
and programs participation by ENP countries are possible (Whitman and Wolf, 2010:
13). This is a significant issue within the ENP, especially as they include explicit
references to the Copenhagen criteria (Gebhard, 2010: 94) – adding to the
incoherence of the ENP, since there is missing a link between the stated objectives and
the implementation of these. It is not only on the horizontal level, this can be
identified. The next section will therefore focus on the vertical level.
The vertical perspective
The notion of vertical delimitation is clearly seen in the treaties. Not only are there
proclamations that the EU functions in subsidiarity to the Member States and that
powers not conferred to the Union remain with the Member States, the treaty also
states that the Union’s common foreign and security policy is to be implemented in
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joint effect by the Union and the Member States and additionally that the Union’s
implementation of the CFSP is not to affect the Member States’ possibility of exercising
foreign policy (TEU, 2010: article 4, article 5, article 13, article 24). The implication of
this is that not only are Member States important for the total implementation of the
CFSP, but also that they are instrumental in the development of the policies (Cremona,
2008b: 29). The legal logic inherent in the treaties therefore seems to emphasize that
there are clear, delimitating boundaries between the Union and the Member States,
and that the Member States still retain significant power in foreign policy and are
instrumental in furthering Union policy.
This becomes problematic, however, if Member States’ interests are at odds
with the values of the ENP. There is a balance to consider between upholding the
common values and concerns for realpolitik. This is most clearly seen between, on the
one side, the values of democracy, good governance, rule of law and on the other, the
supply of gas and keeping good relations with Russia. Balancing the need to maintain
strong connections with Russia and the values and norms underpinning the EU seem to
be problematic in some instances. As an example, Dannreuter (2006) argues that
former German Kansler Schroder was reticent in criticizing Russia, which he argues was
due to energy security (Dannreuter, 2006: 197). In 2010, Russia provided 34.5% of EU’s
demand for crude oil and 31.8% of natural gas – making it by far, the Union’s largest
and most important supplier (Eurostat, 2012). Ukraine plays a significant role in this
since approximately 60% of EU’s gas supply is delivered through Ukraine (EUractiv,
2013). Therefore, as Hettne and Söderbaum (2005: 550) argue, the EU comes into
conflict with Russia’s sphere of influence, when Moscow tries to maintain a balance of
power in its near abroad. This often leads to support for pro-Russian forces within the
EaP countries, resulting in an aversion from the EU’s normative agenda (Helén, 2010:
19; Haukkala, 2009: 1757). For instance, Kurowska and Tallis argue that the EU BAM in
Transnistria, Moldova is ‘advisory and technical’, because the EU tries to please Russia
by making it more palatable (Kurowska and Tallis, 2009: 57). The EU BAM will be
further investigated in section three.
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Because of the multidimensional nature of the ENP, one part of it falls within
the CFSP of the Union, while another falls within the traditional “sensitive” policy areas
of the Member States related to national sovereignty (Everts, 2002: 32; Faber, 2008:
64). Each Member State still retains veto power in the Council on CFSP issues, and
secondly they have long-established foreign policy interests and traditions in bilateral
relations with the ENP countries. The ENP therefore faces a number of challenges,
since Member State ties with ENP countries can be much stronger than the ties the EU
has been able to produce. Although this is mostly relevant in relation to the MENA
region, it is also relevant for the Eastern dimension. In the former, France and Britain
have colonial histories and therefore (post-colonial) special interests and interactions
with the countries. In the Eastern dimension, even though the post-colonial
perspective is not relevant, the Member States still have established traditions and
therefore might impede, or indeed prevent, the Union from developing coherent
objectives (or coherent implementation of the objectives). For instance, as Everts
(2002: 32) argues, the mere fact that the EU is made of several nation states restricts
the EU from conducting genuine foreign policies: the British claim to have a special
Anglo-Saxon relationship with the US, the French claim to have an exceptional stance
in foreign policy (in general and specifically with the francophone countries), the
Finnish have a friendly, yet problematic relationship with Russia, Germany emphasizes
multilateralism for various historic reasons and so forth for all 28 members. As Winn
(2003) writes, often differences between the Member States are wider than between
Europe and the USA (Winn, 2003: 54). Considering these impediments, it seems
obvious that coherence is difficult to achieve.
Incoherence between hierarchy and delimitation: linking the two levels together
This analysis has shown that the EU uses an enlargement template on a political
framework which Brussels clearly does not see as an enlargement policy – or even preaccession, although Ukraine has tried to frame the ENP in this light. By grouping
together European countries that fulfil the article 49 requirement in the TEU with nonEuropean countries, it causes incoherence in the ENP. Furthermore, since security
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concerns have overshadowed and structured the policy, it becomes difficult to further
shared objectives with the ENP countries. Additionally, it could be argued that when
security is the primary concern for the EU, a much broader (regional) approach would
be needed. The insistence on APs results in a rather narrow focus that is not conducive
to improving security provisions in the neighbourhood. Being the sole alternative for
the neighbouring countries after the ‘big bang’ enlargement, the idea of differentiation
between the countries does not prevent new dividing lines in Europe, but could
instead rather risk magnifying these. There is therefore incoherence between this
objective and how it is implemented – between hierarchy and delimitation. More
generally, the objectives of the policy are too broad (and ambitious). Using the current
methodologies of the ENP to transform the neighbourhood into western-style
democracies is both unrealistic and perhaps even counterproductive. The ENP
countries are essentially being asked to implement the acquis, but the EU offers no
real incentives or even reasons for why they should do so. Perhaps it would be better
to lower expectations by clearly identifying shared values and thus better connect the
objectives and methodologies used to implement the policy. After the Lisbon treaty,
the lack of an institutional dimension to the policy has improved. The EEAS and the
HR/VP are envisioned to deliver this, but as will become evident in section three, they
have had a difficult time in doing so thus far. The result is limited success in
implementing the ENP, particularly as interested partners are denied the prospect of
accession and a lack of vision of what the ENP is thought to achieve when there is a
lack of political and economic incentives for the partner countries. This affects the
foreign policy visibility, efficiency and credibility of the EU.
The EU as a regional actor and the effect of (in)coherence
After analyzing the lack of coherence in the EU’s European Neighborhood policy, it is
worthwhile to ask what this implies for its goal to be a more important international
actor. Linking lack of coherence with the EU’s ambition to be a more credible and
effective actor is not unique: the Commission wrote a strategy paper called ‘Europe in
the world – some practical proposals for greater coherence, effectiveness and visibility’
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in June 2006. In it, the Commission reaffirms that coherence is a prerequisite for more
influence and also that the ENP is thought to deliver this by “the active involvement of
a wide range of external and internal policies” (Commission, 2006: 3). The ENP is
together with enlargement, trade, development, the CFSP, crisis management and the
ESDP, grouped as the external policy assets of the EU. Through encouraging
cooperation and coordination between these policies by the different institutional
actors and the Member States, the paper envisions a much greater role for the EU
globally. To do this, the paper emphasizes the need for more visibility and
effectiveness in the EU’s foreign policies. These parameters will therefore form the
basis for the following discussion. Moreover, credibility will also be included, because
credibility is a critical component of any actor’s attempt to be taken seriously
internationally (Schimmelfennig, Engert and Knobel, 1999: 33).
Visibility – a stated goal, yet lacking
The stated goal of becoming a more visible international actor has been important
ever since the paralyzing crisis over the US invasion of Iraq occurred (Smith and
Webber, 2008: 78). By failing to respond to the invasion in concert, the EU lost
important impetus in furthering its security agenda. Yet, the conflict between Germany
and France on one side and Britain on the other, has also given the EU a new
opportunity to develop higher visibility afterwards. Visibility is, more generally, closely
linked with the extent to which the EU is a recognized actor that can make foreign
policy in its own right. The ENP gives the EU this opportunity. The creation of the ENP
as one single framework for conducting policy with its neighbours thus promotes the
EU’s interests, values and norms. Yet, it is questionable to what extent this is solely
linked to the ENP, since the ENP has not been designed as a radically new policy, but
rather a framework reinforcing earlier policies underpinned by PCAs, FTAs, and AAs
(Dannreuter, 2006: 190). It is also a question of whether or not the neighbourhood
countries embrace the policy which is closely linked to funding.
As was seen in the analysis, funding for the ENP is rather low. Although the ENP
overall receives a large amount of money, considering the scope of the policy, the
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amount can seem small. A study performed by the Open Society Initiative Brussels
found that only 0.37% of funding directed to Ukraine went to civil society organizations
in the 2007-2009 period (Ursu, 2010). Civil society plays an enormous role in making
the EU more visible. Since there are huge problems with corruption in almost all
neighbouring countries, civil society is instrumental for the EU to achieve its objectives
of security, prosperity and stability through the ENP. But mostly, EU efforts in this area
are directed at socialization between various organizations from the Union and the
partner countries. For instance, the Civil Society Forum under the EaP offers a channel
for including NGOs from the partner countries in further developing the relationship
between the EU and the partner countries. This is a welcomed development that does
increase the visibility of the Union, however, it needs to be anchored within the
broader civil society. One significant problem facing this initiative is the weakness of
civil society in these states, which means that it risks getting centered on a few elitist
organizations that thus impedes the impact of the program. For instance, many of the
broader, grassroots organizations have not been included properly in the Civil Society
Forum, such as trade unions, environmental organizations or groups working for the
disabled. Therefore, the vast majority of NGOs have so far not been made aware of the
EU’s initiative (Solonenko, 2010: 15) and not been included in the policy. By increasing
the allocation of funds, this peril would be reduced as the scope could be increased
and form a better basis for cooperation and socialization. The review in 2011 opened
up for this to some extent, by calling for the establishment of a Civil Society Facility.
This program, however, has only been approved for a two-year period from 2011 to
2013 and much remains to be seen on whether it actually does improve the visibility of
the EU and whether it will be approved for continuation. Still, this Facility would open
a new dimension where relations between the EU and the ENP states could be
strengthened. A study by Pridham (2005) found that transnational party linkages were
important for the democratization of the CEEC – in other words, socialization effects
seem to have an effect and could increase the Union’s visibility.
This also holds true for the role of the HR/VP. As the representative of the
Union internationally and the Vice-President of the Commission, she has a unique
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position in establishing a more visible Union abroad. In a speech in 2010, she identified
the neighbourhood policy as one of three priorities for her tenure (the other two being
the establishment of the EEAS and deepening of relations with strategic partners). The
ENP is therefore a high profile policy. Yet, as Vanhoonacker and Pomorska writes, it
has been followed up unconvincingly (Vanhoonacker and Pomorska, 2013: 14). One
problem identified is the failure to create interest in the agenda of the HR/VP and a
lack of mobilization of support, both internally and externally, which means that the
institution is not able to properly set the agenda for discussion – as opposed to what it
set out to do. The creation of the EEAS and strengthening of the HR/VP was perhaps
one of the most important foreign policy innovations of the Lisbon Treaty (Missiroli,
2010: 446), yet the success of this innovation so far remains in doubt. Of course, it is
still a work in progress and much remains to be seen on how the EEAS is incorporated
into the rest of the political system of the Union. Moreover, it also depends on how
the next HR/VP chooses to see and use the role. What is clear, however, is that the
visibility of Baroness Ashton is very low; Howorth argues that she has chosen to define
herself more as a secretary than as a general (Howorth, 2011: 319). She shuns the
media, is ill at ease with the limelight and has rather chosen to coordinate and
facilitate Member States’ positions than lead discussions. This, argues Howorth, has
led to lowest common denominator solutions and a lack of timely mobilization of
instruments, for instance in the case of the Libyan crisis in 2011 (Howorth, 2011: 320).
This problem is as much to do with how the role has been perceived (both a
coordinating role and a leadership role) as with the person in charge. In a survey from
February 2011 of 300 European officials and decision shapers, she was categorized as
the least effective Commissioner in the second Barroso Commission (Howorth, 2011:
323). Besides resulting in a lack of visibility of the Union, this also leads to lack of
effectiveness.
The EU as an effective actor?
When developing the ENP, more effectiveness for the EU’s foreign policy was one of
the key motivating factors contributing to its creation. In this regard it tries to bring
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together Member States and non-Members in one framework where partnerships can
be developed further. Yet, recalling the above analysis; while much attention seems to
be given the ENP in the EU, its inception and implementation is rather incoherent. The
ENP is identified as a strategic priority, but the goal of the policy remains rather
unclear, a lot more emphasis seems to be put on the operational and tactical level
than the strategic level, and the policy is to some degree conditioned on Member
States interests in developing the policy further. These impeding factors for coherence
are also relevant while looking at the level of effectiveness. Looking at the goals of the
policy, one probable explanation offered by Cremona (2008a: 295) for the lack of more
developed, coherent objectives is that the EU wanted flexibility for the partners to
define how their relation with the EU should develop. This would allow each country to
influence how integration should be implemented. Yet, this explanation is wanting
because the stipulated level of flexibility is only needed because the policy brings so
many disparate countries together and therefore makes it much more difficult to
formulate desirable and achievable goals. In this respect, flexibility is achieved at the
expense of effectiveness and coherence. Also, while examining the operational level
much more could be done for developing a more effective response to the challenges
of the neighborhood. One particular example is how the EU has dealt with the conflict
in Transnistria, Moldova. Although the EU is engaged in the conflict via a border
mission, the mission is not intended to solve the conflict, but rather to increase the
security on the EU’s border to prevent the smuggling of goods and people (EEAS,
2013). This ineffective approach is further impeded by the mission’s technical and
advisory character and the lack of coordination with the international 5+2 settlement
talks (Kurowska and Tallis, 2009: 63). This showcases one of the main obstacles for the
EU.
The weak character of the mission might be explained by Russia’s engagement
in the conflict. The EU, not wanting to risk too much upheaval and aversion from
Russia, in what Russia sees as its strategic sphere of interest (and backyard),
downplays its own role and only tries to maintain its own interests. Russia’s political
weight thus impedes the EU’s attempt at becoming a more effective actor (Delcour,
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2010: 539). For the EU, this represents perhaps one of the greatest challenges. Russia
has clear interests in the region: for Russia, it is a matter of regaining lost influence and
according to Emerson (2009), the Russian political elite has tried to reestablish its
power over the European CIS countries. As the analysis showed, Russia tries to use gas
supply as leverage in dealing with these countries. This strategy emphasizes a bilateral
approach framed by geo-politics to counter the EU’s broader approach based on
cooperation (de Wilde and Pellon, 2006: 122). The EU’s effectiveness is only further
decreased by the fact that the EU’s engagement in the region is fairly recent, while
Russia has long historical, cultural and economical links with the countries. This has led
MacFarlane to claim that Russia believes it has a ‘droit de regard’ (right of inspection)
in the region (MacFarlane, 2003: 130), which Russia has deployed several times in
recent history; for instance when Ukraine accepted the continuation of Russian use of
Odessa as the base for its Black Sea naval capacities in exchange for gas supplies.
One way for the EU to try to circumvent Russia’s unilateral approach is to
create a common foreign and security field. This would allow the EU and Russia to
identify common interests in the region and thus work together to increase the
security and stability of all parties involved. The development of the EU-Russia
strategic partnership and the four common spaces can be seen as such an attempt
from the EU. This is however very much still a work in progress and shows that the EU
finds it challenging to affect Russian behavior. This dates back to the inception of the
ENP when Russia (as the most important neighbor) was omitted from the policy, after
expressing its lack of interest in it, preferring to develop bilateral relations instead
(Panebianco, 2006: 134).
The four spaces are: A common economic space; A common space of freedom,
security and justice; A common space of cooperation in the field of external security,
and A common space on research, education and culture .
Yet, it is not only on external factors that shape the EU’s international clout. On
the internal level, as the analysis has shown, there are issues with vertical coherence
and these also affect the EU. This issue is closely linked to the decision-making
procedures and institutional set-up – in other words: integration. Policy areas where
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integration has created supranational decision-making procedures – for instance the
OLP - the EU has been able to develop its own agendas and employ its power
internationally, but in areas where intergovernmental decision-making procedures are
followed, the Member States have the opportunity to pursue their own interests and
thus limit the EU in developing its actorness (Woolcock, 2012). Yet, this is not only a
competence issue pertaining to the decision-making procedures. As the analysis
showed, the rotating presidencies of the Council are one of the main impediments to
developing more coherence and effectiveness. Meaning that more integration would
not automatically solve the issue, but instead that if the role of the rotating presidency
was reduced even further much could be done for the effectiveness of the Union.
Subsequently, this would perhaps lower the problem of ensuring vertical
coherence by finding lowest common denominator solutions. There is an inherent
assumption in policy circles that more coherence ipso facto leads to more
effectiveness, yet Missiroli (2001b: 4) argues that this is more dogma than reality given
that often unanimity is achieved at the expense of effectiveness in that policies are
watered down to ensure everybody’s support. This perspective has not gotten a lot of
attention in the literature. But, as Keukeleire and MacNaughtan (2008: 121) write, “the
EU’s complex system of competences, institutions, decision-making procedures and
policy-making processes … cannot but lead to significant problems with regard to
consistency”. Such a lack of coherence not only limits its effectiveness but also
“undermines its credibility as an international actor as well as its ability to achieve
specific foreign policy goals” (Keukeleire and MacNaughton, 2008: 121). Let us
therefore now look at credibility.
The link between credibility, values and norms
As the empirical analysis showed, there seems to a missing link between on the one
side the EU’s values and norms, and on the other its interests guiding the ENP. This is
most clearly seen in the case of gas supply and how the EU takes Russian interests into
account under the ENP. Security is prioritized above all. The question then is whether
the EU acts against its own normative values? One perspective where this might be the
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case is in the instrumentalization of the ENP. By relying on conditionality and
differentiation, but not acknowledging the membership prospective of the Eastern
neighbors, the enlargement process is turned upside down and leads to incoherence
as the analysis showed.
However, Scheipers and Sicurelli (2007) do not agree. They argue that
incoherence does not lead to lack of credibility – rather they argue inconsistency is a
defining characteristic of collective identities (2007: 438). Arguing that inconsistency is
an inherent part of collective identities is an interesting thought, but linking these two
things together in this manner is rather problematic. Their argument is flawed,
because one issue presented by incoherence is the risk that the EU’s policy is
undermined when different internal or external actors are pursuing other political
goals – this is what the empirical analysis supports. Additionally, incoherence inflates
the problem of conceptualizing the EU’s policies. Meaning that incoherence not only
becomes a normative concern, but also includes real issues of defining what policies
and instruments are implemented and followed. Going back to the instrumentalization
discussion, there is a genuine risk of a decrease in credibility in this manner. For
instance, regarding conditionality, using it to impose the values of the Union, but not
including benefits leads to lower levels of credibility. When the expected value of
implementing the acquis for a partner country is significantly lowered, as is the case in
the ENP, the EU’s instrument as a transformative power and incentive-based structure
will not work (Freiburg and Richter, 2010: 263). Additionally, Ágh (2010) argues that
the issue stems from a lack of inclusion of geographical and sectoral dimensions in the
ENP – meaning that the ENP is a mosaic, accidental and reactionary framework and
therefore a deepening and widening of the ENP is needed (Ágh, 2010: 1242). What he
asks for is both more differentiation and a more comprehensive approach that links
sectoral dimensions across the Eastern and Southern regions. However, this argument
is flawed, because firstly there is a tradeoff between the notions: differentiation comes
at the expense of comprehension and secondly, I would argue that the ENP is not in
need of more differentiation, because it is already now quite differentiated. Also, the
review in 2011 improved the ENP in this regard. For example, an understanding of the
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need to include better sectoral approaches seems to be developing. As it says in the
review: “sectoral cooperation *shall be enhanced+, notably in the area of rural
development” (Commission, 2011: 16). This also extends to other policy areas such as
energy, education and transport. However, a better and more elaborated specific
vision for the Eastern (and Southern) dimension of the ENP is needed. The policy has
been more reactive than proactive, because it has been difficult for the EU to react
quickly to changes in the neighbourhood, for instance the rapid political developments
in Ukraine and Georgia, and of course the Arab Spring in the Middle East.
Barbé et. al. (2009), on the other hand, tries to broaden the discussion by
arguing that the ENP is not always based on EU norms, but also sometimes on
international or bilateral norms. Their study shows that the EU is most effective in
drawing the neighbours closer when it uses international norms to frame the ENP
(Barbe et al, 2009: 392). This is because international norms are viewed as less detailed
and regulatory than the EU acquis (Barbe et al, 2009: 386). Therefore, they argue, the
credibility of the EU is not as low as other authors otherwise argue (this author
included). Interesting as their argument is, one issue is evident. The examples they use
is for instance the WTO in relation to trade-related issues, but while the WTO is an
international institution, they do not problematize the extent to which the WTO is
based on European (or Western) ideas on trade. As Woolcook (2012) argues, the EU
can be categorized as an actor emphasizing that liberal markets should work inside
frameworks regulated by rules covering social or environmental objectives. This has
“resulted in the EU adopting a stronger, more influential role during the Uruguay
Round” and thus affected how the WTO operates (Woolcock, 2012: 71). This shows the
importance of credibility, but also visibility and effectiveness. It is because the EU has
gained exclusive competence in trade that it is a recognized international actor in
trade-related issues and can sway international trade negotiations in its preferred
direction. Therefore, to reflect on the influence and recognition of the EU
internationally, the next section will bring together visibility, effectiveness and
credibility.
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Bringing visibility, effectiveness and credibility together: influence and recognition
So far it has become evident that a lack of coherence, both horizontally and vertically,
in the ENP has led to a deficiency in visibility, effectiveness and credibility for the EU.
However, the EU does not only wish to be a heavy-hitter in its own neighbourhood,
but it is also seeking to become an international power-house. The ENP is important in
this sense, because it can be regarded as a test case for the EU to find ways in which
other actors can be influenced. Equally important however, is the fact that geography
is permanent and cannot be chosen. Viewing the ENP from this perspective, it
becomes the primary opportunity for the EU, short of accession, to affect its
neighbourhood. It is therefore unfortunate that the current ENP is too ambitious
overall, but not ambitious enough in the areas where there is an actual probability for
success. For example, the ENP seeks to turn the partner countries into western-style
democracies with a fully functioning rule-of-law, but without providing proper
incentives, the EU is likely to fall short of this target. The conceptualization and
subsequent operationalization of the policy is therefore impacting the EU's level of
actorness in the neighbourhood. This is further problematized by the EU choosing not
to formulate actual shared goals and objectives for partnership together with its
neighbours. The institutional set-up of the EU is further exacerbating the EU's
decreased level of actorness. The lack of visibility of the HR/VP is an example of this. In
turn, this culminates in a lack of influence and diminished recognition from other
actors for the EU's right to formulate foreign policy. If the EU is not able to efficiently
deal with its immediate surroundings, how then can it possibly handle situations
farther away?
Therefore, I would argue that visibility, effectiveness and credibility is not a
choice, but rather an imperative for the EU if it wishes to be a more recognized and
influential actor. So far, the answer for the EU has been deeper and deeper
integration. By relinquishing national sovereignty and giving the EU competence to act
on behalf of the Member States, it has attempted to become a power in its own right.
As has been argued elsewhere, in the areas where the EU has gained exclusive or
shared competence, it has been able to develop its actorness (see for instance
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Woolcook, 2012). However, it is not likely that all remits of foreign policy will ever
become the exclusive domain of the Union. The EU will therefore have to rely on
developing visible, effective and credible answers through other channels than
integration. Coherence is one such avenue. Although there will always be some extent
of incoherence in such a complex institutional set-up, the EU can, and should, do more
to increase the coherence of its policies. This would to some extent solve the EU’s lack
of visibility, effectiveness and credibility.
Concluding remarks and evaluation of findings
Using insights from analyses of coherence, this paper has provided an analysis of the
ENP towards the nearest Eastern neighbours. The study has shown that the policy
lacks coherence in both its objectives and the instruments and methodologies used to
implement the policy. The core issue in the ENP is not so much related to institutional
or procedural arrangements, but rather to a lack of overall guiding principles and
substance. Though, important improvements have been made since the review in
2011. Still, the resulting incoherent policies also increase the risk of lack of visibility,
effectiveness and credibility.
Of course, the findings are conditioned on the framework applied. In
generating theoretical inference (Yin, 1994), one perspective that my research model
has not included is external coherence in relation to other actors, such as the US, the
OSCE - but most importantly NATO. Wallace (2009) argues that the EU enlargement in
2004 went hand in hand with NATO enlargement. Therefore, compared to the big bang
enlargement process, the EU does not have NATO to complement its policies. This
might explain to some extent the lack of coherence, which the current research model
has not been able to include specifically. Challenging as this may be for the analysis;
the validity of this current research is not affected. Most notably is it to point to the
fact that the big bang enlargement in 2004 was an unprecedented historical event,
which never will happen again. Therefore, to draw comparisons between the current
situation and the situation at that time is speculative. Furthermore, there is a huge
difference between NATO negotiating membership with the Central European
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Countries, such as the Czech Republic and Poland and countries bordering Russia, like
Ukraine, because of linguistic, cultural and historical ties.
These insights also points to the fact that the ENP is a child of a very specific
(and peculiar) time in EU integration – being born out of the big bang enlargement and
the ensuing enlargement fatigue. As a substantial result, the EU has found it difficult to
motivate and explain to the partner countries why they should be interested in the
framework when accession is out of the picture. It very much seems to be a policy
intended to maintain and further the interests of the EU (and its members). On the
delimitation level, the policy has been implemented in a way that almost resembles an
offer of ‘take it or leave it’. Relying on conditionality while having a ‘carrot crisis’
therefore limits the influence of the EU. Furthermore, while the principle of
differentiation could provide a better and more targeted approach and thus give the
policy more teeth, there has only been limited attempts at further developing the
regional Eastern (and Southern) perspectives in the policy. This would provide the EU
with a platform where the security agenda could be better developed and furthered.
While the Member States have been instrumental in developing the policy, their
specific interests and involvement in the policy has increased the lack of coherence.
The rotating presidencies especially have added to this. Therefore, overall the ENP is
rather incoherent.
The implication is a lack of impact in foreign policy. The visibility, effectiveness
and credibility of the Union is lowered and hampers the stated goal from the Laeken
declaration of the EU to be a “power able both to play a stabilising role worldwide and
to point the way ahead for many countries and peoples” (Council, 2000: 2). This
discussion is very much framed by the expectations-capability gap as presented by Hill,
yet with one big difference from the early 1990s. At that time, the gap was a result of
external expectations, while the present one is a combination of self-imposed notions
inherent inside the Union as seen in the Laeken declaration and external expectations
that the EU lives up to that promise. In this respect, the ENP does not deliver on its
promises; it has not been able to affect the political development in the region – for
instance, political developments in Ukraine are not favoring the Union and no solution
115
has been found to the Transnistria conflict. More generally, the balance between
strategic interests and normative concerns is lacking, there is a lack of resources in the
policy and the policy has been aimed at fulfilling the EU’s own expectations rather than
the partner countries’. Going back to the introductory question, the ENP does not offer
an efficient framework for the EU to address the political, economic and social
challenges on its border, serving the foreign and security interests of the Union.
However, the EU continues to produce countless declarations asserting its influence in
the world, thus increasing expectations internally and externally. Yet, as this paper has
shown, the capabilities of the EU to have an assertive influence regionally (not to
mention globally) is limited at best.
List of Acronyms
AA Association Agreement
AP Action Plan
BAM Border Assistance Mission
CEEC Central and Eastern European Countries
CFSP Common Foreign and Security Policy
CIS Commonwealth of Independent States
DCFTA Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Agreement
DG Directorate General
EaP Eastern Partnership
EEAS European External Action Service
ENP European Neighborhood Policy
ENPI European Neighborhood Policy Instrument
ESDP European Security and Defense Policy
ESS European Security Strategy
EU European Union
FTA Free Trade Agreement
HR/VP High Representative/Vice-President for the Commission
MEDA Euro - Mediterranean Partnership
MENA Middle East and North Africa
MFF Multiannual Financial Framework
116
NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organization
NGO Non-Governmental Organization
NIS Newly Independent States
OLP Ordinary Legislative Procedure
PCA Partnership and Cooperation Agreements
TACIS Technical Assistance for the Commonwealth of Independent States
TEU Treaty of the European Union
TFEU Treaty of the Functioning of the European Union
WTO World Trade Organization
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Reconceptualising the Right to Education in the
wake of the current learning crisis: lessons from
Zimbabwe
Jessica Drury
Abstract
The right to education has been enshrined in numerous international treaties and
national laws and is the founding principle on which global education policy has
been developed. In practice, however, despite near global resonance with rights
treaties, there is a disjuncture between theory and reality of access to the right to
education for all people. In addition, both the Education for All targets and the
Millennium Development Goals for education (2 & 3) are set to be missed at the
deadline date of 2015, in the midst of alarming revelations of a developing global
learning crisis in which thousands of learners are in school but not learning. As
policy makers worldwide reflect on the mistakes of the past, new plans are being
drawn up for a new development agenda beyond 2015. In education concept
papers, the right to education remains a cornerstone. It is, however, imperative,
to avoid repeating the errors of the past, that the right is re-examined in the light
of the educational developments of the last 25 years and that it is
reconceptualised in a relevant and contextually appropriate manner. In doing this,
it is essential that lessons be learnt about the implementation of the right to
education and global policy from as wide a range of experiences as possible. This
dissertation considers the particular example of Zimbabwe in assessing how and
why trends in education have developed and what might be significant for
reconceptualising the right for a post-2015 era. In concluding, it also reflects
briefly on the contribution which social justice theory can offer by way of
clarifying particular elements of a reconceptualised right to education.
132
Acknowledgments
The writing of this dissertation could not have been achieved without the support and
assistance of a vast array of people. I first of all wish to thank the Beit Trust and the
University of Leeds for their generous sponsorship and support throughout the year's
course, without whom none of this would have been possible. I also wish to thank my
supervisor and personal tutor, Dr Caroline Dyer who has guided and inspired my
learning over the course of a challenging and enriching year. In Zimbabwe, I wish to
thank the outgoing Minister of Education in Zimbabwe, Mr David Coltart whose
support with material and information for this research has been invaluable. I also
wish to pay tribute to his courageous and inspiring commitment to education in my
home country. I also wish to thank Mr Dominic Mantanga of UNICEF, Harare who went
out of his way to supply me with policy papers I would have otherwise been unable to
access. I also wish to thank my long suffering family and friends who have borne with
me through fair weather and foul. Finally I pay tribute to the inspiring students who
shared their stories with me and to the many inspiring individuals and organisations
working to bring about equitable quality education in Zimbabwe. May God bless you
all.
"There is no passion to be found playing small - in settling for a life that is less than the
one you are capable of living."
Nelson Mandela
Introduction
The right to education, as expressed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights
(UDHR), Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC), International Covenant on
Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) and Convention of the Elimination of All
Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW), recognises the significance of
education for the personal development of individuals; the participation of individuals
in social life; and also for the development of local communities and nations, both in
economic and social terms. To this end, the right stipulates that there is an absolute
133
right for children to have access to free and compulsory primary school education; that
secondary and further education should be made progressively available; and that
basic education should be provided for those for whom formal schooling has not been
available and/or possible. The right is enshrined in international and local law and is
the foundation of the Education for All project and education specific Millennium
Development Goals (2&3). At the end of 2013, however, there are an estimated 131
million children out of primary and lower secondary school, and 755 million adults
considered non-literate (UN 2013: 2). In addition, across the world vast numbers of
children are in school, but are failing to learn. Furthermore, inequalities in education,
both within and between countries and regions, are becoming more marked, hurting
particularly the poorest and most marginalised (UNESCO 2012: 129; Save the Children
2013: 6). Such trends indicate that up until now, the framework for global education
has failed to ensure that the right to education is upheld, in spite of the fact that the
right is the very cornerstone on which these frameworks are developed.
The case study of Zimbabwe is interesting for exploring some of these concerns
in context. Education in Zimbabwe has been and remains still, an important political,
social and economic issue. Education reform in the 1980s, initiated on the founding
principle of education as a fundamental right for all people, established the country as
a leader in education provision in Africa and has been lauded as one of the great
achievements of the ruling party ZANU PF. Since then, economic and political strain in
the 1990s and serious instability of the last decade have undermined earlier success in
the sector but education policy continues to feature prominently in political agenda,
including being a top priority in party manifestos for the most recent August 2013
elections. Within the social service sector, education has also consistently been the
recipient of the largest portion of public expenditure from the national budget
(MoESAC 2012).
In terms of a local legal framework for the protection of the right to education,
the 1979 Lancaster House Constitution Declaration of Rights does not include the right
to education in its list of constitutionally protected rights available to Zimbabwean
citizens. However, the Education Act of 1987, amended in 1991, identifies the
134
fundamental right of children to attend school, with joint duty bearers specifically
identified as the state and parents, who ‘cost-share’ the expense of education
provision. Outside of local legislation, the right to education is also both explicitly and
implicitly recognised in other treaties and commitments. The country is a member of
the United Nations General Assembly and is thus bound by the Universal Declaration
of Human Rights (UDHR) which declares that education is a right for all (Article 26). It
has also ratified numerous international human rights treaties which protect and
clarify specific elements of the right to education, including the International Covenant
on Economic Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR); the Convention on the Rights of the
Child (CRC); and Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women
(CEDAW) (ZHRO 2011: 2). These commitments to the provision of education are legally
binding in international law and should set a minimum standard of free and
compulsory basic education provision from the state. In addition to ratifying these
legally binding human rights treaties, the Zimbabwe government has also committed
to the Education for All goals as agreed on in 1990 at Jomtien and re-affirmed in 2000
at Dakar, along with the 2000 Millennium Development Goals.
In practice, as has happened in numerous other countries, declarations, both
local and international, have not, however, necessarily resulted in effective action
occurring to enable people to exercise their right to education. There is no guarantee,
either in law or in practically implemented policy, of equitable access to quality
education for Zimbabwean citizens. Even at a ‘basic’ level, fees and levies, exclude the
most disadvantaged children from attending government and private schools. Other
forms of basic education, for adults and children, are mostly taken care of by nongovernmental organisations whose influence is limited by geographical priority or
accessibility; funding priorities, availability and duration; and is subject to disruption
according to the changing political and economic climate. Besides continuing problems
with access to education though, is the hidden learning crisis occurring even when
children are in school. Poor quality teaching and learning in schools, as a result of a
complex web of factors, has resulted in a significant number of children completing a
cycle of schooling without actually having learnt anything (see Spaull and Taylor 2012).
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The combination of continuing poor access to education, at all levels, along with
concerns about quality within education results in an increasingly stratified system
that privileges a few at the expense of many.
In Zimbabwe, the right to education may exist in principle but access and
quality goals in education remain key concerns even after 33 years of prioritising
education on a national level and after 23 years of committing to global education
policy guidelines. It is thus evident that there is something seriously inadequate about
the way in which the right to education is understood and with the ways in which
education goals and policy have been conceived and implemented. With just two years
to go before the target deadlines for EFA and MDGs are reached and a new global
framework for development is implemented, the problems facing the education sector
in Zimbabwe are shared on a global scale.
As plans are being drawn up for education policy in a post-2015 development
framework, there has been widespread recognition of the global learning crisis. In
recommendations for Post-2015 goals, emphasis has been placed on ensuring that
focuses on learning and equity are at the heart of the education agenda and the right
to education is once again referenced as the starting point (see Save the Children
2013: 1; UNESCO 2013: 4; UN 2013a: 2). The failure of the EFA and MDG projects,
however, in being translated on both a local and international scale to guarantee the
right to education for all, particularly in terms of the four principles of availability,
accessibility, acceptability and adaptability, indicates that there is need for this
principle to be revisited and reconceptualised. If this does not happen, a post-2015
education agenda risks amounting to a set of nice sounding aspirations imbued in a
tired rhetoric but with limited power to change the way things are.
This dissertation asserts that while the right to education appears to guide
education policy, in practice the frameworks used to realise the right have been
weakened by competing ideological agendas and a lack of clear communication at an
institutional level, both nationally and internationally. This has resulted in a confusing
array of approaches to education delivery being used by both governments and INGOs
that creates opportunities for exclusion and marginalisation in the sector to develop.
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The case study of Zimbabwean education policy helps to highlight these weaknesses in
context while also demonstrating why a rights-based approach is still necessary for
equitable and quality education delivery.
A rights-based framework for education policy is one that can and should be
effective. Among other strengths it has a strong global resonance; it offers a clear
framework for claims and obligations; it offers a clear set of guidelines for better
addressing equity and quality in education; and it is able to adapt to different contexts
- both chronological and cultural. The right does however need to be reconceptualised
and disseminated effectively among all stakeholders. In particular, stakeholders need
to reassess the meaning and purpose of education in the modern era, decades on from
its initial conception. Social justice theory, particularly Fraser's 3-dimensional model
and Sen's Capability Approach can be helpful in this, particularly in developing a
broader understanding of the full content of the right for a heterogeneous global
society; for critically assessing the power relations associated with the claims and
obligations inherent in the right; and for understanding the significance of the right to
education in relation to other rights and development targets.
This dissertation therefore asks what lessons can be learned from the global
learning crisis in context for a re-conceptualisation of the right to education beyond
2015? In answering this central question the following sub-questions will be explored
in corresponding sections:
1. How has the Right to Education been conceptualised in education policy since
the UDHR?
2. How has the learning crisis emerged alongside EFA and MDGs?
3. What light does the historic and current education situation in Zimbabwe
shed on these issues?
4. What needs to be re-visited going forward beyond 2015?
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The right to education and global education initiatives
At the heart of all human rights is the basic premise that there are certain universal,
inalienable and indivisible ‘freedoms’ that are necessary for the support of a dignified
human existence (UN 2013 online). The protection and promotion of these ethical
demands requires action to be taken on the part of duty bearers to ensure that rightsholders can lay claim to the freedoms available to them (Sen 2004: 319). As Spring
(2000) points out, prior to 1948, education had not been considered a right for all
people, but had generally been available to those who had the social and economic
power to obtain it (2000: 2). Any justification for the right to an education for all
people must therefore prove that without it, any human cannot live a dignified life.
Whatever the lack of consensus may have been at the drawing up of the 1948 UDHR
about what might constitute an ‘education’, participants did agree that education
merited inclusion as a fundamental human freedom (see Box 1 below).
Box 1
Article 26 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948)
1. Everyone has the right to education. Education shall be free, at least in the elementary and
fundamental stages. Elementary education shall be compulsory. Technical and professional education
shall be made generally available and higher education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis
of merit.
2. Education shall be directed to the full development of the human personality and to strengthening of
respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms. It shall promote understanding, tolerance and
friendship among all nations, racial or religious groups, and shall further the activities of the United
Nations for the maintenance of peace.
3. Parents have a prior right to choose the kind of education that be given to their children.
In spite of the lack of consensus on why this right should be upheld or about what
fulfilment of the right would look like in practice, the significant responses made to the
UDHR, in the form of national and regional rights declarations and treaties, indicates a
generally widespread affirmation of the importance of education, particularly 'basic'
education to the development of both individual people and to communities (Mundy
2006:27). Basic education, though a deliberately ambiguous term, has been generally
interpreted in policy as the acquisition of literacy and numeracy skills, and basic
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socialisation skills as is theoretically achieved through a completed cycle of primary
schooling, or informal training for those who have missed out on schooling (McCowan
2013: 72, 119). The interpretation of ‘basic education’ is critical in reconceptualising
the right to education for a post-2015 era.
The most significant of the legally binding treaties regarding the right to
education are the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights
(ICESCR) (1966) and the Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC) (1989), both of
which reaffirm the UDHR's prioritisation of free, compulsory primary education and
reaffirm the value of education to the development of the person, not just to their
economic potential (see ICESCR Article 13 & CRC Article 29 in appendices). In making
commitments to these treaties, states effectively acknowledge that denial of these
educational provisions amounts to social injustice. The widespread ratification of these
treaties indicates that there is a universal appeal to the idea of education as a basic
human right which transcends cultures and customs and which makes a rights-based
framework for education one which resonates with a global audience. The translation
of this acknowledgment into effective practice has however had mixed results and
education, in many places, remains more a privilege than a right.
Despite the fact that over 100 countries have signed the ICESCR since 1966 and
that the CRC is the most widely ratified treaty in history with only the United States
and Somalia abstaining, in 2008 UNESCO reported that up to a third of all reporting
countries still had no legally binding structures in place to ensure free and compulsory
primary education (UNESCO 2008: 24). Even fewer countries have secured free
secondary and higher education for all citizens (ibid.). These findings fuel one of the
strongest arguments against a rights-based approach to education – that it is full of
noble ambition but amounts in practice to mere rhetoric (Robeyns 2006). While such
evidence may appear damning for rights-based theory, in my view, it suggests less
about a failure of the right in and of itself, and more of a failure in the ability of policy
makers at both local and international level to interpret the right within a local context
and find methods to address implementation difficulties in effective and locally
‘owned’ ways.
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When governments and civil society affirm particular rights, they affirm a
communally agreed upon minimum threshold which should be guaranteed to all
citizens. How this becomes deliverable, however, must necessarily be a process of
continual debate, implementation and revision. Amartya Sen (2004) in his defence of
human rights highlights this point explaining that the “internal variations” of rights, for
example in terms of how obligations are decided, do not undermine “the commonality
of the agreed principle of attaching substantial importance to human rights” (2004:
321), and can in fact be a strength of rights-based discourse. As the history of rights
shows, rights are and should be capable of adaptation to specific contexts, without
losing their intrinsic value. This is evident for example in the way in which the right to
vote has evolved over time, being influenced by debates leading civil rights
movements or women’s rights. In education too, treaties following the UDHR have
added to and enhanced elements of the right – for example in reference to teachers’
and children’s rights and the specific rights of girl children in education. For adaptation
to happen, rights should constantly be revisited in open, accountable and democratic
dialogue to ensure their survival in a meaningful and relevant way (Sen 2004: 322).
What appears to have happened in practice, however, is a stagnation of
debate, at both local and international levels, about the content of the right to
education and how it might need to be adapted. Of particular concern, in the rapidly
changing global environment of the 21st Century, is the relevance and definition of
‘basic’ education which is the absolute and most fundamental element of the right to
education. In other words, there is an urgent need to reassess what should constitute
the basic minimum level of learning necessary to secure a dignified human existence.
The principles of the universality and inalienability of rights should also guide
stakeholders to determine what minimum conditions ought to be sought after to
ensure that all people have a fair and equitable opportunity to learn (see
UNICEF/UNESCO 2007: 8; McCowan 2013: 64). Consideration needs to be made, for
example, of the possibility of the expansion of ‘primary schooling’ or ‘basic education’
to some other measure of acquired minimum skill set necessary for meaningful
participation in both a localised and global community. Such essential skills may, in
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2013, for example, include basic IT literacy, as well as HIV/AIDS awareness, which skills
may not necessarily be achieved through formal schooling.
The problem with this argument is of course that ‘adaptation’ can risk becoming
a loophole for the avoidance of delivery of obligations – as has happened with certain
progressive rights, such as the provision of free secondary and higher education. This is
particularly relevant when duty-bearers cite financial barriers for the delivery of both
absolute and progressive rights. The principle of minimum threshold here is important.
The “agreed principle” set at international level, after consultation with as many
stakeholders as possible, sets the base level which duty bearers have a corresponding
obligation to fulfil. Agitation by civil society, at both local and international level, can
be important in ensuring that duty bearers of both perfect and imperfect obligations
are held accountable and that locally relevant and feasible solutions are actively sort
after and developed. This will become increasingly important, particularly LMICs, as
extreme poverty decreases while inequalities within countries become greater. The
setting of internationally agreed upon minimum thresholds also acts as an instrument
of global social justice. Human rights hold the global community to account for
ensuring that poorer countries do not get left behind on the basis of financial
constraint. Sen (2004) also points out that the feasibility argument should not nullify a
right but should motivate an active commitment towards “changing the prevailing
circumstances to make the unrealised rights realizable and ultimately realized” (2004:
348). Tensions within this will be explored in the next section in assessing the learning
crisis in the context of EFA and MDGs.
Elements of a rights-based approach to education
What follows is a brief outline of the main principles which shape a rights-based
approach to education.
The right to education, as phrased in the UDHR and clarified in subsequent
treaties, justifies the right on the basis of both intrinsic and instrumental qualities. The
UDHR highlights the role of education in the “development of the human personality”,
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implicitly pointing to the function of education in developing an understanding of the
world in which individuals exist, and for nurturing individual ambition and selfexploration which can then be acted upon (McCowan 2013: 63). Secondly, the right is
justified on the basis of education’s role in enabling people to be active participants in
a local and global community, incorporating the promotion of tolerance and peace and
the knowledge of and understanding of other rights (UDHR Article 26, 2; ICESCR Article
13, 1). The instrumental values of the right to education, as referred to in the UDHR
and ICESCR, are of a social rather than material kind. In this way, the right is protected
from becoming narrowed exclusively to rights to types of education which may be
conceived as being important to economic development, as is the risk with human
capital theory (Robeyns 2006: 71). Spring (2000) and McCowan (2013) both draw
attention to the notable absence of detail regarding what specifically education should
entail. This is perhaps something that could be strengthened in a revision of the right,
or should at least be consciously debated whenever policy is developed ostensibly on
the foundation of the right, particularly within localised contexts.
Duty bearers and accountability
One of the most important pillars of a rights-based framework for education is the
clear identification of duty bearers and obligations which is necessary for effective
action by stakeholders taking and for accountability. The principle duty bearer in a
rights-based framework is the State. It is ultimately the State who must ensure that
equitable, quality education is available for its citizens.
Rights-based approaches have been critiqued for, among other things, being
too State centred (Robeyns 2006: 77). It is of course critical to consider and actively
involve other stakeholders in education policy: private, corporate and international. It
is also important to be aware that governments, while in theory the greatest
protectors of rights, are often also the greatest violators of the same (Tomasevski
2003: 9). However, without a strong government commitment to and directing vision
for the implementation of rights, policy can very quickly become purely rhetorical.
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Similarly, governments may tend to assume that their responsibility ends at the level
of minimum requirement, without actively striving to realise progressive rights, leaving
these to other partners. Perhaps even more dangerously, competing agendas among
other stakeholders, may lead to a disjointed, patchy approach that exacerbates
inequality and undermines the universal principle of the right to education. In
Zimbabwe, for example, the increasing independence of private schools, in terms of
curriculum, examination boards, fees and staffing, that has developed out of economic
instability, has produced an acutely inequitable education situation that will be difficult
to reverse.
In Robeyns’s critique, she also suggests that the state focus in a rights based
framework excludes “individuals, families and communities” from obligations (2006:
78). The UDHR, however, explicitly identifies parents as key duty bearers in Article 26:
3, and in 26: 2 implies, by reference to the societal role of education, that communities
are implicated as having obligations to uphold the right, even if these obligations are
what Sen might term imperfect (Sen 2004: 346).
Identifying governments as critical duty bearers also helps to facilitate an
effective, integrated rights-based development agenda which recognises the
interdependency of different rights and development objectives. There is a danger of
the framework becoming too top-down as a result, but a well implemented rightsbased framework, which values continuous debate, will seek to be directed by needs
and priorities identified with participation from all stakeholders (see UNICEF/UNESCO
2007). An effective rights-based framework should, in fact, be capable of integrating
both bottom-up participation with top-down regulation for accountability and
implementation. This will be revisited in the final section.
The 4 As framework
Tomasevski (2003) identified 4 core contents of the right to education which
governments are duty bound to deliver: availability, access, acceptability and
adaptability. These four elements have become a general yardstick for measuring the
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success with which governments (and other stakeholders) have been able to secure
the right to education. Analysis of policy using the 4-A scheme requires scrutiny of
inputs, processes and outcomes in education. Acceptability and adaptability are
particularly important for monitoring the quality of education available to learners and
the ability of policy to be flexible to a range of learning needs.
A rights-based framework that consciously seeks to fulfil the 4 As should
therefore produce a well-rounded policy that promotes rights to, within and through
education in an equitable manner. The original conception of the 4 As is not, however,
without fault. In particular, Tomasevski’s model refers exclusively to education
delivered through formal schooling, makes no reference to adult education, and
reaffirms the prioritisation of universal primary education over all other levels. How
one should go about measuring and assessing the different elements is also somewhat
problematic and unclear, particularly for complex elements such as quality. Positive
steps are however being taken in post-2015 planning to develop better methods for
assessing quality and adaptability. The use of disaggregated data to measure different
learning outcomes, and methods for intersectional data analysis are two particularly
important developments in this regard (see Spaull & Taylor 2012 and Waage et al
2010). Despite their weaknesses, the 4 As do act as helpful guides to assessing the full
delivery of the right to education.
The right to education, in its universality; its ability to combine duty and
obligations with participation; and its potential to deliver the right to education in an
inclusive and multidimensional manner, justifies its retention as the cornerstone for
local and international education policy. The following section explores the two
internationally influential education projects of the last 25 years and considers how
and why a learning crisis has emerged even while ostensibly seeking to promote the
right to education on a global scale.
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How has the learning crisis emerged alongside EFA and MDGs?
The social, political and economic landscape of the globe has changed considerably in
the almost 25 years since the first internationally recognised commitment to seek
education for the entire world's people. Interestingly, however, while this changed
world poses new challenges for the education sector, many of the original concerns,
regarding access, equity and quality remain the same, albeit needing to be approached
in new ways. With the right to education purportedly the founding principle on which
both EFA and MDGs 2 & 3 are based, it is relevant to consider the ways in which the
two movements have historically conceptualised and approached global education
strategy.
Education for All and the Millennium Development Goals: competing agendas?
The Education For All movement was initiated at the World Conference of Education
for All in Jomtien in 1990 endorsing a broad set of education focus areas rooted in the
acknowledgment of education as a fundamental human right incorporating both
intrinsic and instrumental values, as a key tool for development (King 2007:379). It was
an important opportunity to fill the gap left by rights treaties to develop a
comprehensive vision for the type of education that should fulfil the right to
education. The conference declaration and the subsequently adopted framework for
action was significant for having been the first ever strategy of international
cooperation for education involving representatives from 155 countries and 150
organisations (McCowan 2013: 4). Although criticised for lacking input from countries
of the Global South, the EFA declaration was nevertheless the first to outline a strategy
for achieving a broad vision of the kind of education that was desirable worldwide on
the basis that education is a right, and not just a privilege, for all (King 2007: 381;
Mundy 2006: 28).
This broad conceptualisation of education can be seen in the declaration vision
which incorporated: "universalising access and promoting equity; focussing on
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learning; broadening the means and scope of basic education; enhancing the
environment for learning; and strengthening partnerships" (UNESCO 1990 Article 2).
Throughout the document there is also a clear social justice directive with frequent
references made to the role education plays in reducing economic, social and political
inequalities (see Article VII & X in particular).
Rather than identifying specific goals with clear indicators and outcomes, the
original EFA framework identified key focus areas to act as guidelines in the
development of countries' own education policies, according to their own particular
needs and education contexts (UNESCO 1990: 18). Focus areas thus included early
childhood care and development; the acquisition of learning achievement skills; adult
literacy; vocational skills training; and, the only time-limited goal, achieving universal
access to and completion of primary or basic education by 2000. It also importantly
stressed the need to take into account the variable range of learning needs for
individuals (WCEFA 1990 Articles II, IV and V) as well as highlighting that international
cooperation and commitment would be significant for ensuring equity in education
delivery (Articles VII – X).
In the context of the changing global political economy and its impact on
development policy throughout the 1990s, it is particularly interesting to note that the
framework for action included a note on the need to protect basic education in
countries "undergoing structural adjustment and facing severe external debt burdens"
(UNESCO 1990 Article IX). This is significant within a rights-based framework for
identifying the international community as a duty bearer with local governments in the
delivery of education for all. Within just a few years, however, the cost-sharing
strategies for education led by the World Bank would completely undermine this
protection clause.
While the conference was successful in bringing some consensus to a vision of
education for all, the implementation of these admirably broad education focuses was
less so. Mundy (2006) and King (2007) both point to the influence of multilateral
agencies and competing development agendas in shaping the EFA agenda after 1990.
Most significantly, the most measurable goal of achieving Universal Primary Education
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(UPE) took centre stage, championed by UNICEF and the World Bank, whose emphasis
on the economic return of primary education investment was in line with human
capital theory which values the instrumental over intrinsic aspects of the right to
education. Meanwhile the broader concept of 'basic education', incorporating lifelong
learning and informal and formal education was sidelined along with most of the other
focus areas (Tomasevski 2003: 53; King 2007: 382). In many countries, the right to
education in practice also appears to have been reduced to the right to the kind of
education the state could afford at that moment in time with indeterminate intentions
to expand this as and when it became affordable (Tomasevski 2003: 69).
This reduction of focus from a universal vision of education to universal
education for children of school going age has a two-fold consequence for the
conceptualisation of education. Firstly, it equates 'education' with formal schooling,
diminishing the value of other forms of education and assuming formal schooling as an
unqualified good (Unterhalter 2003). Secondly, it transforms a broad concept of
learning as a continuous process into one that has distinct levels of varying degrees of
importance - for instance, universal primary education is deemed a top-priority, preprimary and secondary education on the other hand, while still recognised, are of
secondary importance to UPE. Both consequences distance education policy from the
original starting point of education as a right for all and reposition the ideological
justifications for global education along human capital lines. While perhaps justified
from an efficiency and focus perspective, there is a danger that in separating education
into distinct and separate strands, more complex or less 'donor friendly' strands, may
be under-represented to the detriment of particular affected groups.
By the latter part of the 1990s, it was clear that the Jomtien vision was not
being transformed into reality. The EFA declaration was thus re-visited in 2000 in
Dakar and, following target setting recommendations set by the Development
Assistance Committee in 1996, the original framework re-affirmed, but with the six
focus areas transformed into specific time-bound targets with accompanying
measurable indicators (King 2007: 381). All targets are set to be reached by 2015 with
gender parity in schools originally to be reached by 2005.
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While a clearer framework was certainly an important revision and while much
remained unchanged in essence from the Jomtien conference, the summarising of the
vision into six goals meant a narrowing of some of the breadth of the original
declaration. This is particularly significant in implementation when the goals are
adopted into local policy without due attention to the vision and justifications behind
it. Tomasevski (2003) also points out the change in language between the two
declarations. It is particularly notable that in the 2000 document, universal access to
primary or basic education was reduced to ‘primary education’ and that there was no
mention of a financial commitment from wealthy countries to assist poorer ones
(Tomsevski 2003: 99).
That being said, the Dakar framework did result in several important
developments for the EFA movement. First and most significantly, the broader notion
of the right to education was revisited and clarified separately in the 2000 World
Education Report and a rights-based approach to education officially adopted (UNESCO
2000). While this has continued to evolve, it was important for drawing attention once
more to the justification, both intrinsic and instrumental, for supporting a global
education commitment and for outlining the specific duties and responsibilities of
individual and corporate actors. The Dakar conference also involved a much wider
range of delegates than Jomtien and drew on findings discussed at 6 regional
conferences held between 1999-2000, taking into account the mistakes of the past
decade and debating new ways of approaching recognised problems. Another very
important development to emerge from EFA post-Dakar, has been the introduction of
the annual Global Monitoring Report, produced annually since 2002. Its aim is "to
inform, influence and sustain genuine commitment towards Education for All" through
summarising global progress on all goals but also highlighting specific, contemporary
education concerns and developments (UNESCO 2013 online). In demonstrating
commitment to the full delivery of the right to education, and in the interest of social
justice, this Report is vital for accountability; for shining a light on groups of people
who may otherwise be excluded or marginalised from EFA; and also for promoting
continual participation in the debate around education.
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While the Dakar EFA conference, whatever its failings, revived a broad based
conceptualisation of what the right to education meant and how it could be achieved,
the Millennium Development compact, agreed just a few months later, reduced global
education targets once again to two goals: achieving UPE (MDG 2) and eliminating
gender disparity in primary and secondary education (MDG 3.A).
The MDGs did not intend to provide a complete framework for global
education, given their more general development scope and in the context of the
parallel operations of EFA (although the relationship between EFA and MDGs has been
less than complementary). The highlighting of these two focus areas, however, does
indicate that, for key global policy players at any rate, primary education and gender
equity in education have some particular developmental significance that gives them
greater value than other education concerns.
Nevertheless, as Nayyar (2013) points out, the simplicity and noble aspirations of
the MDGs, to end poverty and direct development, resulted in widespread take-up of
the goals both by governments and external organisations (2013: 373). The (apparent)
simplicity in targets, alongside the added assisted funding incentives from the World
Bank and IMF in the form of Poverty Reduction Strategy Initiatives (PRSI) for ministries
re-structuring policy on recommendations, has meant that MDG achievement strategy
in many countries has overshadowed EFA ones. In Zimbabwe for example, while both
EFA and MDGS are referred to in MoESAC policy papers, reports show a tendency to
focus more on MDG targets than EFA. One example lies in the reporting process. The
only EFA country report for Zimbabwe was produced in 2000, while MDG Reports, in
which education strategy features, have been produced more regularly (2004, 2010,
2012). In addition, the Education Act (see Appendix B) amended in 2001, continues to
emphasise UPE and gender parity as central priorities (GoZ 1987, 2001 version) while
there is no legal framework to support the 'free and compulsory primary education of
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good quality' goal of EFA2. Thus, Zimbabwe is 'on track' to achieve MDG 2 & 3 by 2015,
but will miss all of the EFA targets1 (UNDP 2012).
EFA, MDGs and the state of global education at the target deadline
As plans are made for new education goals beyond the 2015 targets of Education for
All (EFA) movement and the Millennium Development Goals, there is general
consensus that, in addition to there still being a need for increased access and
availability to education for many people, the world is facing a learning crisis. In spite
of the considerable progress made over the duration of these two projects, particularly
with regard to access to primary school education and gender equity in education,
both EFA and MDG education targets are likely to be missed on a global scale (UN
2012; UNESCO 2012).
Importantly, there has been acknowledgment that the division of EFA and
MDGs, although initially intended to be complementary, has in fact been counterproductive for education policy that was intended to be broad based and all
encompassing (Waage et al 2010). Related to this is also consensus that in emphasising
Universal Primary Education, there has been a neglect of other important stages of
learning as well as a tendency to homogenise approaches to education at the expense
of taking into account variable learning needs and contexts (McCowan 2013: 83). This
has all had a negative impact on the quality of education, as has been revealed in
recent studies of disaggregated data by SACMEQ for example, which demonstrate that
schooling and learning are not synonymous (Spaull & Taylor 2012).
Targets for 2015 will not be met and the state of global education at the end of
2013 is bleak. While plans are being made for education policy beyond 2015, it is
important that mistakes are acknowledged and strategies made to avoid their
reproduction. In addition to examining global trends, it is also important to consider
1
Zimbabwe has achieved gender parity in enrolment and retention in schools (part of EFA5) but is still a long way
from achieving "gender equality in education" (EFA5) wherein the specific learning needs (including learning
environment) for girls and boys are equally addressed.
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individual case studies which are revealing about the ways in which international
policy is interpreted and implemented on a local level. The following section thus
examines the state of education in Zimbabwe.
The learning crisis in context: Zimbabwe
The state of education in Zimbabwe is interesting in a number of ways. The country's
education policy since independence in 1980 has closely mirrored international policy
recommendations from around the same time, thus offering a unique perspective on
the effects of these policies in context. It highlights strengths and weaknesses in
existing frameworks for education and points to the need for the right to education to
be more broadly conceptualised for the achievement of education for all. It also flags
up the importance of considering a country's unique history and socio-political
situation in the implementation of policy. Zimbabwe’s history includes a preindependence legacy of unequal education provision on racial grounds, as well as a
more recent politically and economically turbulent history which continues to impact
education delivery in new ways. Thus the Zimbabwean case study also highlights
problems that arise in the protection of education rights in fragile states.
Historical context
In the first two decades following independence in 1980, Zimbabwe was hailed as a
leader in African education (MoESAC 2012: i). The new government inherited an
inherently unequal education system that was the legacy of both colonial and later the
minority governments, whose policies were designed to maintain separation of the
races (Dorsey 1996: 6; Kanyongo 2005: 65). The first priority of Robert Mugabe's
government was to rectify these inequalities through a deliberate redistribution
initiative. The justifications for redistribution were twofold. First, was the belief that
“education is a fundamental right” for “every child of school-going age and every adult
outside the formal school”. In 1987, the GoZ formally adopted a rights-based approach
to education, cemented in the wording of the Education Act which declares that
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education is a basic human right (GoZ 1987 - Appendix A). Secondly, education was
seen as being integral to national economic and social development with emphases on
the role of education in instilling patriotism and the need for both academic and skillsbased training for production (R Mugabe ZFEP 1983: 28, 29).
The government’s action plan for education reform was led by a commitment
to prioritising universal access to primary education and adult literacy with a vision to
extend access and availability to further education (ibid.). The education policies of
the new Zimbabwean government resulted in a radical transformation of the sector.
Between 1980 and 1990, the number of schools in the country, both primary and
secondary, increased by almost 50%; adult literacy rates were raised above 80%
following roll-out of a national adult literacy scheme; primary enrolment rates were
near universal at primary level; and secondary enrolment rates had trebled (ManduviMoyo & Lewin 2001: 61-64).
Interestingly, without implying that the Zimbabwean government's policies
were constructed without external influences, these early education policies
demonstrate an independent, locally led will to reform an unequal education system
to suit the country's own particular needs. The existing education policies of
developing countries prior to the mobilisation of EFA and MDGs are frequently
overlooked in literature on global education practice, other than as background to
individual country progress reports, and should be more closely considered for
understanding the full impact of global initiatives in context.
Initial policies were not, however, without their weaknesses. The emphasis on
redistribution meant that policy was rushed and lacked definition and focus and was
also highly centralised (UNESCO/GoZ 2000: 1). Its focus was also strongly institutional
with little acknowledgment of the value of non-formal schooling (ibid.). In response to
these acknowledged failings, and in line with the recommendations of the EFA
declaration made at Jomtien in 1990, a more refined set of goals was formulated
under the National Plan of Action for Children (NPA) (Kanyongo 2005: 72).
152
Finally, a clear financing plan for the rapid expansion of education provision
was never fully developed and by the early 1990s, it became evident that the
government could not afford its educational reforms. ZANU-PF's ideological shift,
influenced by international pressure, away from socialism towards a more neo-liberal
capitalist approach, had significant repercussions for education policy in the country
(Zvobgo 1999: 114).
The Zimbabwean case is important for highlighting the role of the World Bank
in education policy focuses in the 1990s. Although publically endorsing the goals of
Education for All and championing UPE in particular, through its rigid structural
adjustment programmes, the Bank in fact, undermined these goals in practice. In
Zimbabwe, the Economic Structural Adjustment Programmes (ESAP) of the early 1990s
led to severe budget cuts for the education sector affecting teachers' salaries; school
maintenance and resource budgets; and, most significantly, fees were reintroduced for
primary school education, except in rural areas in 1992 (Zvobgo 1999: 115; Kanyongo
2005: 71). The Education Act as amended in 1991 thus transferred responsibility for
the provision of education away from government, to parents who are legally
obligated to send their children to primary school, regardless of their personal financial
situation.
The result was the steady decline in the quality and reputation of public
Zimbabwean schooling as budgets for upkeep of infrastructure and resources and for
retaining teaching staff continued to be reduced (UNICEF/GoZ 2011: 1). State-led
efforts to expand educational access beyond formal schooling at primary and early
secondary stages, although still highlighted as important in official reports, all but
ended during this period, with the private sector playing an increasingly important role
in the provision of education to specific target groups (Kanyongo 2005: 72). The
declining reputation of state-funded schools also led to an emerging stratification
between schools wherein the quality of education can be directly related to the fee
charged. Thus, a continuum of quality exists with 'elite' private schools at the top end
and rural government schools at the bottom. Better quality government schools are
those that charge the highest 'top-up levies' or are supported by Old Boys' Funds
153
(Manduvi-Moyo & Lewin 2001: 71). While the debate over the role of the private
sector in education provision continues (see Tooley & Dixon 2007; Motala 2009 among
others), what is clear from the Zimbabwean situation is that fees, of any description,
undermine efforts for equity. The potential for schools to perpetuate inequalities is
also something that needs to be considered - particularly in a country where education
tends to be equated with a very academic and examinations focused schooling system,
to the exclusion of technical training and other non-formal education systems (see
UNESCO 2011: 9).
The EFA progress report for 2000, published shortly before the collapse of the
economy and political destabilisation, highlights a number of issues that reflect global
trends emerging towards the latter part of the 1990s and into the 21st Century. It
draws attention to problems of a wide range of equity issues, and the need to focus
attention on quality of learning; of expanding early childhood care; the need for
curriculum to be relevant and adaptable to changing global trends; and the need to
consider the ways in which education equips young people for employment (UNESCO/
GoZ 2000). It also reflects a move towards a more humanistic perspective of education
in consideration of individual learners' needs that reflects changes in global
development discourse (ibid.). These observations highlight important problem areas
for education which were being observed locally and internationally. However, as has
already been discussed in section 2, the reaffirmation of the EFA goals at Dakar was
swiftly overshadowed by the Millenium Development Goal project, which simpler,
more manageable goals were easier to commit to. In Zimbabwe in particular,
increasing financial chaos was exerting considerable pressure on the education sector
and having already a reputation for achieving UPE and gender equity in enrolment,
MDG targets were much more feasible and achievable than EFA (see UNESCO/GoZ
2000 and Kanyongo 2005). Local political-economic contexts together with competing
development agendas are therefore directly influential in determining how priorities
are decided in policy making on the ground.
In Zimbabwe, the ‘crisis’ years of 2000-2008 resulted in a disheartening
regression in terms of education reform. During this period an estimated 40 000
154
teachers left the country, while the increasingly difficult economic situation resulted in
thousands being turned away from school for being unable to pay fees (MoESAC 2012:
xv, Save the Children 2012: 9). Education during this period also became increasingly
politicised with schools becoming hot-spots for intimidation and in some cases
violence, particularly around election time (Save the Children 2012: 9-10). The effect
on rural education of the Fast Track Land Reform Programme (FTLRP) has barely
figured in the documentation of the programme, but should be assumed to have been
significant given that a significant proportion of the country's schools are located on
farms or surrounding areas (Manduvi-Moyo & Lewin 2001: 72). No focussed research
has been carried out on the impact of FTLRP on education for the almost one million
displaced farm workers and their families, or for the some 240 000 resettled
household beneficiaries (Moyo et al 2009). The social justice implications of this
omission are significant. While the FTLRP has been justified from a redistributive
justice perspective with regard to land ownership and rural livelihoods, an integrated
rights-based perspective would consider the impact of the reform on the numerous
other social, political and economic rights of affected people at stake. Coordinated
plans to prevent the collapse of progressing education systems and ensuring the right
to education of people living in conflict affected areas is increasingly relevant at this
point in world history. How the right to education can be upheld and how
governments can be held to account in such unstable situations are pressing questions
which need to be debated in post-2015 planning.
The current situation and looking ahead
The instability of the late 1990s to early 2000s stalled progress in the education sector
and in some ways it could be said to have regressed. The post-election Government of
National Unity (GNU) in 2008, however, although uneasy, resulted in a degree of
political and economic stability. For education, the last 5 years under the leadership of
Senator David Coltart have seen crucial steps taken to promote the restoration of the
sector. As a measure to curb the regressive trends of the crisis years, in 2009, the
155
Education Transition Fund was launched by the MoESAC in partnership with donors
including UNICEF, DfiD and the government of the Netherlands. The first phase (20092011) focused on crisis management and essential resource distribution, specifically
text-books and stationery while the second (2012-2015) is concerned with restoring
dignity to the teaching profession and ensuring that measures are put in place to
protect vulnerable and disadvantaged learners (UNICEF/GoZ 2011:2). The second
phase of ETF runs parallel to the MoESAC's Medium Term Plan and has specific funds
allocated to 5 of the Plan's 7 strategic points for education recovery. The combined
funding project and Ministry policy initiative explicitly outlines aims to stem the further
decline of the education sector and bring Zimbabwe back on track to meet MDG goals
2 and 3 and the EFA goals by 2015 (MoESAC 2012: xiii; UNICEF/GoZ 2011: 1). The 7
strategic points to do this cover teaching support and reinvigoration (1 & 4); focus on
learning quality, relevance and environment (2 & 3); education governance and
management (5); the revitalisation of arts, sports and culture (7) and focus on
supporting those with greatest need (6) (MoESAC 2012).
The choice of focus areas is revealing about the ways in which global education
goals are approached - even when ostensibly in line with a human rights agenda.
Firstly, it highlights the tendency, particularly when funding is limited, for focus to
revert to a reduced vision of education that is mostly concerned with delivery through
schooling, with specific funding focus on primary schooling. References to the formal
school system are made in every point while plans to tackle the learning needs of
illiterate adults and out-of-school youths feature only in point 6. This undervalues
other forms of education while also failing to acknowledge the potential for the school
environment to be disenabling - this is particularly relevant given the history of schools
as political targets (Unterhalter 2003: 7; UNESCO 2011). Secondly, focus is heavily
concentrated on inputs such as textbooks, classrooms, teaching staff, and quantitative
outputs including increasing NERs; improving examination pass rates; returning out of
school students to mainstream education and so on. Such a focus, while fulfilling a
redistributive function detracts from issues involving processes within education which
have implications for quality.
156
Talented Disadvantaged Children
The focus on talented disadvantaged children is particularly interesting from a human
rights perspective as it flags up specific difficulties for the current rights-based
framework. Firstly, it recognises that provision of 'basic' education is not enough in
itself to secure "equal opportunity" for "the development of the child's personality,
talents and mental and physical abilities to their fullest potential" (CRC 1989 Article 27
& 28). Too many children are completing primary schooling and finding that there is
nowhere to go thereafter. Using capabilities language, individuals who have various
capabilities have been unable to turn these into functionings because of uneven
distribution of resources and insufficient recognition and representation in policy. If a
child, who is capable of completing higher education and wants to be able to study,
but is unable to because she cannot afford secondary school fees or because the
nearest secondary school is 30 miles away from her village, it is evident that she is
being denied the right to education. The basic threshold for education that ends at
primary schooling is revealed as insufficient as an absolute right.
The second tension that arises is one which is concerned with the ability of a
rights-based framework to accommodate heterogeneous learning needs. While this is
the first time the learning needs of talented disadvantaged children have appeared in
national policy, NGOs and local and international charitable organisations have, since
before independence, been involved in making special provision for stand-out
students. Plans for the creation of 'Academies of Excellence', however, mirror in many
ways existing strategies to meet this need and should be wary of replicating potentially
harmful practices. At school level, typically, charitable organisations2 offer a limited
number of scholarships to students, on the basis of academic or sporting merit, to
attend elite private schools for their final years in High School and also support
students in applications for funding for further study. Other organisations and trusts
2
Such as Makomborero Trust; Christian Aid Trust; the Joshua Nkomo Scholarship Fund and so on.
157
exist offering funding for tertiary education both at local and overseas universities3.
The role such scholarships have played in transforming the lives of beneficiaries and
their families, as many testimonials show, should not be understated, and indeed,
demonstrate the kind of positive role NGOs and other actors can play in filling gaps in
government strategy. However, from an integrated rights-based perspective, policy
makers need to be aware of the potential for such practices to reproduce rather than
reduce inequalities. For example, placing 'talented' children in private schools
perpetuates a divide between the public and private sectors, while the social and
economic differences in background may potentially stigmatise and isolate scholarship
students within the school environment.
Secondly, while some organisations try to take into account as wide a range of
influencing factors as possible in their selection process, they are unlikely, except in
extraordinary circumstances, to be able to assist the very poorest, most disadvantaged
children as these will be the children whose 'talent' will have had little to no
opportunity to have emerged in the first place. Finally, scholarships can only provide
for the very brightest and most talented students, with the greatest socio-economic
need, while hundreds of other 'good' applicants are turned down. Ultimately, the
system remains unchanged.
The Academies for Excellence proposal has similar weaknesses. The plan is to
inject with the best human and material resources, two schools in each of the
country's eight provinces. These schools will then become specialist centres of
excellence for the fostering of academic, cultural or sporting talent, with 40% of places
reserved for beneficiaries of full scholarships (MoESAC 2012). The remaining 60% of
seats will be available to fee paying talented children. From a human-capital approach
one could argue that it made sense to separate ‘talented’ students and invest extraresources in special training and development, as has been suggested in the
Academies of Excellence scheme. Does a human rights framework offer a different
approach that can ensure that all learners have equal opportunity to achieve whatever
3
Such as the Beit Trust; World Wide Scholarships; Phoenix Fund as well as funding offered by various embassies and
consulates.
158
educational goals they are capable and desirous of? If the absolute right to education
is not broadened, I do not believe that it is possible. Until the right to education grants
learners equal opportunities to be educated from birth through primary and secondary
school, at least, education systems in developing countries will continue to reproduce
inequalities with significant numbers of able students unable to achieve their
education goals, other than by serendipity or individual assistance from benefactors.
Lessons from Zimbabwe
A number of lessons for global international education policy and a right-based
framework for education can be learnt from the Zimbabwean case. It is first of all
important to assess ways in which local government may already be developing
grassroots approaches to delivery of the right to education. It is also important to take
into account the unique socio-political-economic of context of individual countries in
developing programmes to support the right to education in ways that will be locally
owned and that are relevant and sustainable. It is secondly important to recognise that
for global education policy to be effective, stakeholders need to have a clearly outlined
plan of action and for goals to be streamlined so as to avoid conflicts of interests, as
happened with EFA and MDGs. It is also critical that if global policy purports to be
founded on the principles of the right to education, then the right must be
conceptualised fully and in a manner relevant to the current global environment. In
the Zimbabwe case it is evident that when the right is reduced, the opportunity for
exclusion and marginalisation increases. The situation in Zimbabwe also points to the
need for more discussion to be had on how to protect the right to education in
unstable countries – both from a local and international perspective. Finally, as the
recovery plans attest, partnership with other countries and non-governmental
organisations can be helpful in stabilising and supporting struggling education systems,
but must be led by a clear national directive that is critically aware of competing
agendas and power relations.
159
Reconceptualising the right to education for a post-2015 agenda
Social Justice
In reconceptualising the right to education, particularly in terms of expansion in regard
to heterogeneity of learners and a fuller conception of the purpose of education, it is
pertinent to consider briefly the influence of social justice theorists, in particular Nancy
Fraser and Amartya Sen, for considering how these approaches may add to a
reconceptualisation of the right to education. Some critics of the rights-based
approach to education, such as Robeyns (2006), have called for the abandonment of
the approach in favour of a new framework based on Sen’s capability theory. Others,
including Unterhalter & Walker (2007) and McCowan (2013) suggest rather that the
capability approach would be helpful in developing particular aspects of the right. Tikly
& Barrett (2011) also point to how Fraser’s three-dimensional social justice framework
can be important in safeguarding quality in particular within the right to education.
'Parity of participation', the Capability Approach and Equity
Using Nancy Fraser's language, at the heart of a social justice perspective is the
conviction that a just society is one in which all people should be able to participate
equally in social life (Fraser 2005: 73). Injustice is overcome by removing social,
economic and political barriers that prevent people from entering into this "parity of
participation" (Fraser 1996: 30). Fraser's three-dimensional framework asks what,
how, and who questions in identifying where injustices occur and in setting this aright.
This is important for identifying both who has been wronged and who should be held
accountable in claims for redistribution, recognition and representation (Fraser 2005).
Her model for social justice importantly considers the interconnectedness of barriers
to participation which often work in tandem to exclude and marginalise the most
vulnerable (ibid.). Finally, the most recently added third pillar of her model, that of
160
representation, highlights the political element to social exclusion which is relevant
now more than ever in the globalised and increasingly unequal world (Fraser 2005: 74;
Tikly & Barrett 2011: 7). Here, one is asked to challenge the tendency to view political
power relations from a purely state-territorial perspective. Instead, consideration must
also be made of extra-territorial structures, such as international institutions and
multi-national corporations, which have the power to shape global policy with a
degree of impunity (Fraser 2005: 75). Justice is accomplished through participative
parity, after redistribution, and also recognition and representation, takes place.
Fraser's framework for social justice is therefore mostly concerned with
identifying and making accountable systems and structures which disenfranchise
people from participation in development of self and society. In relation to a rights
based approach to education then, Fraser’s model would be helpful in a monitoring
role for balancing the power relations involved in implementing international policy in
local contexts. In the Zimbabwean example, using this framework in the design of
recovery programmes in partnership with government and other organisations could
help to ensure that policy remains relevant and led by local interests and
interpretations of the right.
Sen's Capability Approach on the other hand is more interested in the
conditions which exist to enable the translation of individuals' own capabilities into
functionings (their 'beings and doings', for example being well educated and
employed), which are necessary to living lives of value (Sen 1992: 39). The Capability
Approach sees the 'well-being of individuals' as being in direct relation to the
"freedoms [people] actually enjoy to choose the lives that they have reason to value"
(1992: 81). Justice is delivered when the conditions of and processes that result in
'unfreedoms' are changed (Sen 1999: 3). Sen’s own 2004 defence of rights indicates his
own view that rights and capabilities are not incompatible. Instead he shows how a
capability approach can help to shine a light on specific obstacles in policy making
which if overcome could enhance opportunities for rights to be achieved in a more
meaningful and holistic way. While acknowledging the complexity of the
heterogeneous nature of such an approach for policy implementation, Sen emphasises
161
the much greater potential harm of neglecting "centrally relevant concerns because of
a lack of interest in the freedoms of the people involved" (1999: 33). Importantly,
consensus on what to do about individual unfreedoms is not as important as the
opportunity for inclusion of affected parties and their advocates in debate and
discussion to be had over these concerns (1999: 34). Participation for Sen, as with
Fraser, is an intrinsic element in the justice process. While a rights-based approach
does hold participation and dialogue as integral to the realisation of human rights,
there is a tendency, by the very nature of the universality of rights, and because in
national implementation terms it is more efficient and easier to manage, towards
homogenising learning. In using capability theory to keep revisiting the individual
needs of learners, this homogenisation would be more effectively avoided.
Unterhalter (2009) also highlights the importance of capabilities in fully
understanding the concept of ‘equity’ which has been repeatedly highlighted as a key
focus area in post-2015 documents. The first strand of this approach involves reasoned
negotiation from ‘below’, which is important for developing contextually relevant, and
locally owned policy, that can allow for heterogeneous learning needs (2009: 418). For
sustainability and effectiveness, however, it is necessary for there to be ‘top-down
equity’ delivered through laws and regulations, as exist in rights-based frameworks,
which protect fair access and participation (2009: 420). Finally a third ‘middle’ equity
should regulate the horizontal flow of inputs and processes between places to avoid
exclusion and marginalisation occurring (2009: 421). The capability approach’s
emphasis on process and agency as well as deliberate debate and public engagement,
combined with the regulatory and accountable properties of rights-based frameworks
produces an integrated conceptualisation of equity in education.
Post-2015 recommendations
In response to the global learning crisis as outlined in earlier sectopms, in
recommendations for post-2015 goals, emphasis has been placed on ensuring that
focuses on learning and equity are at the heart of the education agenda (see Save the
162
Children 2013; UNESCO 2013; UN 2013). In addition there is general acknowledgment
that past and existing education goals have tended to have too narrow a focus missing
opportunities for cross-sectoral engagement; have not always been contextually
adaptable and locally 'owned'; and have often resulted in an overemphasis on the
achievement of minimum standards at the expense of equity and more holistic
conceptualisation of wellbeing (Waage et al 2010: 992; United Nations 2013: 5).
Recommendations thus far therefore seem to regain some of the breadth of the
original scope of the right to education and the vision of EFA. In particular, the three
most common focus recommendations that have emerged from post-2015 texts point
towards positive change for global education policy and seem to suggest, if not
explicitly, that there is scope for expansion of the conceptualisation of the right to
education.
Policy discussions recommend in various guises, three focus areas: equity;
learning and the learning continuum. The first focus area on equity draws attention to
the need to concentrate efforts on reaching the poorest and most marginalised, who
may have been left out in the drive to achieve minimum education goals (Save the
Children 2013: 3; UNESCO 2013: 2). This focus area also highlights the importance of
ensuring equality of opportunity to and within education, as opposed to concentrating
solely on access and availability. There is also scope here for the consideration of
intersectional strategy which could exploit the synergies that exist, for example,
between health, gender and education rights (Waage et al 2010).
The second focus area is concerned with the concept of learning. This point
speaks to the problem that has been raised in global education policy of the difficulty
in determining what constitutes a quality and purposeful education – the content of
the right to education. It draws attention to the need to re-conceptualise education
beyond the formal, institutionalised school setting; to revisit issues related to contextrelevant pedagogy and curriculum; and to reconsider the value of learning, both
intrinsic and instrumental, from a perspective that incorporates the heterogeneous
learning needs of both individuals and communities (Rose 2013). It requires a return to
163
the purpose and justification of the right to education that is relevant to the changing
needs of today’s world.
The third and related focus area is concerned with the need to expand the
concept of the learning continuum beyond a focus on primary schooling to incorporate
a life-long learning continuum that extends from pre-school education into continuous
learning beyond formal schooling (Centre for Universal Learning et al 2013).
Importantly, however there has been little discussion about directly reconceptualising
the right to education both for international law and global policy guidelines. If the
original concept and inclusive vision of Education for All is resurrected, however, there
should also be opportunity for debate about formalising an expansion of the right to
education.
Though the current global education landscape appears bleak – particularly in
light of the weaknesses of EFA and MDGs, positive steps have been taken in attempts
to avoid repeating mistakes of the past. A rights-based framework can be effective in
enabling states to deliver equitable educational opportunities to their citizens,
particularly when the right to education is understood and interpreted in culturally and
historically relevant ways.
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170
Rehabilitating Islamist Extremists: Successful
Methods in Prison-Centred ‘De-radicalisation’
Programmes
Marc Jones
Abstract
Following the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the global “war on terror” led by the United
States resulted in the death and imprisonment of a large number of Islamist
terrorists. However, many states soon came to the realisation that traditional
security efforts alone were insufficient to effectively combat Islamic terrorism.
Prison-centred de-radicalisation programmes were thus launched in a number of
Muslim majority in order to address the ideological roots of Islamist extremism.
Saudi Arabia, Malaysia and Yemen have implemented such programmes in an
effort to de-radicalise Muslim extremists and facilitate their integration back into
society. Through a comparative analysis of the programmes, this dissertation
ascertains the methods that are most effective in disengaging Islamist extremists
from terrorist behaviour. It finds that the use of independent clerics in reeducation, extensive post-release care and financial incentives, effective
surveillance and deterrence, family inclusion and a tailored approach are central
to the success of de-radicalisation programmes.
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Acknowledgements
I am extremely thankful to my mother and father for their constant support, financially
and otherwise, which has allowed me to pursue my interest in security and terrorism
related subjects at the University of Leeds. I would also like to thank my supervisor Dr
Alan Craig who has given me valuable advice on how to focus my dissertation.
Introduction
Increasingly, states have sought alternative measures to contend with violent
extremism and as a result so called “softer” approaches have become key components
of counter terrorism policy throughout the world. Their adoption has emerged partly
in response to public backlash against military approaches to countering terrorism but
can largely be viewed as a recognition that “hard” approaches, whilst stifling terrorism
on a number of levels, “do not undermine its ideological appeal” (Ezzarqui, 2010:1).
Policy makers have realised that a military approach alone has inherent limitations; in
order to greatly enhance the effectiveness of existing national counterterrorism
strategies it needs to be combined with programmes that are able to address the
ideological foundations that promote violence. Further concern is raised by the
capture and imprisonment process of both convicted terrorists and their sympathisers
since evidence exists to suggest that they can be radicalised to a greater extent within
the prison environment (ibid.).
Prisons have the potential to become ideal breeding grounds for radicalisation
and terrorism; they not only give extremists the opportunity to develop violent
ideology but provide a favourable setting in which proselytization efforts can be set in
motion. As Mulcahy, Merrington and Bell (2013:4) remark, “Prisoner radicalisation is
not a recent phenomenon”. History is replete with examples where prisons have
served not only as recruitment centres but as headquarters for various ideological
extremists; both Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin used their time behind bars to develop
and refine their extremist ideologies, as have key figures in the shaping of modern
jihadist thought such as Sayyid Qutb and Abu Mohammad al-Maqdisi. Similarly, any
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serious discussion of modern jihadist movements like al-Qaeda would be remiss
without reference to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and Ayman al-Zawahiri, both of whom
academic observers believe were radicalised during their imprisonment (Brandon,
2009:7). Prisons have played an enormous role in the narrative of radical Islamist
movements; their unsettling environment is one where individuals become more likely
to explore new associations and beliefs, and can become radicalised for myriad
reasons. Conversely prisons also provide an ideal location for state officials to
implement procedures that can assist with the process of de-radicalisation and
rehabilitation; procedures which are designed to tackle the underlying causes that led
to the radicalisation of extremist individuals and induce a renunciation of their violent
ideology.
Whilst the struggle against Islamist terrorism does require the use of military
force in order to deny movements like al-Qaeda sanctuaries in places such as
Afghanistan and Iraq, defeating extremist Islam requires a multifaceted approach
which necessarily includes strategies to eradicate its roots and causes. Recognising
this, several states have devised “de-radicalisation programmes” that seek, through a
range of techniques, to address the ideological roots of extremists’ violent ideologies.
The structure of the de-radicalisation can differ greatly, some employ
mechanisms with a high level of pervasiveness, as in the case of Saudi Arabia, whereby
new lives, jobs and marriages are arranged for participants and some, as in the case of
Malaysia, utilise a more coercive element. However, despite variation in the
techniques employed, they each have in common the fundamental objectives of
rehabilitating detained terrorists. The fact that these programmes share a common
goal enables their comparative success to be assessed and hence best-practices to be
observed.
Debate over whether or not genuine de-radicalisation can occur is not
necessary; that it can has been proven in several programmes and observers have now
even witnessed former terrorists assisting with research on the de-radicalisation
process. However, as Kruglanski, Gelfand and Gunaratna (2010:3) recognise; “Whether
specific de-radicalisation programs are effective and what makes them so is a different
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question *and+ one in a dire need of an answer”. This dissertation seeks to analyse the
approaches and success of prison-centred de-radicalisation programmes in three
countries that attempt to counter Islamic extremism; Saudi Arabia, Malaysia and
Yemen. In doing so, it identifies methods that can help prevent policy makers
elsewhere from making counterproductive mistakes when engaging in the
development of similar programmes.
Methodology
The programmes analysed exist in countries where Islam is a majority religion. These
countries have a vested interest in attempting to reform Islamist extremists, largely
due to the increasing pressure they have felt exerted by Western States, to implement
effective measures to minimise the threat. Whilst prison-centred programmes are not
unique to Islamic-majority countries they have seen a great of extremists pass through
their doors; they have accordingly been afforded ample subjects to test their methods
on. Saudi Arabia and Yemen were chosen specifically because they have received
significant attention from media outlets and research-focused organisations alike;
Saudi, due its extensiveness and its reported successes and Yemen due to its relative
failure. Malaysia, on the other hand offers an interesting case of a country that is
purported to employ a level of state coerciveness as an aspect to its programme.
Despite the religious demography of the states, the analysis allows for the
determination of methods that can be applied to other countries in a manner that
accounts for specific legal and cultural practice, and factors which have the potential to
be conducive to the success of de-radicalisation programmes generally. This
dissertation engages in a comparative analysis which seeks to examine the perceived
successes and criticisms of the procedures adopted by the programmes, to highlight
programme similarities and differences, to compare the results that they have
produced and to determine methods that appear to effectively disengage detainees
from terrorist activity. In doing so attempt is made to answer this dissertation’s
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research question: what are the most effective methods de-radicalisation programmes
can employ to disengage Islamists from terrorist behaviour?
Limitations
The most practical way to measure the effectiveness of a de-radicalisation programme
is by the rate of recidivism - i.e. the number of individuals that, after completion of the
programme, returned to terrorism (Porges, 2010a:1). Recidivism rates are frequently
inaccurate however, often reflecting the limited amount of what is known to
intelligence services on the matter. The development of adequate methods to
calculate recidivism rates is also hampered by the difficulties researchers encounter
when attempting to gain access to programme methods and statistics. Furthermore,
the majority of de-radicalisation programmes have not been in existence long enough
for observers to determine with a high level of certainty which strategies have the
longest lasting impact upon the behaviour of extremist individuals; Saudi Arabia’s
programme, for example, was considered an absolute success until the terrorist
activity of eleven of its graduates was uncovered in 2009. Terminology can prove
deceiving in any study concerning de-radicalisation; the fact that it is not an observable
phenomena ensures that one can never be absolutely certain that an individual has deradicalised. It is for this reason that the success of the programmes is determined by
their ability to disengage extremists from terrorist acts. Similarly, since a number of
programmes involve extensive post release surveillance their apparent success in the
context of de-radicalisation may be a direct result of the deterrent quality of the
monitoring, equating to a strategic calculation by the individual to no longer engage in
terrorist activity rather than being directly attributable to de-radicalisation; hence the
decision to assess effectiveness based on programme ability to disengage. These
hurdles should not, however, prevent attempts to draw out common factors that
appear to assist in the de-radicalisation of extremist individuals, for such factors can
prove useful to the continuing development of programmes in states throughout the
world.
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Definitions and Concepts
Radicalisation
De-radicalisation, disengagement and social reintegration cannot be considered out of
the context of their precursor, radicalisation (Barelle, 2010:3). Given that this paper
assesses programmes which attempt all three processes, a brief overview of
radicalisation and its contributing factors will allow for a more informed analysis.
Horgan (2009:152) provides an effective working definition of radicalisation as a
“social and psychological process of incrementally experienced commitment to
extremist political or religious ideology”, hence discussion of alternate definitions and
resulting implications is not warranted. Factors which can lead to the radicalisation of
individuals do, however, require mention. Knowledge of how an individual came to be
radicalised is crucial to his process of de-radicalisation; for example, if radicalisation
occurred primarily due to the lack of understanding of the core principles of Islam then
re-education will be pivotal. The success of any de-radicalisation programme will,
therefore, partly rely on its ability to identify and effectively address the specific cause
of radicalisation at the individual level. The European research project Transnational
Terrorism, Security and the Rule of Law (TTSRL, 2008:9) emphasises that the causes of
radicalisation are as many as they are varied but a number of common contributing
factors that promote the process have been identified by various government funded
projects.
A Dutch study published in 2005 and a study published by the UK government
in 2007 noted the importance of self-identity as an aspect in the radicalisation process,
such that radicalisation is often preceded by a search for identity at a moment of crisis
(Hannah, Clutterbuck & Rubin, 2008:14). Those susceptible to radicalisation are
believed to experience a ‘cognitive-opening’, succinctly defined as a willingness to
listen to other (extreme) views, a central trigger for which can be a crisis that shakes
certainty in previously held beliefs and “renders an individual more receptive to the
possibilities of alternative views and perspectives” (Choudhury, 2007:21). Wiktorwicz
(2005:19-20), remarks that research on Islamic movements indicates that the main
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type of crisis that are conducive to the creation of cognitive openings are social and
cultural (such as experiences of humiliation), economic (such as job loss or lack of
opportunity), and political (such as experiences of torture and repression). Brandon
(2009, p.25) labels these ‘push factors’; factors which push individuals away from
mainstream society and towards extremist groups. Barelle (2010:4) concurs with this
understanding, stating that there are “a significant number of common factors in the
radicalisation process”. For example, when someone joins a radical group, they often
find that the group ideology explains a frequently disappointing world and through
membership gain a stronger sense of self, obtain skills and purpose, and experience a
sense of belonging and acceptance.
Hannah, Clutterbuck and Rubin (2008:5) insist that “Individuals do not commit
violent or criminal acts in a vacuum”. In this respect extremist offenders are no
different; their social contexts influence their behaviour and their backgrounds and
opportunities make them more or less likely to commit terrorism-related offences.
Thus the effectiveness of a country’s de-radicalisation programme will be determined
by how well its methods are able to effect a behavioural change in its participants and
whether or not it is able to prevent them from reverting to previous behaviour once
they are released from the prison environment. Clearly the de-radicalisation of some
individuals will necessitate a different approach to that which is required for the deradicalisation of others; as radicalisation is an inherently individual process, so too is
de-radicalisation. The proceeding sections show that in order for a programme to be
successful it must adopt a variety of techniques, both educational and incentives
based, and ensure the implementation of approaches tailored to accommodate the
specific needs of the individual.
De-radicalisation vs. Disengagement – Two Distinct Processes
De-radicalisation and disengagement are two inextricably linked, yet inherently distinct
processes. There is a need for conceptual and terminological clarity as far as this
dissertation is concerned since “de-radicalisation” programmes more commonly
achieve “disengagement” of the individual than they do de-radicalisation, despite their
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potentially misleading title. Each of the programmes employed by the countries
analysed in this paper and indeed those employed elsewhere appear to pursue a
common objective, that of de-radicalisation. However, when the processes and
methods that they employ and the results that they achieve are examined more
closely, they appear to be less about de-radicalisation and more about efforts to
promote the disengagement of individuals from terrorist groups and their cessation of
terrorist activity.
Horgan (2008:3) asserts that “just because one leaves terrorism behind; it
rarely implies (or even necessitates) that one becomes ‘deradicalized’.” This
observation is particularly pertinent to a study of de-radicalisation programmes since
the positive impact they may appear to have on former radicals, witnessed through
continued desistance of violent and extremist activity following release from prison, is
often due to their ability to induce participant disengagement from terrorist groups.
For the purpose of this analysis, de-radicalisation can be defined as the social
and psychological process whereby an individual’s involvement in, and commitment
to, violent radicalisation is “reduced to the extent that they are no longer at risk of
involvement and engagement in violent activity” (Horgan, 2009:153). De-radicalisation
can therefore be viewed as a process, and one which implies a cognitive change which
results in a modification of an individual’s beliefs. Put simply, once de-radicalised, a
person no longer believes in the extreme ideology.
Disengagement, on the other hand, is a process that results in the voluntary or
involuntary separation of an individual from the direct or indirect participation in
terrorist activity. Individual disengagement does not, therefore, imply deradicalisation. Bjorgo and Horgan (2009:3) emphasise that individuals may walk away
from an extremist group and its violent means without relinquishing the principles of
their faith that justify the lethal actions of such groups. The crucial difference between
the two concepts is that de-radicalisation implies that the individual has renounced or
changed his ideology, whereas disengagement means he has left the terrorist group or
former affiliations with terrorism but has not necessarily altered his ideology.
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It may seem inappropriate to refer to these programmes as de-radicalising
when more often than not they achieve disengagement, however, for the sake of
brevity this dissertation concurs with Horgan’s (2009:153) assertion that despite its
definition, de-radicalisation may also refer “to any initiative that tries to achieve a
reduction of risk of re-offending through addressing the specific and relevant
disengagement issues”.
Disengagement – Contributing Factors
This dissertation carries out an assessment of the methods employed by the
programmes on their ability to disengage rather than their perceived ability to deradicalise. The primary reason for this is due to the difficulty that is encountered when
one attempts to accurately measure de-radicalisation. The physical nature of
disengagement ensures it is an observable phenomenon; individuals can be seen to
have ceased terrorist activity or association with terrorist groups whereas deradicalisation lies within the realm of the intangible; individuals cannot be physically
seen to have renounced their violent ideologies. For instance, some of the
programmes studied herein employ incentives such as housing and financial benefits
that, whilst designed to prevent recidivism of released terrorists, essentially reward
successful participants. Saudi Arabia, uses a host of psychologists and other
professionals to assess participant suitability for release; offenders, however, whilst
they may verbally declare the renunciation of former beliefs and appear to be truly
repentant, may do so simply in order to receive such benefits; this describes what
(Clubb, 2009) refers to as “conditional disengagement”. Likewise their decision to
cease terrorist-related activity may be a conscious decision in order to continue
receiving benefits or in response to external factors employed by the programme, such
as surveillance and monitoring techniques; individuals can maintain a radical ideology
but refrain from acting upon it. That being said, many participants of de-radicalisation
programmes probably have been genuinely de-radicalised; the factors that support the
process of disengagement can in some cases support the process of de-radicalisation
since disengagement can precede de-radicalisation (Silke, 2011; Ezzarqui,2010:9).
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However, to remain accurate, this dissertation evaluates the efficacy of the
programmes through an assessment of the methods they employ which can be seen to
promote disengagement, whilst acknowledging that such methods may also promote
and lead to de-radicalisation.
Whilst they may not always succeed in de-radicalising extremists, the success of
terrorist de-radicalisation programmes will undoubtedly depend on their capacity to
implement methods that effectively promote disengagement from terrorist activity.
Effecting ideological shift in the extremist is the ideal outcome; however, this is not
always possible and therefore disengagement should be seen as a practical and
efficient strategy to countering violent terrorist acts.
In the context of de-radicalisation programmes, identifying the reasons why
individuals disengage from terrorism is extremely important. The first section of this
section noted a number of factors that promote radicalisation and push people
towards extremists groups. Just as these factors can promote radicalisation and push
individuals towards terrorist groups, so too can they be employed in the process of
disengagement (Schmid, 2013:47). Consider Saudi Arabia’s programme; it offers to
fund the education of its successful graduates in order to enhance their skill-sets and
future prospects. It also finances weddings and encourages the building of a family,
acknowledging that this will give the individual a sense of purpose and responsibility
and increase the likelihood that he will desist from terrorist activity. The ‘push’ factors
identified by Brandon (2009:56) are those which make it unattractive for terrorists to
remain in the group, whereas pull factors are those that pull the individual towards
alternative offers and/or opportunities (Ezzarqui, 2010:10). Whilst push factors tend to
be observed in the context of individuals voluntarily leaving the group, deradicalisation programmes can certainly replicate this process. Losing confidence in a
group’s aims and ideology, for example, is a commonly observed push factor; the
efforts of programmes which successfully delegitimise and discredit the extreme
ideology of the group in the eyes of the offender can achieve the same effect.
Likewise, de-radicalisation programmes can encourage terrorists to disengage by
providing appealing alternatives such as the opportunity to start a family or a new job.
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Horgan (2009:30) believes that disengaging from a terrorist group does not
necessarily entail leaving; merely by desisting from executing violent attacks a person
can be seen to disengage from terrorism, even if they remain affiliated with the group.
However, this role change does not necessarily preclude continuation of active support
for the group in ways which enable it to use violence. It is for this reason this
dissertation diverges from Horgan’s assessment and does not include role change
among factors of disengagement. The most basic types of physical disengagement
include the death of an individual or his imprisonment. Whilst obvious conclusions can
be drawn from the finality of death, arrest and imprisonment alone do not ensure that
disengagement continues when offenders are released from the prison environment.
Prison-centred de-radicalisation programmes thus represent an important aspect of
soft counter-terrorism; acknowledging the assessment of the International Centre for
Counter-Terrorism (2013) that “Eventually, most convicted [extremist] offenders will
be released” they equate to a necessary measure to ensure that the disengagement of
extremists continues after they are released.
De-Radicalisation in Saudi Arabia
Saudi Arabia’s de-radicalisation programme is unprecedented both in terms of what it
offers within the prison environment and the support provided to its participants after
their release. Whilst some observers have criticised a number of its employed methods
and policy makers involved in its creation have acknowledged some failures, it has
largely been deemed a success. The first section of this section briefly describes the
situation of terrorist attacks in Saudi Arabia which served as the impetus to its efforts
that sought to counter radical ideologies within the Kingdom. The second analyses the
specific procedures it uses in its overall effort to de-radicalise individuals espousing
extremist ideology, in order to explain which methods facilitate the disengagement
process. Section three highlights the successes and concerns of the programme.
The Programme in Context
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In 2003, Saudi Arabia experienced the start of what was to be a brutal and protracted
terrorist campaign waged by al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP). A major attack
on housing complexes in Riyadh was a harbinger of the violence to come; between
May 2003 and December 2004 more than 30 major terrorism-related incidents
occurred within the kingdom which killed 132 Saudi civilians, foreign nationals and
security force personnel and injured a further 728 (Rabasa et al, 2010:56). The rise in
extremist related terrorist attacks that Saudi Arabia witnessed during this period has
been attributed to such factors as disapproval of its decision to allow American bases
to remain in the region following the Gulf War, the close relationship it continues with
the United States and the perceived corruption of the royal family. Miller (2003),
remarks that they regard the regime as "insufficiently Islamic and an unacceptable
candidate to be the guardian of Mecca and Medina," Islam's holiest sites; a view which
resonates throughout many militant Islamist organisations and individuals. Speckhard
(2012:1) opines that another contributing factor was “jihadists” who had “received
military training and were ideologically indoctrinated in Afghanistan” were returning to
the kingdom in vehement opposition of the regime and advocating for it to be
overthrown.
The attacks such as those committed in Riyadh were purposely designed to
undermine the regime and formed part of a more general effort to destabilise the
country itself; however, many analysts believe that the specific targeting of
Westerners and security force members enabled the government to mobilise their
security forces against AQAP (Abedin, 2005). Indeed, by 2005 they had effectively
dismantled the organisations hierarchy through elimination of the group’s founder and
numerous successive leaders (Rabasa et al, 2010, p.57). The existence of smaller
groups more loosely affiliated to al-Qaeda, however, and the recognition by Saudi
authorities that traditional policing and intelligence measures fail to undermine the
radical ideology that leads individuals to commit acts of terror, precipitated the launch
of a comprehensive counterterrorism strategy designed not only to eliminate the
immediate threat but to undermine the appeal of terrorist ideology and drive a wedge
between extremists and the general Saudi population. The “soft” counterterrorism
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element of the kingdom’s overarching and multifaceted policy hopes to prevent
further violent Islamism through addressing the underlying factors that facilitate
extremism; it entailed the creation of an entirely different strategic framework in order
to confront this modern challenge exhibited by Islamist groups and central to the
strategy was its de-radicalisation programme.
Analysis of the Programme
Organisation and Process
Of the separate yet interconnected components of the Kingdom’s Prevention,
Rehabilitation and After-Care (PRAC) strategy it is the latter two which have attracted
most attention. Implemented in 2005, they specifically target detained individuals and
centre on a counselling programme that seeks to re-educate violent extremists and
terrorist sympathisers through a process of religious debate and psychological
counselling (Porges, 2011). The main objective is to de-radicalise inmates and
encourage them to renounce “terrorist ideologies”. It is based upon the presumption
of benevolence, not vengeance or retribution; that is, the state assumes that suspects
were lied to, manipulated and misled by extremists into straying away from true Islam
(ISD, 2012:19). Counselling is thus presented as a crucial means by which to
rehabilitate and by which to help victims of radicalisation rather than punish offenders.
A group called the Advisory Committee administers the counselling programme
and four subcommittees comprise the committee itself, each being tasked with a
different aspect of the counselling process. The Religious Subcommittee is composed
of around one hundred and fifty clerics, professors and scholars who are charged with
engaging the participants in dialogue about their experiences and Qu’ranic
interpretations. The fifty psychologists and psychiatrists that make up the
Psychological and Social Subcommittee gauge participant compliance with the
counselling, and evaluate participation in order to determine whether rehabilitation is
genuine (Ezzarqui, 2010:25). The Security Subcommittee assess detainees for security
risks and suggest which prisoners are safe to be released; they also provide a
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monitoring service after their release. The Media Subcommittee focuses on education
and outreach and produces the materials used in the programme (Horgan & Braddock,
2010:277).
The Advisory Committee’s research has shown that the majority of the
participants did not complete formal education and thus were susceptible to extremist
propaganda because they did not learn the core tenets of their faith, leading to an
incomplete understand of Islam. Clerics seek to ameliorate the detainees’ education
through the dialogue process and to educate them on key topics and concepts within
the faith; they demonstrate that what the prisoners were tricked into believing was
false and teach them a state-sanctioned interpretation of Islam. The Advisory
Committee stresses the importance of relationship between cleric and participant and
will replace them should they fail to establish a rapport. Combes (2013) believes that
the bond between detainee and state-sponsored cleric “is crucial to a program that
seeks to establish a new ideological framework through *trust+.”
The process of rehabilitation does not end within the prison environment;
those considered to have renounced their former beliefs move into the after-care
programme; however, officials are keen to stress that not all prisoners who complete
the counselling programme are eligible for release; those with “blood on their hands”
will serve out their full sentence irrespective of whether and when they complete the
programme (Boucek, 2008a:60; Ezzarqui, 2010:26).
Those who committee members deem to be suitable to leave are transferred
to a specialised Care Rehabilitation Centre (CRC) in order to ease their transition back
to a normal life. Brief and recurring exposure to life outside state custody is provided
through day trips with the centre’s staff and participants have the chance to engage in
numerous activities and sports. Such efforts are designed in order to “encourage
acceptance and develop notions of inclusion” but also afford staff members the
opportunity to observe detainees in various situations; this allows for the sincerity of
their rehabilitation can be evaluated (Boucek, 2008b:8). The Saudi government has
placed much belief in the ability of such centres to rehabilitate erstwhile extremists,
indicated by the opening of a new centre in the western port city of Jeddah and more
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recently this year, a complex in Riyadh which boasts an Olympic style swimming pool,
gym and television hall. The newest complex is the first which utilises “luxury” as an
incentive to moderate extremist beliefs (Benari, 2013).
Methods Conducive to Success?
From the examination in section one it is clear that when individuals disengage from
groups that espouse a violent ideology it does not necessarily mean that they have deradicalised. Disengagement can, however, be a stepping stone on the way to complete
de-radicalisation and the programme used by Saudi Arabia contains a number of
methods which facilitate the disengagement process. The simple fact that extremist
offenders are arrested and incarcerated constitutes the most discernible form of
physical disengagement but efforts to de-radicalise clearly need to go further than this
initial process.
One basic yet pivotal method conducive to successful disengagement is the
considerable religious authority wielded by the state; this allows it to confer a high
level of legitimacy upon the counselling process. Committee members are also keen to
stress to prisoners that they are not government employees but independent
academics which has had the effect of detainees engaging more openly during
counselling sessions (Boucek, 2008b:15). The presence of former militant figures who
have renounced their former beliefs on the Advisory committee reinforces this idea of
legitimacy since it carries credibility with a number of the programme’s participants.
Another element which helps prevent released detainees reverting to their
previous ways is the pervasiveness of the social care offered which the programme
extends not only to participants but also to their families. When a suspect is enrolled
the committee ensures that it provides their family with an alternate salary in order to
offset difficulties brought on by their incarceration. The income provided is calculated
on an individual basis; however, MEMRI (2007) observed that “prisoners’ families that
are needy, receive monthly payments of around 2000-3000 riyals”. Meeting the social
needs of families is a prudent strategy which the government has adopted in order to
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ensure lower-levels of resentment among detainees which results not only in greater
levels of co-operation with the programme but also closes a gap which extremist
elements may fill. Should other extremists decide to assist the detainee’s family with
financial support during his period of imprisonment he may experience a feeling of
gratitude and a sense of obligation upon release which could lead to his reengagement
with terrorist organisations. Similarly, the Advisory Committee remains acutely
involved in the post-release life of the detainees and offer them a sustainable future
through a monthly stipend, offers of employment and housing provision. This aspect
increases the likelihood of disengagement since the benefits are revoked should
participants become involved in any further illicit behaviour (El-Said, 2012:39).
However, as the next section elucidates, such incentive-based action is not necessarily
conducive to de-radicalisation and may mask the true reason behind absence of reengagement.
The After-Care programme attempts to facilitate the transition of participants
back into Saudi society and employs a unique approach which is helpful in easing
former extremists into a life of non-violence. At the CRC they live communally in a far
more relaxed setting than their previous prison environment and engage in various
activities and sports that encourage teamwork; this is an important aspect of the deradicalisation process and a method likely to increase the prospect of disengagement.
Horgan (2009:30) notes that a recurring theme amongst those having undergone
radical or extremist transformation is “a sense of disillusionment with the
individual’s…persona or identity”; exposing the detainees to a range of these activities
has the effect of replacing disillusionment with recreation and entertainment and
distracts the prisoners from discussing political and religious ideology with one
another.
The CRC exists as a logistical extension of the counselling programme and as
such treats participants on a highly individual basis; it recognises that just as
individuals become radicalised for different reasons, their de-radicalisation requires an
approach tailored to accommodate the specific needs of the individual. Whereas
domestic offenders and those either going to fight in or returning from Iraq participate
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in further dialogue with counsellors, those who have been detained in Guantanamo
Bay are additionally afforded special instruction on how best to integrate themselves
into a Saudi Arabia that may have undergone some significant change since their
incarceration (Horgan & Braddock, 2010:278). Unlike an entirely general approach, the
bespoke nature is likely to result in lower recidivism rates since it concentrates on the
individual needs of participants, ensuring they receive what is specifically required in
order to help them assimilate back into society.
The use of tribal and family affiliations is another factor which is crucial in the
committee’s effort to prevent recidivism (Ezzarqui, 2010:28). Boucek (2008b:20)
explains that the process makes use of several important traditional customs such as
notions of honour, recognition of traditional hierarchies and social responsibility. For
example, when prisoners are released temporarily for events such as funerals and
weddings, three family members step forward and guarantee his return in an
agreement that stipulates they will take his place should he fail to do so. As of yet this
opportunity has not been used by any prisoner as a means of escape.
Horgan (2009:31) opines that a factor contributing to disengagement of a
group can be “changing and conflicting personal priorities (e.g. getting married, having
children, growing older)”. Acknowledging this theory, released prisoners are
encouraged to settle down, marry and have children so that they are less likely to
engage in their pre-incarceration practices given their greater obligations and
responsibilities; the state facilitates this process by covering the entire costs of the
wedding.
One final method that encourages former offenders to disengage is the high
level of surveillance that the programme operates with released participants. Religious
clerics remain in contact with the graduates and they are also required to check in
regularly with the Security Subcommittee. Maintenance of a social network among
tribes and family members is also crucial to the Advisory Committee’s objective of
round-the-clock surveillance (Ezzarqui, 2010:28); this monitoring acts as a powerful
deterrent and greatly reduces the likelihood that new graduates will re-associate with
old extremist connections (IISS, 2008:2).
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Successes & Problems
Successes
When measured in terms of terrorist incidents and recidivism (given the available data)
Saudi Arabia’s program has been overwhelmingly successful in helping prisoners
repudiate extremist ideology. Marisa Porges reported in 2010 that four thousand
prisoners had gone through the programme and reintegrated back into society
(Porges, 2010b). A 2010 report on terrorism published by the U.S State Department
advises that Saudi Arabia’s Ministry of Interior claimed a success rate of ninety percent
for participants and eighty percent for those having returned from Guantanamo Bay
(USDS, 2010:104). Included in the ten percent recidivism rate are both those that have
completed the programme and have been subsequently re-arrested as well as those
who have either failed or refused to take part in the rehabilitation programme. Given
the relatively low number of reported re-arrests one is compelled to deduce that the
vast majority of “failures” are those that have not successfully completed the
programme or those that refused to participate from the outset. Indeed, as the
International Institute for Strategic Studies (IISS) (2008:2) have noted, “The Saudi
government acknowledges that the rehabilitation programme has little impact on
hard-core jihadists”, most of whom would rather remain in prison than make
compromises with what they regard as an illegitimate regime. These individuals would
rarely ever willingly participate in such a programme; however, the fact that they are
included amongst those contributing to the ten percent recidivism rate, makes it a
particularly impressive statistic and is indicative of the success that the programme has
achieved to date.
The program has implemented numerous methods which are conducive to
disengagement: financial, social and educational incentives, invocation of cultural and
familial customs and the involvement of religious scholars are all factors that foster
behavioural change. It is still too early to definitively evaluate the success of the
programme and it is difficult to deny the difficulty in knowing for sure what actions a
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graduate may be involved in when released. It’s progressive nature, however,
exemplified by the fact that “radicalised men who previously rejected any type of
visual art as forbidden by Islam” are actively engaging in activities like art therapy can
be considered a success in its own right (Boucek, 2008b:18). The inclusion of so many
disengagement-focused methods and the tailored nature of the programme points to
a promising future. However, whilst Saudi Arabia’s de-radicalisation programme
appears to have a promising future, it is not entirely absent criticism.
Problems
One major criticism of de-radicalisation programmes generally and one from which
Saudi Arabia’s comprehensive scheme is not exempt goes back to the concepts of and
distinction between de-radicalisation and disengagement. Disengagement occurs more
frequently than de-radicalisation and whilst the Saudi programme employs numerous
elements which facilitate the disengagement process, actual de-radicalisation of
extremists is much harder to achieve, yet alone prove. Wagner (2010) broaches the
issue when he notes that part of the problem of determining the long-run success of a
programme is “whether a militant prisoner recants his destructive ideology”. Deradicalisation programs may be given credit for a militant’s cessation of violent activity
but their decision to retire does not automatically mean they have de-radicalised.
Stern (2010:2) remarks that the apparent success of Saudi Arabia’s programme
may be the result of the “deterrent quality…of *its+ extensive post-release
surveillance”; participants are less likely to engage in acts of terrorism if they are
monitored by their family and the relevant authorities. Similarly, the financial
incentives provided by the government such as housing provision and monetary
payments can have an equivalent effect; former security offenders may simply
relinquish terrorist activity and/or affiliation in order to receive these benefits and
remain on the right side of the law to prevent their revocation, all the while
maintaining their radical beliefs but simply not acting upon them. However, from a
practical standpoint recanting ideology may be considered less important than
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behaviour modification; if the programme does not succeed in eradicating espousal of
extreme ideology in the individual, but through various measures and incentives
prevents them from acting on their beliefs and from engaging in further illicit or
terroristic behaviour, then it would be difficult for one to consider it anything less than
generally beneficial to society and an effective approach to countering terrorism.
A ten percent recidivism rate could be considered a staggering accomplishment
for any rehabilitation programme; however, Hamid (2009) deduces from this statistic
the existence of weaknesses in the security apparatus of the program. A valid point is
made since each participant undergoes a lengthy period of intensive follow-up and
thus the return to terrorism of ten percent of released extremists within a few years,
whilst not particularly indicative of programme ineffectiveness, does highlight possible
flaws in the post-release monitoring techniques that are adopted. The relatively highprofile re-arrest of nine of the program’s graduates in 2009 for re-joining terrorist
groups, at least one of whom reached a leadership position, serves as illustration and
calls into question the monitoring measures employed which failed to prevent their
initial relapse from gathering momentum (Worth, 2009).
A number of critics have condemned the incentive driven and rewarding nature
of the programme. For example, Al-Thiyabi (2010 cited in MEMRI, 2010) believes that
those who “undermine the security of *Saudi+ citizens deserve punishment rather than
reward and encouragement”. Whilst the financial support and care afforded to
graduates currently evinces results that suggest it is important to disengagement, it
does leave open the door for resentment from certain sectors of Saudi society,
particular those young unemployed Saudis who are unable to purchase housing for
their own families. An approach that provides former terrorists with free housing,
education and other financial rewards has the nascent capacity to entice
disadvantaged young Muslims to engage in low-level terrorist activity in the hope of a
more promising future.
Saudi officials have admitted that whilst hard-core jihadists are not exempt
from participating in rehabilitation, those who have been released through the
programme have been relatively minor offenders (i.e. those possessing extremist
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propaganda or committing offences over the internet). Boucek (2008b:22) asserts that
whilst evidence suggests some senior militants have participated in the programme,
“…its relative success to date is no doubt boosted by the involvement of minor
offenders”. De-radicalisation programmes elsewhere, however, encounter the same
problem and to date no evidence of substantial and successful rehabilitation of
committed violent jihadis exists; many of these people cannot and do not wish to be
rehabilitated and whilst Saudi’s program has yet to face the challenging test of being
applied to the more committed extremists, the fact that their participation is
encouraged is somewhat promising.
Applicability to other countries
The Saudi approach to de-radicalisation is one which is unique to the political and
cultural context within which it operates; what may be conducive to successful
disengagement and de-radicalisation in one country may not necessarily be so in
another. A number of methods employed by Saudi officials that appear conducive to
disengagement and de-radicalisation within the Kingdom would undoubtedly fail to
replicate the results elsewhere. Saudi Arabia’s wealth has enabled it to construct
extensive facilities for the sole purpose of housing and de-radicalising extremist
Islamists and to provide an extensive level of after-care and provision for graduates.
Less developed countries would find it difficult if not impossible to dedicate the
resources needed to replicate such an effort, but can still design well-structured
programmes that draw on some of the methods the Saudi scheme promotes.
Carpenter, Levitt and Jacobson (2009:315) note the “tremendous pressure” the
programme puts on individuals’ families in order to achieve results. What the
programme utilises successfully in terms of the Saudi context: familial and tribal ties,
tradition, and the significant religious authority and influence wielded by the state and
the ulema, could not be easily replicated in more western states for reasons that may
include detainees’ wider families living outside of the country and state-specific
traditions and customs which would not facilitate such action. The use of independent
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clerics, financial incentives and extensive post-release care, however, are methods that
western nations can readily employ and even family responsibility could be invoked on
a level to suit the context of the specific country; these approaches undoubtedly
contribute to the success of de-radicalisation programmes generally.
Conclusion
Saudi Arabia’s approach to de-radicalisation is showing much promise. It is the most
advanced and potentially most effective programme of its kind in existence today.
Whilst it is at present too early to determine with absolute certainty just how
successful its de-radicalisation efforts are, current assessments of recidivism rates are
promising. Furthermore its progressive nature and the innovative techniques
employed in order to induce disengagement, coupled with the willingness and
determination of the Saudi state to dedicate considerable amounts of money to
ensure its progress all indicate that its existence will continue to have a positive effect
on countering Islamic extremism both within and beyond its borders. It employs an
extensive range of factors that facilitate the disengagement process and which have
the potential to de-radicalise. Whilst many of its graduates may simply have
disengaged from violence and extremism, and not be truly repentant or de-radicalised,
the programme has proven that it has the ability at a minimum to prevent further
radicalisation and put an end to extremist behaviour. If the state did not step in to
address this problem, then the opportunity to do so would remain open for others
with a far more sinister agenda. Although all of the methods used by Saudi’s deradicalisation programme are not replicable throughout the world, it does employ a
number of well-designed strategies that can be adopted and adapted to suit the
context of other states. Having independent religious clerics to re-educate those
espousing extreme ideology, encouraging the social reintegration of participants and
aiding offenders to build stable bonds with their spouse, family and within their
community are among steps it has taken which represent methods that effectively
disengage are doubtless conducive to the success of terrorist rehabilitation
programmes.
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De-radicalisation in Malaysia
The Programme in Context
Whilst terrorist attacks on Malysia’s home soil have been few and far between, it is the
country where Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), a South East Asian militant group with al-Qaeda
links, was first formed (BBC News, 2012). Given that JI purportedly seeks to install its
vision of an Islamic state encompassing the countries of the South East Asian region
and that a number of its members have been arrested in Malaysia, Malaysia has a
strong incentive to promote the disengagement of Islamist extremists. El-Said
(2012:25) noted that Malaysia had not experienced a major terrorist incident in the
last twenty years but that it does have a long history of terrorist insurgency involving a
Communist insurrection waged by an ideologically-driven group from 1948 to 1949. In
response the state undertook initiatives such as the revision of its Internal Security Act
in 1960, to allow authorities extra-judicial powers to detain potential security
offenders for sixty days without trial and the ability to issue indefinitely renewable
two-year detention orders to those detainees it decided not to release. It also
implemented a de-radicalisation programme which attempted to reshape the
communist disposition of captured terrorists through counselling and offering support
to their families in order to alleviate their perceived sense of societal marginalisation
(Abuza, 2009:206). Malaysia has built on what it learned from this experience in its
efforts to de-radicalise individuals from Islamic militant groups such as JI.
Analysis of the Programme
Organisation and Process
The de-radicalisation programme which prisoners are subjected to has a number of
similar components to Saudi Arabia’s. It seeks to offer alternatives to the misguided
ideology espoused by detainees in an effort designed to ensure they come to an
understanding that their activities ran contrary to Islam. It also seeks to instil an
appreciation of the responsibilities individuals have regarding their religion and their
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loyalty to the nation (Harrigan, 2012). Since the programme focuses on a large number
of JI offenders it addresses a number of issues specific to this group, such as their
desire to establish an Islamic state. Officials stress that the government already
considers it as such and that sharia is slowly becoming parallel to its secular legal
system; by focusing on the rate of implementation of sharia law they explain to
detainees that their views on this matter only diverge with the state in the sense that
they want it to be implemented more quickly but that ultimately they both share the
same goal (Abuza, 2009:207).
Padil (2009:35) explains that the approach toward the programme is divided
into four components. Firstly, daily religious classes that provide Islamic studies are
offered to all within the main detention camp. Secondly, a Special Rehabilitation
Programme focuses on those who have responded positively towards the initial phase
by showing a willingness to renounce their militant struggle and consists of an
intensive course, built around discussion and debate with Islamic clerics. The groups
are kept small at around five to seven inmates, so that each has ample opportunity to
engage personally in dialogue with the religious scholars. Thirdly, Malaysian officials
employ an Evaluating and Monitoring programme, run by the police who conduct
continuous checks in order to assess whether the programme is being conducted
correctly. The Department of Islamic Development (JAKIM) also undertakes some
responsibility in this area, engaging in bi-annual evaluations of participants that have
been released through the program, through personal visits to their homes. Finally, the
overarching programme, seeks to involve the wives of detainees through a subsidiary
channel which allows them to discuss issues regarding the incarceration of their
husbands with programme officials and the religious clerics that seek to rehabilitate
them.
Rabasa et al (2010:105) assert that the government also grants financial
assistance to the families of the detainees so that they are not reliant on the welfare
network of JI; a method similarly employed within the Saudi programme in order to
ensure that al-Qaeda members do not support relatives of prisoners and thereby
invoke a sense of obligation to the terrorist organisation, a factor which can lead to
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recidivism. They also provide released militants with a basic salary in order to ease
their transition and allow them to start new (violence free) lives. In an interview
Bendeich and Kalbag (2005), Malaysia’s deputy Prime Minister, Najib Razak
commented on another crucial element of the de-radicalisation programme, that of its
monitoring and surveillance following a detainee’s release, stating that those released
are no longer deemed as much of a threat to national security since “they are being
watched, very carefully”. Abdullah (2011) stated that as of September, 2011 seventy
five former members of terrorist groups like JI had passed through the programme and
that, owing to its effective use of disengagement methods the government claimed
that “none of the former detainees have returned to terrorist activities so far”. One
example which he cites in illustration of the programme’s success was the release of
Wan Min Wan Mat, a militant once branded JI’s Malaysian “treasurer” and a key
component of its funding network.
Methods Conducive to Success?
Malaysia has applied a number of methods that have been seen to effectively
disengage terrorists in Saudi Arabia’s programme. Its individual nature, focusing on the
aims of groups such as JI, of which many of the detainees are members, ensures a
personal approach to addressing the specific concerns they may have; as Horgan &
Braddock (2010:278) imply, focusing on the specific concerns and requirements of the
individual is key to preventing recidivism. In this respect Malaysia appears to be
checking all the right boxes; religious re-education is delivered on a one-to-one basis,
where necessary, and psychologists are brought in to discuss individual problems.
The post-release methods it employs as a deterrent to recidivism appear to be
relatively stringent; released inmates can expect to be visited by parole officers and
face restrictions such as curfews and limits on travel and who they can contact (USDS,
2013). This tight supervision provides less opportunity and minimises the incentive for
detainees to resume extremist behaviour.
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Post-release care of detainees can prove essential in the disengagement of
extremists and is among methods which the Malaysian government is keen to employ.
Their provision of jobs, if necessary, assistance to help participants start up a small
businesses, and continued counselling all help to facilitate societal reintegration. As of
January, 2012 El Said (2012:28), observes that of the 154 radicals detained under the
ISA, all but six were released, having been deemed to have successfully completed the
programme, and none had re-offended.
Problems
Although Malaysia’s government reports a high level of success with its programme,
and accordingly a very low recidivism rate, it is difficult to corroborate such assertions
given that its government is reluctant to allow independent journalists to speak to the
graduates of its programme. Rabasa et al (2010:106) explain that one ex-militant
remarked that discussing the programme would violate the terms of his release.
This governmental reluctance is likely an attempt to conceal from the wider
public, a coercive element employed within the de-radicalisation programme. Bon,
Ikhwan and Maria (2005) provide information on the tough treatment of ISA detainees
and of numerous reports that have been lodged against prison officials alluding to
punishments such as beatings and extended periods of solitary-confinement. Some
detainees released under the programme have also stated off record that they and
their families have been threatened with severe punishment should they decide to reengage in militant activity following their release (Abuza, 2009:208). There is little
doubt that Malaysia’s de-radicalisation programme attempts to disengage extremists,
at least in part, through the utilisation of coercive power as a deterrent. Whilst the fear
for themselves and their family that this method can instil in individuals doubtless
contributes to the programme’s reportedly low recidivism rates, it is not conducive to
de-radicalisation as such. It will not convince offenders of the error of their ways or to
renounce their ideology and might even serve to strengthen their misguided beliefs,
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nor is it applicable to states that ensure they enforce human rights legislation;
however, despite this it can be seen be conducive to the process of disengagement.
Malaysia uses religious clerics as a means to re-educate extremists and explain
the true teachings of the Quran. Whilst the process of dialogue forms the basis of
successful programmes, the fact that the clerics used within Malaysia’s programme
work for the state can be considered a drawback. Independent religious scholars, like
those used in Saudi Arabia often have more credibility with radicals, some of whom
will never accept the authority of state officials in matters of religion.
Conclusion
Malaysian officials report a high level of success with its de-radicalisation programme
with very few released detainees returning to terrorism. The programme utilises a
number of methods that can that are known to facilitate disengagement such as
religious re-education, financial assistance to both detainees and their families, postrelease surveillance and support and controversially the threat of physical punishment.
The reported success of the programme, however, is largely based on internal
evaluations, decreasing the scope for any negative aspects to become public. Similarly,
the reluctance of officials to allow outside access to report on the mechanics of the
programme means that assessments of the exact level of after-care and assistance
provided to former prisoners is limited. There is little doubt that coercion plays a
central role in its de-radicalisation efforts which, moral arguments aside, can prove
conducive to disengagement. Given this coercive nature, Malaysia’s programme
appears less concerned with de-radicalisation than with disengagement; however,
when the success of de-radicalisation programmes is based ultimately on how
effectively they prevent former offenders reengaging in terrorism it can be seen to
operate a number of effective methods, albeit the more coercive of which are only
able to be applied given the context of its legal structure.
De-radicalisation in Yemen
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The Programme in Context
Yemen has had a long standing problem with terrorism; it stems from the end of the
1979 Afghan war and the significant number of radicalised and highly-trained
mujahideen who returned to the country (Balachandran, 2012). In the 1994 civil war,
the Yemeni government successfully recruited these fighters to assist with the quelling
of southern secessionists; the mujahideen agreed to the undertaking, believing that
their efforts would result in the establishment of an Islamic state. The cessation of the
fighting, however, did not yield such an outcome and their relationship with the
government disintegrated. Rotberg (2005:15) remarks that their experiences in
Afghanistan combined with this frustration made them particularly susceptible to
terrorist propaganda and resulted in eight nine terrorist incidents perpetrated by
Islamists in the country between 1980 and 2000. The attack on the USS Cole in 2000
was the most well-known of a number of attacks that targeted U.S interests and
increased in intensity until 2002. Yemen’s President Saleh was widely criticized for
failing to prevent this string of atrocities and it soon became clear that new methods
were required in order to suppress al-Qaeda and other violent Islamist groups within
the borders of Yemen. To this end, and presumably encouraged by the general
consensus that the U.S would take matters into its own hands if Saleh failed to act, a
new initiative titled the Religious Dialogue Committee (RDC) was born.
Analysis of the Programme
Organisation and Process
The committee was established in August 2002, with Hamoud al-Hitar, a widelyrespected judge, appointed as its head. Al-Hitar, together with a handful of religious
scholars constituted the nucleus of what, at the time, was considered a pioneering
enterprise and a unique approach to counter-terrorism. Much like Saudi Arabia’s, the
programme was grounded in a religious dialogue that attempted to change the
ideological beliefs of prisoners and release them into society following their
renunciation of violence (Porges, 2010c:28).
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Al-Hitar’s policy of engaging incarcerated militants in discussion designed to
expose their misinterpretations of Islamic doctrine was based on the concept of
“mutual respect” (Johnson, 2009:15). Rather than seeking to force the correct version
of Islam upon radicalised individuals in one-sided communication, the scholars
afforded participants the opportunity to attempt to convince them of their own
beliefs; these in turn were refuted through the presentation of supporting evidence. In
an interview with National Public Radio, Judge al-Hitar (2005) effectively encapsulates
the premise of his endeavour, stating; “We tell them, if you are right we will follow
you, but if what we are saying is right, you have to admit it and follow us”. Al-Hitar
himself opted to lead the first round of dialogue with some of the most extremist
prisoners, encouraged by the view that if he could make tangible progress with them
then the less extreme would constitute a far easier undertaking. Boucek, Beg and
Horgan (2009:185-187) comment that al-Hitar provided the detainees with the
opportunity to amend or add to the proposed agenda and structure of the dialogue
process before any substantive matters were discussed. It was then mutually decided
in the first meeting with detainees that the Sunnah and Qur’an would form the basis of
the dialogue, and the Hadith would likewise provide an essential foundation, given
that the Prophet himself favoured dialogue (even with his enemies) wherever possible.
This sense of inclusivity that the approach engendered served to enhance the
programme’s credibility both in the eyes of outside observers and in those of its
participants.
The meetings between prisoners and officials were small and intimate - around
five per session and concluded with prisoners documenting and signing off on what
they had discussed and learned; a process which was repeated each time the scholars
broached a new topic (Horgan & Braddock, 2010:275). The first issue discussed during
the pilot dialogue session was the nature of the Yemeni state; the prisoners argued
that it was not Islamic which, coupled with their perception of the government as proWestern led them to believe that it was fundamentally inimical to the Muslim
population’s interests. In response al-Hitar produced copies of the constitution for the
inmates to examine and explained that the laws contradict neither the Sunnah nor
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Qur’an but that if they were able to effectively demonstrate they were at odds with
sharia then the government would be prepared to amend its laws (Boucek, Beg &
Horgan, 2009:187). After detailed examination of the documents the detainees were
unable to find anything that contradicted Sharia.
Other issues discussed included the legitimacy of the regime and President
Saleh’s rule, and the rules governing the killing of ‘non-believers’. Emphasis was placed
upon the illegitimacy of violence due to the many verses of the Koran advocating that
non-Muslims be treated with respect. The detainees argued that such actions were
allowed since they were kufr (infidels); al-Hitar rebuked this misconception explaining
that the Qu’ran states such killing can only be justified with rightful reasons, related to
circumstances of oppression or war. This explanation was buttressed with the
observation that historically, Muslim armies refrained from killing Christian priests,
women and children and by drawing attention to the Quranic quote: “Whoever kills a
soul, unless for a soul or for corruption done in the land - it is as if he had slain all
mankind entirely. And, whoever saves one; it is as if he had saved mankind entirely”
(Johnson, 2009). During the dialogue process, it was found that many of the detainees
had memorised certain chapters of the Qu’ran, which when taken alone appear to
advocate the violent acts which they viewed as permissible. Quoting verses from the
Qu’ran isolated from the context of passages, a misguided endeavour at which Muslim
extremists appear to have become particularly adept, was one which from which
detainees were increasingly convinced to abstain as religious scholars provided the
contextual background for which those versus came to be.
The conditions for release of the inmates were, in some respects, similar to
those adopted by Saudi officials; before release, participants were required to sign a
document testifying to the renunciation of former beliefs and family and tribal
members had to vouch for them, such that they were, responsible for their future
behaviour (Boucek, Beg & Horgan, 2009:189). A process of monitoring was also
implemented upon detainees’ release from custody, typically for a one year
probationary period and enforced by the security agencies; al-Hitar (2005) remarked
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that some were given jobs within the military so that their movements could be more
closely monitored.
Methods Conducive to Success?
A number of parallels can be drawn between Yemen’s RDC and Saudi Arabia’s
programme, not only in the goals they set out to achieve but in the methods they
adopted in their efforts to do so.
One of the most basic but pivotal methods required to disengage extremists,
seen in the Yemeni programme, was the religious debate which convinced a number of
participants that their ideologies were unjust.
Tribal and family affiliations are utilised in the disengagement effort under the
same premise as the Saudi Programme; that participants are less likely to revert to
their terrorist ways if this kind of obligation and responsibility to loved ones is invoked.
El-Said (2012:42) observes that the Yemeni government sought to involve the families
of detained individuals throughout the process; as part of selective inducements they
were encouraged to visit their incarcerated relatives as often as possible. In addition to
demonstrating that the authorities were treating the detainees well, this afforded
family members the opportunity to exert social and tribal pressures on the inmates to
moderate their views and repent.
Whilst Yemen’s resources do not enable it to employ post-release incentives on
the scale of Saudi Arabia’s programme, some effort was made to prevent recidivism
through such methods. Released participants received up to YR 20000 in order to assist
with the re-building of their lives after imprisonment; some also received cheap
government loans to establish private businesses, which many used to purchase
vehicles and become taxi drivers (El-Said, 2012:42-43). The state also facilitated the
cost of marriages, in part and provided assistance in-kind by donating essential day-today items.
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Central to the Yemeni approach was re-education; al-Hitar recognised the
necessity of exposing offenders’ misinterpretations of Islamic doctrine to
disengagement efforts. Whilst the Yemeni state may not wield the same level of
religious authority as its Saudi counterpart, undoubtedly the most effective way to
disengage an individual from extremist activity is to achieve de-radicalisation, by
convincing him that his beliefs and methods are unjust and run contrary to Islam,
through a process of dialogue with imminent clerics who have the experience and
education to debate Islamic issues (McGregor, 2007).
Successes & Problems
Successes
Yemen’s RDC was principally designed to get offenders to refrain from committing
violent acts within Yemen, and achieving their recognition of the Islamic legitimacy and
sovereignty of the Yemeni government (Boucek, Beg & Horgan, 2009:189). On these
issues it achieved relative success; Yemen, a state once synonymous with violent
Islamic extremism witnessed no terrorist attacks within its borders between the end of
the first dialogues in 2002 and 2005.
Initial reports of the RDC appeared promising. Taarnby (2005) implies that the
ability of the clerics to engage extremists in debate over interpretation of the Qu’ran
constituted a success in its own right. The fact that detainees were “unable to present
a convincing concept of jihad based on the authoritative sources” meant that over
time it was proven and accepted that the legitimacy of jihad as outlined by terrorist
groups was based on false reasoning, a significant accomplishment given the once
uncompromising view of most of the detainees. By late 2005 al-Hitar claimed that
around 360 suspected militants had been released through the programme and in an
interview with Abdul-Aziz Oudah, claimed that “those influenced by al-Qaeda were
persuaded at a 98 percent rate” (Horgan & Braddock, 2010:276).
Yemen was one of the first Muslim states to consider and actively participate in
dialogue with militants as a central component to a wider counter-terrorism strategy.
202
This innovative counter-ideological approach to Islamist extremism cannot be
underestimated; the influence of the Yemeni initiative set a new precedent in soft
approaches to terrorism and its efforts can be felt in numerous other countries where
attempts to critically engage detained extremists in ideological debate are becoming
standard practice. However, the programme’s early perceived successes were
overshadowed by the recapture of numerous participants engaging in terrorism within
Iraq; the tidal wave of criticism that washed over al-Hitar and his methods, coupled
with further emerging evidence of recidivism from outside intelligence services
subsequently led to the termination of the program by 2006.
Problems
Rabasa, et al. (2010:52) note that there is an absence of reliable data on the Yemeni
RDC which serves to complicate assessments and evaluations; this difficulty is
exacerbated by the government’s unwillingness to facilitate research into or publish
statistics on the programme. Most claims to success were the biased assertions of alHitar himself; Yemen’s president Saleh, however, acknowledged that the programme
was only effective in changing participants’ behaviour or ideology about sixty percent
of the time (Peraino, 2009:22); on this basis the programme was relatively
unsuccessful.
It has been charged that the regime was more concerned with political
expediency than actual ideological engagement due to the pressure it was under to
prove to the U.S that it was a reliable ally in its fight against terrorism (Boucek, Beg &
Horgan, 2009:189). Whewell (2005) believes that as a result the dialogue sessions
were short and aimed at securing the offenders’ acquiescence, rather than the robust
and engaging meetings described by officials involved in the process. Reflecting this
opinion, Porges (2010:28) noted that one detainee and former member of al-Qaeda
portrayed the scheme as simply “consisting of short meetings during which prisoners
were encouraged to sign a form pledging obedience to President Saleh as a
precondition for release”. Nasser al-Bahri (2005, cited in Whewell, 2005), a graduate of
203
the programme, provided his assessment, stating that: “The Yemeni Mujahideen in
prison know Hitar is the way for them to get released, so they ingratiate themselves
with him”, and admitting that the programme did not change his basic views or
diminish his support for al-Qaeda. These accounts appear to indicate a disconnection
between how al-Hitar portrayed the committee publically and what it consisted of in
reality. It appears that many militants merely told al-Hitar what he wanted to hear in
order to be released from prison. Furthermore, the aforementioned pledge did not
prohibit acts of terrorism outside of the Yemeni state, thus resembling more of a
bargain that implied terrorists would be left alone if they exempted Yemen from their
violent jihad. It seems that al-Hitar’s primary concern was with preventing attacks
within Yemen and as a result many of the graduates simply left the state upon release
and returned to terrorist activity in Iraq and other jihadi hotspots (Speckhard, 2012:7).
Whilst the Yemeni government provided post-release care in part, it was at a
level insufficient to effectively induce the disengagement of participants from acts of
terrorism. Porges (2010:28), observes that the programme only guaranteed postrelease support to a minority of detainees and most of those who received financial
aid had spent it within a short period of time. This was the result of governmental
failure, opting to hand out relatively small lump sums rather than ensuring consistent
monthly stipends and providing adequate job provision. When detainees failed to
secure employment many re-joined al-Qaeda since it pays its cadre (El-Said, 2012:44).
The fact that many detainees were able to successfully return to terrorist groups also
highlights the inadequacy of the surveillance efforts, which due to lacking resources
were only implemented for up to one year; a comparison with the level of surveillance
employed by Saudi Arabia’s programme demonstrates the importance deterrence
plays as a factor in disengaging extremists. The contrast between the results observed
in the Saudi program and those observed in Yemen indicate the importance of
sufficient funding to the success of de-radicalisation programmes; the limited funds
available to the Yemeni government, stretched further by renewed rebellions and
secessionist movements, resulted in an ill-financed de-radicalisation program that was
204
unable to fully utilise financial and employment incentives, marriage facilitation and
post-release monitoring as methods which can facilitate permanent disengagement.
Conclusion
El-Said (2012:43) perfectly encapsulated the impact of Yemen’s RDC on de-radicalising
extremists when he remarked that it is “difficult to speak of a professional,
comprehensive, and financially-sustainable counselling and rehabilitation program in
Yemen”. Its ineffectiveness lay in the government’s inability to implement a robust
programme with a structure to effectively address the different reasons why
individuals commit to extremism; rather, it allowed participants to go through the
motions of ‘de-radicalisation’ by signing a sheet of paper and being granted their
release with little required from them afterwards to prove their disengagement
(Seifert, 2010:23). The RDC focused solely on refuting ideology but was unable to
provide sufficient post-release care or support to detainees in order to effectively
reintegrate them into society; a necessity if recidivism is to be kept to a minimum.
Yemen was, however, a pioneer in using the process of dialogue to counter-extremism;
this has allowed a number of other states to build on their approach and implement
similar elements within their own de-radicalisation programmes. Largely the RDC was
the work of one man and was never institutionalised; successful de-radicalisation
programmes require the full support of a wider government apparatus to ensure
sufficient development and the dedication of adequate resources and personnel.
Essentially, Yemen’s initiative had a number of the key methods required for success,
including re-education, (basic) financial aid and post-release monitoring techniques,
however, it utilised them neither fully nor effectively.
Final Analysis
Findings
Through an analysis of de-radicalisation programmes in Saudi Arabia, Malaysia and
Yemen, this dissertation sought to discern methods which have been most successfully
205
able to disengage Islamist extremists from terrorist behaviour. In the process it has
compared and contrasted the techniques employed within each of the programmes
and accounted for their reported successes and failures, as well as commented on the
general applicability of their methods to other states. Although an analysis of
programmes in three states is by no means an exhaustive study it does enable one to
observe practices that appear to be having success and thus to draw conclusions about
the methods which are most likely to facilitate disengagement, and the most effective
ways to implement them. The ICSR (2010:47) believe that the success and results of
de-radicalisation programmes cannot be compared across the board; each is
dependent on local context and political and economic conditions. Whilst this is true,
key elements that appear to underlie the success of programmes can, however, be
identified which, when applied to fit country specific contexts, can be seen to
effectively disengage Islamist extremists, irrespective of the state in which they are
employed. This dissertation sought to answer the question: what are the most
effective methods de-radicalisation programmes can employ to disengage Islamists
from terrorist behaviour? These were ultimately determined by the reported successes
of the programmes; it is thus proposed that the most effective methods and hence
those which are likely to contribute to the success of prison-centred de-radicalisation
programmes generally are:
1. Employing independent clerics
-
Religious re-education constitutes the foundation of de-radicalisation
programmes. All three programmes employ clerics that have the knowledge and
experience to counter the misguided ideology of detainees and engage them in
dialogue designed to address their Qu’ranic misinterpretations. Saudi Arabia has
shown that the independence of clerics from the state is important since
extremists are more likely to recognise their authority, a shrewd observation from
which the Malaysian state could benefit in the further development of its
programme. Re-education as a method is pivotal to the de-radicalisation of
Islamists; the most effective way to guarantee that militants will not re-engage in
206
violent activity is to convince them to renounce their violent ideology, since
without it and enlightened by the true teachings of Islam they come to
understand that their previously advocated action runs contrary to this faith.
However, some committed ideologues may never give up their beliefs but, as
Porges (2010) points out, “might change their behaviour”. Acknowledging this,
more successful programmes, like that in Saudi Arabia, have recognised the need
to combine religious dialogue with behaviour-focused components that attempt
to facilitate reintegration, such as provision for education and employment.
2. Extensive post-release care and financial incentives
-
When an individual joins an extremist group, he can also become reliant upon
them to provide for basic needs (Rabasa et al, 2010). Thus to ensure that a relapse
back into a terrorist network does not occur, steps to ensure reformed extremists
are able to provide for themselves are needed. These will necessarily take the
form of state assistance with finding employment and financial help whilst the
process is on-going. A comparison between Saudi Arabia and Yemen indicates that
the most effective method by which to approach this is through monthly stipends
so as to prevent, as in the case of the latter, funds being spent quickly and
participants returning to terrorist groups for financial reasons.
-
Saudi Arabia has recognised that release from prison can be a difficult process;
some detainees may not have homes to go back to. Its rehabilitation centre thus
affords them a transitional step on the way to full reintegration. Housing
provision, likewise affords those released the opportunity to build a new life away
from terrorist affiliation. Although many countries would be unable to develop a
system as costly and advanced as the Saudi case, basic half-way houses that
operate on the same premise and some form of housing provision could achieve
the same desired effect.
3. Post-release surveillance and deterrence measures
207
-
A comparison of the surveillance measures adopted by the programmes in Saudi
Arabia, Malaysia and Yemen highlights its effectiveness as a deterrent to
participant reengagement. The failure of Yemeni authorities to adequately
monitor its programme’s graduates led to high recidivism rates, whereas Saudi
Arabia and Malaysia both implement round-the-clock surveillance and stringent
post-release conditions, requiring ex-detainees to check in with local authorities.
With the knowledge that they are being watched, the vast majority have been
reported to avoid former affiliations in fear of state-reprisal by means of punitive
measures and revoked assistance.
-
Coercive methods, including the threat of violent state reprisal are unlikely to
assist with effective de-radicalisation nor are such methods ever likely to be
utilised in states that enforce adequate human rights legislation. Malaysia has
shown, however, that the threat of harsh, physical punishment can have a
powerful deterrence effect.
4. Efforts to foster family commitments and Family inclusion
-
Fink and Hearne (2008:10) note that familial obligations can be “the driving force
behind disengagement from violent activism”. The moderating influence of
spouses and children are integral elements of disengagement; obligations to a
family have been primary reasons for extremists to pursue a non-violent lifestyle.
Saudi Arabia has drawn effectively on the influence family commitments can
have, through its methods that facilitate and fund marriages and encourage family
building. This is doubtless a costly procedure but one which appears to be a
considerably effective method by which to disengage extremists.
-
Similarly both the Malaysian and Saudi programmes aim to keep the spouses of
detainees involved in their work. This can mitigate their concerns with regards the
detention of their partner and encourage them to assist in the de-radicalisation
process.
5. Tailored approach
208
-
The previous methods are at their most effective when they are tailored to the
specific situation. This involves, at the very least, individual attention for
detainees so that any unique concerns or questions can be addressed (Porges,
2011). Malaysia’s programme draws on this element when officials seek to
ameliorate the concerns of JI members over state Sharia law. In a similar vein,
Saudi Arabia’s programme targets the specific needs of extremists returning from
Guantanamo Bay so that they can more easily reintegrate and are thus less likely
to reoffend.
-
States throughout the world are able to adopt this principle and design their deradicalisation programmes to suit their own cultural context and to address
detainees on an individual basis.
Conclusion
Despite their misleading name, de-radicalisation programmes (although they do seek
to truly ‘de-radicalise’), appear to be focused more on disengaging Islamist extremists
from terrorist behaviour. Whilst religious re-education is the foundation for all three
programmes; an approach based upon the presumption that extremist behaviour
emanates from misguided ideology and misinterpretation of key Islamic texts, they
combine this with a number of behaviour-focused methods. This undoubtedly
constitutes recognition that despite the fact that most hardened ideologues will never
recant their violent outlook, they can be incentivised and convinced to desist from
violent action and withdraw from terrorist organisations through numerous other
methods. This is a necessary and practical approach that needs to be considered in the
development of the future programmes of other states, for, one designed solely to
refute militant ideology without other incentive and deterrence based initiatives will
only achieve disengagement in the relatively few who become genuinely de-radicalised
through the process of re-education through religious teachings.
209
Saudi Arabia’s programme represents the most robust and comprehensive
effort to rehabilitate extremists to date; it employs a number of well implemented
methods that have been seen to effectively disengage terrorists and incorporates
them within a structure tailored to the specific needs of individual participants.
Although specific conditions unique to the Kingdom, such as its vast resources and
cultural hierarchies are conducive to its success, the methods it employs (and those
identified by this dissertation as ‘most effective’) can be easily assimilated into the
cultural and political and legal structures of other states. However, as Yemen has
shown, such methods will only be effective if the state implements them correctly,
within an institutionalised and robust programme framework. More coercive
elements, like those employed in the Malaysian programme have attracted much
criticism; however, whilst they are unlikely to facilitate de-radicalisation, they have
proven effective in disengaging extremists. Despite their apparent effectiveness in this
respect though, they could only realistically be employed in states that are relatively
unconcerned with enforcing sufficient human rights legislation and thus are relatively
inapplicable as effective general methods for de-radicalisation programmes.
De-radicalisation programmes do not represent an alternative to traditional
counter-terrorism efforts, but they are a necessary accompaniment. States that fully
recognise the ubiquitous threat of Islamic extremism in modern society should take
heed of the reported successes that countries like Saudi Arabia have achieved in
successfully repudiating extremist ideology and disengaging militants from terrorist
behaviour. The methods identified in this dissertation are those which appear to most
effectively assist with this process and accordingly should be considered as crucial
components in the future development of prison-centred de-radicalisation
programmes.
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Discounting the Environment in the Political
Decision Making Process: The Case of the Belo
Monte Dam
Lara Schermer
Abstract
This dissertation examines how governmental decisions that dismiss
environmental concerns come about. The lack of integrating environmental aims
in all policies is perceived as attributable to the government’s economy favouring
decisions. The rational preference of a state entangled in the neoliberal
framework is the economy over the environment, as economic actors exert large
power over political decision makers. Thus, the environment is discounted in the
decision making process and political attempts to save the environment are
insufficient, aiming merely to soothe the voters’ preferences on a superficial level.
The methodology used thereby is an investigation of current realities to explore
the decision making process and a normative evaluation of action for the
environment. A case study of the highly contested Belo Monte dam building in
Brazil provides various examples to prove all hypotheses presented. Three major
conclusions are drawn from the analysis: Elements of the neoliberal framework
lead to a lack of a citizen’s democratic scope leading to a government’s ignorance
towards social and environmental issues; a true democracy should be a moral,
instead of a rational actor; and thirdly, rational civil disobedience might have the
ability to approach change inside the current framework.
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Introduction
“You know how the snake kills. You know how it doesn’t crush its prey, it just slowly
tightens every time the prey breathes out until pretty soon the animal can’t breathe in
anymore and it dies of suffocation and the snake eats it. And that’s what the civilized
world is doing to your natural world, your rain forest and your rivers” (Cameron 2010).
Addressing indigenous leaders, the Hollywood director James Cameron uses this simile
to show his support in the fight against the construction of the Belo Monte dam in the
Brazilian Amazon region. A large and well-organised opposition, consisting of several
indigenous and environmental groups, has gained public attention beyond the
country’s borders and a delay in construction, but has not achieved a withdrawal of
the project or significant policy changes. Increased energy requirements through
Brazil’s high encompassed economic development needs are to be met by an increase
in energy production, most efficiently done through implementing large projects like
the Belo Monte dam.
The question answered in this dissertation arises from examples like this that show
how environmental and civil society action in favour of environmental issues are
discounted in the political decision making process. It is a two-fold question: Why does
the government generally favour the economy over the environment? And how can
the environment be taken into account? This study argues that economic actors have
overly high political power in capitalist economies. Their influence over political
decision makers and the fact that nature has no value on the market lead to a
discounting of environmental problems in the decision making process. Environmental
action currently pursued is depicted as insufficient and therefore a plea for increased
rational civil society action is uttered. But in order to trigger significant change, largescale adaptions in the political, cultural and especially economic sphere need to be
encompassed. Major change is not expected inside the neoliberal framework and
participation has little democratic scope.
The answer is reached by investigating current realities, using a case study and
applying a normative view on the results. Process tracing allows certain predictions on
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the decision making process, i.e. results are translated into expectable outcomes. The
causal chain presented is that economic interests lead to decisions discounting the
environment, in case the state is entangled in the neoliberal framework. The
independent variable is thereby the economic interest of economic and also political
actors, while the dependent variable is a decision that takes little or no account of the
environment. The globalised neoliberal framework acts as the condition variable in this
dissertation, i.e. only in states that have been deeply influenced by western
neoliberalism is the basic assertion expected to be valid. At the same time it
constitutes the range of the hypotheses presented. Using the case study, another
observation can be made: while civil society action did not bring about major change in
case of the Belo Monte dam, this dissertation argues that civil disobedience could
influence decisions in case it is rational and far-reaching. Sources used to uncover
relevant issues concerning the case study entail a range of website articles by
nongovernmental organisations. Their one-sided view is acknowledged and thus
academic articles are included to underpin the arguments. Clearly, regarding the
complexity of social and political phenomena, one case study is not sufficient to test
the validity of all presented hypotheses.
It can, however, show that it is viable in at least one case and illustrate the line
of argument by providing valid examples in all parts of the argument. The choice of the
case study came about as all variables of the hypotheses can be tested, it is congruent
with all levels of the argument, has strong values on the dependent and independent
variable and provides us with data richness. The first section sets the stage by
exploring the current framework of western societies. It shows that it is characterised
by a neoliberal system encompassing a capitalist economy, liberal democracy and a
static perception of development. The decision making process in states that
incorporate the neoliberal framework is analysed next. It is argued that while
individuals are expected to take account of selfish interests as well as communal ones,
political decision making is strongly shaped by economic interests, as the financially
well-off exert strong power over the political sphere.
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The second section introduces the case study, shows how the plan to build the
Belo Monte dam has gained approval by political decision makers and analyses the
state of democracy in Brazil. The section argues that the decision to build the dam is a
rational, as opposed to moral one, discounting social and environmental issues to the
extent that no concerns could change the economically biased decision. This fact is
then attributed to a lack of democracy, as political resources are unequally distributed.
While it is not the aim of this dissertation to offer solutions to environmental concerns,
the next sub-section argues that civil society groups might have increased scope in
case they act in a highly rational way.
Section three depicts political action concerning the environment in general as
subordinate to the economy by showing that nature and its resources are not given
value on the market. In response to environmental problems, the international society
has posed three solutions briefly described in the next sub-section: Sustainable
Development, technology and Corporate Environmental Responsibility. Whist any
measure seeking to improve human interaction with nature is regarded positively, all
three solutions seem to be insufficient to trigger true change.
The fourth section is a normative one, criticising current realities and exploring
some solutions. It analyses the neoliberal and development framework presented
earlier, showing that questioning these is indispensable if environmental action is
pursued. Giving examples from the case study it is argued that giving the environment
a value on the market would only be rational and societies that are not characterised
by the neoliberal framework but take account of the environment should be estimated
more highly. Political and cultural changes necessary to ensure sustainability are
presented thereafter.
Exploring Current Realities
“I have an ‘Ecology Now’ sticker on a car that leaks oil everywhere it’s parked”
(Sagoff 1983: 224).
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The introductory quote of this section addresses incoherence in behaviour towards the
environment that can also be observed on a political level. While governments
encompass action in order to improve environmental issues as shown in chapter
section, they fail to comply with these wishes when it comes to projects concerning
the economy. This section argues that political decision making seeks to satisfy the
voter’s and pressure group’s interest and tends to leave moral constraints aside. But
firstly, it depicts the neoliberal framework with its worldwide promotion of profitseeking economic development. It is shown that the capital system favours the
development of political inequality, the strongest reason for political discounting of
the environment and the condition variable in this study.
The Neoliberal Framework
Exploring economic realities in states with a capitalist system is of major importance as
it can be argued that economic actors illegitimately exert more power over the
political realm than other actors. The importance to set the scene with this argument
arises from the last-mentioned statement. It is later shown that the environment is of
minor importance for the economic actor.
Globalisation and very successful democracy promotion efforts increased the
number of countries that took over the western state model of a democratic political
and capitalist economic system. Looking closer at this argument it is useful to look at a
couple of definitions of globalisation. Wickstrom (2008: 309) argues that globalisation
is the “ongoing expansion of the capitalist world system” and Robinson (2008: 167)
adds the “rise of new dominant groups and capitalist fractions tied to the global
economy”. While globalisation is mostly perceived as an occurrence, there are actions
behind it promoting the expansion of capitalism. Therefore, Sklair (2001: 31, 206)
depicts capitalism as an imperialist system spread by a dominant transnational
capitalist class. The emergence of this class came after dominant nation-state
capitalism and constitutes a threat to democracies as voices in opposition to capitalism
lose their weight (Chomsky 1999: 44; Robinson 2008: 167, 170). Wealth and power,
reinforcing each other, as shown later, are highly centralised and used (Harvey 2011:
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10). Also Crouch (2004) states in his book on Post-Democracy that business lobbies
exert stronger power over the political system than the ordinary citizen. Chomsky
(1999: 7) includes this fact into his definition of neoliberalism arguing that “it refers to
the policies and processes whereby a relative handful of private interests are
permitted to control as much as possible of social life in order to maximize their
personal profit”. This individualist and economy focused framework necessarily clashes
with environmental interests.
Through the Western effort of democracy promotion this neoliberal system is
spread and a particular conception of democracy is promoted rather than the value of
it. Namely this is a liberal democracy model that goes together with a capitalist
economy, a model developed and shaped in Western societies (Diamond, 1996: 21;
Kurki, 2012). It can be argued that a true democracy is impossible given this
combination, as politics is largely dependent on financial investments of the financially
well-off (Schweickart 2002: 109). The capitalist economy is controlled by the few
(Lipietz, 1995: 17-18), who have immense power through the private character of
investments. The democracy undermining factor is that financial inequalities lead to
political inequalities, as the means to achieve a political goal (political resources)
increase in a linear manner with greater economic vitality (Beetham 1997: 88; Dahl
2000: 177; Gupta 2002: 362). There is a broad consensus between scholars including
market favouring liberalists that both inequalities are inherent to a capitalist
economy1. On the market, one dollar is equivalent with one vote, while in a true
democracy one citizen equals one vote. This simile is often used as an example for the
inherent incompatibility of capitalism and democracy (Coe and Wilber 1985: 1-2; Nellis
and Parker 1996: 9-10). See Beetham 1994: 165; Burnheim 1985: 127; Dahl 2000: 158;
Hayek 1976: 85; Przeworski 1999: 14; Mises 1966: 285; Shand 1990: 58. The fact that
increased political power can be acquired through financial means makes a capitalist
democracy less democratic by nature. For environmental concerns this means that
environmental action groups are able to potentially attract unlimited public attention
but not the adequate amount of political power. Therefore it is not ultimately the
voter who could change a government’s attitude towards and actions regarding the
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environment. It is a question of one’s standpoint. Indeed, a neoliberal can argue that
businesses help improving the environment as the market leads to efficiency on all
levels and therefore also to resource efficiency. Pursuing this line of argument Steffen
(2008: 398) shows that the spread of the market leads to a more efficient energy use, a
contradiction questioned in section three.
What the expansion of the market fails to take account of are non-market
realities, as shown later. For now, it is sufficient to take a closer look at the
development assumed to take place in current societal structures. The original
perception of development was largely shaped by modernisation theory. It is expected
that societies pass different stages of economic growth until they are developed
countries in a Western perception (Baker 2006: 1-3). (Economic) development is
presupposed for every society, and communities that currently do not pursue
economic growth are expected to progress and develop along Western lines. This
development framework has been largely criticised for being somewhat narrowminded: “The linearity of history, pre-supposed in this theory of progress, created an
ideology of development that equated development with economic growth, economic
growth with expansion of the market economy, modernity with consumerism, and
non-market economics with backwardness” (Bandyopadhyay and Shiva 1989: 114).
The strict understanding of this model of development entails an inherent disbelief in
every different model, which is criticised later on. Dismissing non-market realities that
are ecologically friendly, and focusing on economic rather than environmental goals
also poses a threat to achieving an environmentally sustainable society. Lipietz (1995:
35) puts this argument more drastically by calling this model of development the
“major enemy of political ecology”. When arguing from an environmental perspective
one is required to challenge this development model, as done in section four of this
article.
Political Decision Making
After exploring current socio-economic realities it is now time to look at decision
making theories. Economic actors assume that individuals are selfish and first and
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foremost rational thinkers. The state as an institution consists of several selfish
individuals and therefore it is a “myth that those working for the state are guided by
considerations of the public interest” (Hindmoor 2006: 93). In order to perform a
choice, costs and benefits are considered by rationally thinking individuals. Thus, the
means of achieving a goal will be an optimal one (Rubin 1997: 1434-1435). Parsons
(2005: 10) argues that while the desire might still be irrational, an individual’s
preference will be a rational one and dismiss irrational desires. This is because in order
to gain a preference, information about costs and benefits must be obtained (Parsons,
2005: 13).
In order to understand state choice it is important to define whether one
considers the state as an actor as such or as an institution consisting of a combination
of numerous individuals, last mentioned being more suitable for political institutions
(Rubin 1997: 1435- 1440). This assumption is often dealt with under the name of
Methodological Individualism (MI) and continues to argue that individuals have only
their own (material) well-being in mind, even when acting as part of a communal entity
(Friedman 1996; Watkins 1973). It is argued later-on in this dissertation, however, that
the current economic framework or, more generally, a collective spirit also shapes the
decisions an individual takes. A basic problem identified by scholars pursuing MI is that
what is rational for one individual will not automatically become a rational decision at
a communal level (Olson 1965: 2). It is such how controversial decisions are taken on a
political level.
It is important to understand what politicians are motivated by, as they are the
ones to take decisions. Brennan and Lomansky (1997) differentiate between
expressive interests, i.e. a goal that is met with expressed approval and instrumental
interests, i.e. monetary and nonmonetary practical benefit. As for politicians, both of
these motivations can be ranked as important:
Expressive interests: In a democratic regime parties, consisting of selfinterested politicians themselves, are interested in gaining office and therefore aspire
a large support of their voters (Downs 1957). Whatever it takes to ensure support from
voters is being pursued at the lowest possible cost by rational politicians (Rubin 1997:
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1435). Thus, the voter can make a difference in the decision making process (Sagoff
1983: 229) although not quite as much as expected in a true democracy, as the
introduction to the neoliberal framework has already shown. This argument
undermines the assertion that external circumstances do not influence decisions at all,
as argued by MI theorists. A democracy aims to satisfy all of its citizens needs by this
very process.
Instrumental interests: Downs (1957: 93) argues that politicians cannot be sure
about each voter’s needs and preferences and therefore adheres to groups’
recommendations. Therefore, “normative political theorists have complained that
groups distort democracy because politicians give the groups what they want rather
than try to find out what the people want” (MacLean 1987: 64). As those lobby groups
rely on monetary support, only the few, well-off are truly represented. This idea is
further discussed in the fourth section which deals with normative views on political
realities. When considering that these two interests motivate politicians, it becomes
obvious that their aim is not to promote the common good (Downs 1957; Hindmoor
2006: 93; Schumpeter 1976). Since industrialisation and modernisation the state
increasingly satisfies individual and majorly economic needs (Reus-Smit 1999: 9). Still,
political decision makers do not entirely lack conscience: “a set of norms best
described as constituting a ‘public service ethos’ require politicians, bureaucrats and
others working for the state to be guided in their decision making by considerations of
the public interest and to avoid using their positions to further their selfinterest”
(Hindmoor 2006: 92). But it can be argued that it is the economic realm that exerts
more power over many government officials. Consistent with the neoliberal
framework described earlier, it is rationalism that enables a market society to develop
and persist (Paterson et al. 2006: 139). Considering the striving for rationality of
politicians it becomes clear that environmental issues have little importance in
weighting. Environmental degradation brings no immediate financial loss, as described
in section three, so it is not regarded. Spence (2001: 919-920) explains this for
economic actors: “In order to maximize profit, the rational polluter will shift as many
costs as possible to society *…+. Even though the rational polluter may prefer a clean
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environment to a dirty one, it is individually rational for each polluter to continue to
pollute”. This immediately becomes a political logic, as politicians are influenced by
these economists and will be better off individually if they act in favour of the
economic interest. In order to regard the environment in a sufficient manner, sacrifices
must be made by every individual. Following this line of argument, environmental
problems must be given a nature in such a way that it would only be rational to try to
solve them. If states are engaged in environmental treaties and agreements, for
example, the price of always choosing environmentally harmful decisions goes up,
because pressure from the international community increases (Gore 2007; Pearce et
al. 2000: 174).
The Case Study
“Optimism, *…+ when it’s neither foolish nor silent, can be revolutionary”
(Steffen 2008: 412).
This is also a hypothesis arising from the case study: Civil society action can trigger
change in case it is rational and far-reaching. In order to postulate the hypothesis it is
necessary to take a closer look at the state of democracy in Brazil and other capitalist
societies and to understand how the decision for the Belo Monte dam came into being.
Before analysing all these matters, this section introduces the case study.
Introduction to the Case Study
Choosing the state of Brazil for a case study is not far to seek, as it entails many
important notions of the formerly described framework. Being one of the BRICS states
it is an emerging economy that follows the western model of development, which
leads to high increase in energy needs in the near future (Costa 2010: 2; Scholz et al.
2003: 45). While renewable energy sources are increasingly promoted in most of the
Western world due to a growing environmental awareness and the necessity to satisfy
high sustained energy demands, the majority of Brazil’s energy supply comes from
renewable resources. Remarkably, more than 85% of all the energy consumed comes
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from hydroelectric dams (Costa 2010: 1; similar numbers in EPE 2012; International
Rivers b). Hydropower is a long established energy source that accounts for about one
sixth of the world’s electrical output (Boyle 2004: 148). Whether it is also a sustainable
source is questioned in this section.
Brazil is also home to the biggest rainforest and “one of the richest, oldest
ecosystems on earth” (Cummings 1990: 1), with Amazonia occupying 58% of the
Brazilian territory (Hurrell 1992: 339). The large Amazon river constitutes a “huge
untapped hydropower potential” (Costa 2010: foreword) “of which only 30% is either
operational or under construction (Costa 2010: 3). The Belo Monte dam project,
examined as a case study in this section, is a matter of particular interest. It will be the
third largest dam worldwide and the second largest in Brazil (EIA). The project has
global impact both by destroying parts of the natural rainforest with possible
implications on the climate worldwide and by triggering protest on social and
environmental issues around the world. For Brazil the decision to build the dam,
examined further in the next subsection, brings many advantages. Especially after
serious energy shortages in 2001, the goal of achieving energy security became more
and more important (Scholz et al. 2003: 45). The increased energy needs of a growing
population and economy need to be met by big projects. The dam could produce more
than 600 Megawatt per year (MME/EPE 2012: 80) and thus provide a large addition to
the estimated additional needs of 4500-5000 Megawatt in the next years (Costa 2010:
1). But disadvantages of the project are manifold, on the biological, environmental and
social level.
It is a well-known and largely criticised issue of dam building in general that
citizens living in the construction area are being displaced. One often highlighted and
criticised problem prompted by dam construction in Brazil’s north is the displacement
of indigenous tribes (Costa 2010; Cummings 1990: 29-30; Fearnside 2006). In the case
of the Belo Monte dam a large area of native land is made uninhabitable and various
indigenous peoples must be relocated. A flooding of the area leads to increased
disease proliferation and a loss of downstream livelihoods, an altering of river flows
(International Rivers a). Drinking water is contaminated and a sharp decline in number
232
of fish is expected (Amazon Watch; Tierra America). Amazon Watch, a non-profit
organisation opposing the project for years, illustrates many expected indirect
consequences such as an increase in illegal logging and cattle ranching through a
better infrastructure and the destruction of indigenous homeland and unprecedented
demographic issues (Amazon Watch). Issues around this topic are manifold, farreaching, worth of deeper analysis and recognized as a major issue, but being social
problems they are not further addressed in this work. However, a clear separation
between social and environmental issues can be a bold venture, as they are generally
interwoven ones. The development approach pursued in Brazil brings along both social
problems like inequality and environmentally unfriendly practices.
Direct environmental consequences of the dam building are the deforestation
of around 5000 km2 and the flooding of around 400 km2 of land (Amazon Watch).
Through complex biological conditions a large number of fish will be dying from
oxygen-deficiency (Cummings 1990: 23), and other animal species are likely to
disappear (International Rivers a). Missing seasonal floodwaters lead to negative
consequences on species, society and especially biodiversity (Amazon Watch,
Cummings 1990: 23). Linking energy use to environmental problems stands to reason,
as the first mentioned accounts for 75% of emissions worldwide (Verbong and
Loorbach 2012: 4). In order to build the canals, reservoirs, dykes and additional smaller
dams that the Belo Monte project entails (Amazon Watch), a large area that is
currently rain forest is going to be flooded. The emerging reservoir is crucial for water
storage and the forceful water flow through turbines, but prevents organic carbon
from naturally flowing down the river. This and the rotting of vegetation leads to the
emission of greenhouse gases like methane and carbon dioxide (Amazon Watch,
Fearnside 2006, Fearnside and Pueyo 2012, WCD 2000: 74-75). Greenhouse gas
emissions from dams are often neglected by dam construction and energy related
businesses although methane emissions are now largely acknowledged, proving the
reputation of hydropower as a green energy source as partly wrong. Proportionate to
the output a big dam’s greenhouse gas emissions are higher than all other energy
sources (AIDA; Fearnside 2013: 693). “Hydroelectricity has been characterised by its
233
defenders as a source of ‘clean energy’ in order to stimulate a ‘sustainable economic
growth’, or – using a term that is currently fashionable – in accordance with a ‘green
economy’” (Fearnside and Millikan 2012: 472). Recalling the facts presented this
labelling has proven to be green washing.
Decision Making Process for the Belo Monte Dam Project
Applying the hypotheses made earlier regarding political decision making on the case
study illustrates the government’s decision to build the Belo Monte dam. Following the
assumption that “people, all people, are rational, self-interested utility-maximizers”,
“explanations and predictions of actors’ behaviour” can be deduced (Hindmoor 2006:
81). While others deny the predicative and explanatory power of this assumption
(Parsons 2005: 7), this study argues that the government’s decision in favour of
increased energy production and against environmental (and social) concerns was
predictable and difficult to be prevented. The basic choice for the Brazilian state was
whether to build the dam or not. This decision came up through the government’s
desire to increase Brazil’s energy supply, a necessary condition to pursue the intended
economic development. The most efficient way to produce very large amounts of
energy is through the building of a large dam. It encompasses both a long runtime and
low costs of operation (WCD 2000: 14). Thus, from a public choice perspective,
building the dam is the most rational decision. If, after balancing pros and cons, one
side remains blank a decision can be made at once. A single counter-argument is
sufficient, though, to prompt the need to weigh up arguments. Assuming that
information remains objective, a different view on the same information will provide a
subjective impression to the individual. Confronted with the costs and benefits of the
Belo Monte project an environmentalist, socialist or indigenous chief will most likely
turn into an opponent; a worker in the construction firm, a liberalist, and, as argued
later, a state will probably become a proponent of the same project. The preference
therefore depends on whether a moral or rational actor takes the decision. As it is
known that the government’s choice in case of the Belo Monte dam turns out to be in
favour of the project, it can be assumed that this is a case of a rational decision leaving
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moral constraints generally aside. It is interesting to take a closer look at which of the
assumptions would change when imagining the state was a moral actor. The
information obtained about a project would not change, as its allegiance to the truth is
assumed. On the other hand, the state’s desire would change to being the pursuit of
the majority of the state’s citizens’ general well-being and the preference would
presumably change to favouring the environment over economics.
The decision making process as such for Brazilian projects concerning the
environment is often criticised by academics and civil society organisations. The
installation license is provided by the environmental licensing agency IBAMA in case
certain environmental preconditions are met. In case of the Belo Monte dam the last
needed license was granted in form of a partial installation license after IBAMA’s
president resigned through large political pressure, an act largely criticised by various
environmental organisations (AIDA; Amazon Watch; Amazon Watch b; International
Rivers). The improvement of the Environmental Licensing process is also demanded by
academics (Costa 2010: 1; Fearnside 2002: 744). While the licensing process has
become increasingly complicated since the country democratised (Rohter 2012: 194),
it is seen as a bureaucratic necessity instead of an “essential input to the decision itself
as to whether or not the project should go forward” (Fearnside 2006: 24). This shows
that protecting the environment is only considered after having certainty about the
building of a dam and as a possible limit to the extent of the project. Despite criticising
the non-existence of a partial license in Brazilian law and that indigenous peoples were
not consulted adequately (Costa 2010: 7-8), they stress that the Environmental Impact
Assessment (EIA) has not been performed by an independent agency (AIDA; Fisher
2013: 9; Scholz et al. 2003: 45), but instead presumably by a proponent of the project
(Fearnside 2002: 744; Livingston 2013: 4). Those conducting research on the
environmental impacts of dam projects are likely to be sponsored by the dam building
company and thus inevitably biased. Before the EIA is published it can potentially be
altered by the sponsoring companies as researchers are not allowed to publish the
studies by themselves (Livingston 2013: 4).
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This shows that the decision to build the dam has already been made before
the environment is considered and environmental concerns have little possibility to
change the decision or alter plans considerably (Fisher 2003: 9). Scholz et al. (2003: 56;
58) assume therefore that the controversy around the environmental licensing process
of the project will have exemplary character for future big dam projects. This example
highlighting extensive public disobedience against a government decision necessarily
leads to questioning the state of democracy in Brazil.
Impacts of the State of Democracy
This section aims to identify incoherencies in policy making concerning environmental
policies and projects due to a lack of democracy. A representative democracy, the
system adopted and promoted by most western societies, does not offer the citizens
extensive influence on the state (Paterson et al. 2006: 143). The state of democracy in
Latin America in general and Brazil in particular is poor. Particularly corruption (Peeler
2009: 208), privatised violence and violation of the law by criminal networks
(Hochstetler and Keck 2007: 142) are common infringements. Even after the end of the
dictatorship in Brazil, citizens still showed fear of opposing the government due to the
assassination of numerous opposition leaders (Cummings 1990: 98), including an
important dam critic in 2001 (Fearnside 2006: 22). Further undemocratic action
comprising governmental pressure on environmental organisations will be uncovered
in the course of this dissertation. This section deals with constraints to modern
democracies in general and the state of democracy in Brazil in particular.
In order to illustrate the dominance of economic actors in the political sphere,
two points are worth mentioning. Firstly, economic actors that can assume more
political power, will use this power and lobby policy makers. For Spence (2001: 925) it
is a simple fact and only consistent with their rationality that economic actors will seek
to gain influence over politicians. The case study is a good example for this, as energy
companies have strong lobby groups with influence on crucial policy making groups. As
described above, the EIA approval for the Belo Monte dam was granted by the
government with no governmental discussion and no possibility to review the decision.
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Fearnside (2002: 739; 2006: 18-19) and Fisher (2013) consider lobby groups to play a
crucial role in the current environmental impact assessment process, which makes it
“little more than an art of smoothing the way for projects” with the most important
objective being “to satisfy the environmental departments of the financing banks”
(Fisher 2013: 8).
Secondly, a closer look at the case study reveals high state interest in the
building of the Belo Monte dam. Thereby the roles of different ministries in the pursuit
of a project are meaningful. The energy ministry plays a considerably more important
role than the ministry for the environment. Other ministries like the Ministry of
Finance have an interest in infrastructure improvement in Amazonia (Scholz et al.
2003: IX, 58). The environmental agency IBAMA seems to be lobbied by groups
favouring the construction and especially the government, leading to the approval of
the construction license. The dam’s operators consist of a consortium of various public
and private funds and Eletrobras, a power holding company that is largely state-owned
(Amazon Watch; International Rivers). The state clearly holds an interest in the
construction of the dam and is thus deprived of its neutrality. It is also generally
interested in improving the development chances of the country and thus aspires
higher energy production. In the case of the Belo Monte dam construction is aspired
entirely by economic actors rather than public opinion (Fearnside 2002: 744).
Approaching Change – Rational Civil Disobedience
Considering the fact that political economists are supposed to stay neutral on an
ethical level, as shown later, possibilities to convince them to undertake ecological
action on a rational basis are sought for. Also, “*a+rmed with solid scientific
information, rational decision makers lose no time in committing their nations to
decisive action” (Schmandt 2000: 213). This subsection argues that not only scientific
information appeals to a politician’s rationality, but also civil disobedience can appeal
to their expressive interest and in cases even their instrumental ones, as shown below.
It is likely that sustainability cannot be encompassed by the state only. Abbott (2012)
regards what she calls private sustainability governance, including all private actors like
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businesses and civil society groups, as one of the key factors of successful sustainable
management. The underlying rationale of this section is clearly that not all people act
upon the endeavour of satisfying their own immediate selfish objectives. Instead,
people engaged in civil society groups show altruistic traits, or, at least, a sense of
community spirit. They are thus not purely rational actors as described in the first
section and are also influenced by the politicoeconomic framework. Sagoff (1983)
argues that every citizen is as well a selfish consumer as a community-oriented citizen.
The citizen is thereby interested in how the society (s)he lives in should be like and
acknowledges public values like environmental intactness. As a result, organised public
participation develops that can be of major political importance (Bagheri and Hjorth
2007: 94).
Civil society organisations gain leverage when communicating and networking
with each other: “Redundancies can be eliminated, and each organization in the
network can focus on what it does best” (Steffen 2008: 420). But Blühdorn (2007)
paints a darker picture of civil society engagement. To him, bottom-up approaches
cannot achieve the necessary deep political and economic change needed to ensure
sustainability. He concludes that market and non-democratic mechanisms are more
powerful, as neoliberal societies “are fully focused on reinforcing at all societal levels
their technological and managerial systems of security, surveillance and control which
are designed to protect exactly those structures and principles of the established order
which are at the very core of the problem of unsustainability” (Blühdorn 2007: 262). In
order to address political decision makers in the current order, this dissertation argues
that rational civil disobedience can be highly effective.
This can best be shown by taking a look at the case study. While civil society
organisations and environmental action groups that arose from the political opening
process after the dictatorship in Brazil focused on single, local issues, their
counterparts nowadays are putting an effort into networking on a partly international
level (Acselrad 2008: 75). Those networks are regarded as very important to improve
leverage, especially when establishing international links (Hurrell 1992: 416;
Nascimento 2010: 5; Scholz et al. 2003: 76). But local and global critique differ largely,
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as local citizens might be more concerned about social issues in their own
neighbourhood while other nations are likely to suffer environmental consequences
(Scholz et al. 2003: I). Although the intensity of environmental protest sharply rose
during the democratisation process, it seems to have had little impact on
governmental planning. The building of around 40 big dams is encountered by the
current government (Fearnside and Millikan 2012: 47). Successes of civil disobedience
are the delay of projects, the planning of smaller dams, and the attraction of
(international) attention. Thereby civil society groups helped to institutionalise protest
on a global level. Also, the World Commission on Dams was born from the debate
around big projects, and seeks to be a neutral connection between the opposing sides.
Consisting of public, private and civil society sector representatives, it aims to
“develop internationally acceptable criteria, guidelines and standards, where
appropriate, for the planning, design, appraisal, construction, operation, monitoring
and decommissioning of dams” (WCD 2000: xxx). The Belo Monte dam example shows
that environmental protest is not only “an elitist, middle-class phenomenon” (Eckerley
1992: 10), but in cases also necessary to secure one’s livelihood. The well-organised
protesters against the Belo Monte dam have not only tried to reach peoples’
conscience but also acted in a highly rational manner. The possible inefficiency of dams
has been revealed and global attention has been sought through different campaigns.
Thereby they were successful in delaying the project, but (so far) not in preventing it.
Civil society organisations seem to be very successful in shaping citizens’ opinions on
environmental concerns (Scholz et al. 2003: 58). Arguments against the dam and
possible inefficiencies of it are manifold leading civil society groups to question the
overall economic viability of the project (Amazon Watch, Cabral de Sousa Júnior and
Reid 2010). Construction costs are higher than projected and growing protest increases
the number of people claiming compensation from dam constructors (Amazon Watch
a). Siltation of the reservoir in another dam has led to a loss of the majority of the
dam’s capacity (Cummings 1990: 22). For the Belo Monte dam, decreased rainfall and
droughts like a major one in 2001 could sharply decrease production (Rohter 2012:
196) and seasonal flow reduces such low production in some months that the yearly
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average production drops to 40% of the capacity (Amazon Watch; International Rivers
b; Scholz et al. 2003: 43). The transmission of energy to more populated areas in the
south of the country are costly and lead to a stark loss of energy (EIA; Rohter 2012:
198). Questioning the dam’s economic viability, civil society organisations intend to
appeal to the rational, rather than the moral actor.
Besides that, civil society organisations have also turned to initiating a large
media campaign. This step has big potential, as the government seeks to reduce
negative media attention and the powerful role of media thereby must not be
underestimated (Hurrell 1992: 402-403). James Cameron, an internationally
established producer was invited to attend consultations of various indigenous groups
concerning the Belo Monte project and the resulting video was spread internationally
through social media. Rational action might be the only way for civil society
organisations to achieve change inside the existing framework. But protest against
environmentally harmful projects is not the most promising way, as shown in the next
section.
The Environment
“The hierarchies, classes, propertied forms, and statist institutions that emerged with
social domination were carried over conceptually into humanity’s relationship with
nature. Nature too became increasingly regarded as a mere resource, an object, a raw
material to be exploited as a mere resource as slaves in a latifundium” (Bookchin 1988:
40). The long-term dangers of an environmentally harmful lifestyle like the depletion of
the ozone layer and climate change are generally broadly acknowledged. It is argued in
this dissertation that action to prevent and counteract negative consequences is not
sufficient. The neoliberal framework leaves little leeway for environmental policies,
especially when restricting economic activity. Sustainable environmental action
contradicts economic realities: “In the private sector economy direct economic
interests, especially short dated monetary interests, are often an obstacle to the
development of eco-political capacity” (Scholz et al. 2003: 793).
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Economic Value of the Environment
If assumed that the government acts rationally and in the interest of the economy,
economic preferences will translate into political ones. Therefore it is important to
view environmental questions from an economic perspective. Decisions in a market
economy are taken by applying a cost-benefit analysis which ensures that a project is
worthwhile. Without considering moral issues concerning environmental or social
problems, costs and benefits are easily calculated as numeral facts are easily available.
“Cost benefit analysis *…+ makes operational the very simple, and rational, idea that
decisions should be based on some weighing up of the advantages and disadvantages
of an action” (Pearce et al. 2000: 175). Where benefits are higher than costs, a decision
in favour of a project is probable. The attempt to consider the environment in this
calculation is a controversial and complex one, as shown later. Traditionally, however,
it is not undertaken. As Locke (1690: V, 43) Own translation describes it, nature is
principally valueless in the economic sphere: “It is labour *…+ which puts the greatest
part of value upon land, without which it would scarcely be worth anything; *…+ Nature
and the earth furnished only the almost worthless materials as in themselves”. Only
natural resources with value on the market are of economic significance
(Bandyopadhyay and Shiva 1989: 115; Cummings 1990: 96; Posner 1979: 119; Pearce
et al. 2000: 171), as the ultimate goal of a capitalist economy is wealth maximation.
Ethical concerns are unsolicited in this framework. The political economist “is or should
be ethically neutral: the indicated results are influenced by his own value scale only
insofar as this reflects his membership in a larger group” (Buchanan 1959: 124). This
larger group currently influencing a quasi-neutral economist can be identified as a
neoliberal one, supporting the urge to stay ethically neutral. It is questionable whether
action on a purely neutral basis results in the best option for the largest group of
people. Giving nature economic value or making it count in other ways in the
costbenefit analysis is an undertaking pursued in the next subsection.
Even without changing the market morale, the environment should be taken
into account by economists. Also from an economist’s view nature is a vital part of
future economic development, as destroyed natural resources cannot be of any value
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in the future and undermine economic activity. To approach this line of argument it is
sensible to have a closer look at an economist’s perception of nature. It becomes a
valuable resource only when transformed into financial gains. “The organizing principle
of economic development based on capital accumulation and economic growth
renders valueless all properties and processes of nature and society that are not priced
in the market and are not inputs to commodity production” (Shiva 1992: 188). When
calculating the Gross National Product (GNP) the destruction of natural resources is
not included, although other goods get depreciated. It is neglected thereby that lost
natural resources cannot be of any further market value (Gore 2007: 183-185). But the
loss of natural resources has further impacts on humans than the mere loss of
manageable resources. As the exact consequences of natural destruction are
unknown, further research is indispensable, and action following the assumption that
effects are negligible is dangerous and highly immoral. As the concept of Sustainable
Development, described in more detail in the next section, aims to not compromise
the well-being of future generations, the lack of acknowledging environmental
consequences of every economic undertaking is striking. Thiele (1999: 85) argues that
making profit today while consciously leaving environmental reparation costs to future
generations is illegitimate. “Economists accept the tyranny of the immediate as a basic
feature of human nature. *…+ The problem is that good economics often translates into
bad ecology” (Thiele 1999: 86). A similarity between the capitalist economic system
and the democratic state can be observed regarding their lack of forward-looking
action. The strand of ecological economics acknowledges this problem and offers a
solution: socalled ecosystem-service values, like biodiversity value or flood control
should also be considered when calculating financial gains of an environmentally
harmful project (Steffen 2008: 488). Nature is destroyed less easily if its value is
accounted, but this solution still oversees the, partly indirect, impact of the destruction
of natural resources. Nature is simply subtracted out of possible financial gains, but
social and environmental costs are still not accounted. Therefore Daly (2000) pleas for
giving these costs economic value. He labels “growth that increases environmental and
social costs by more than it increases production benefits” (Daly 2000: 63) uneconomic
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growth. There we encounter a problem of value and esteem that leads away from the
economic sphere towards philosophical considerations. The costs of displacement, the
loss of species or pollution have moral value and can by no means be given numerical
importance. Even if taken into account, natural “*d+epletion is usually assumed to be
linear, when it is now evident that many ecological systems crash suddenly after they
have hit some tipping point beyond which their natural reproduction capacity cannot
function” (Harvey 2007: 174).
Challenge and Responses
This section mentions and shortly analyses responses to environmental problems. The
political sphere is indeed not inactive when it comes to taking account of these, but
action taken is depicted as insufficient. Three efforts are presented: Sustainable
Development, technology, and Corporate Environmental Responsibility. Schmandt and
Ward (2000) explore this generation’s challenge and their response to it, namely global
change and Sustainable Development (SD). The terms used by them was borrowed to
title this subsection. The broad expansion of liberal market democracies has brought
along “unintended consequences – economic, social and environmental” (Schmandt
and Ward 2000: 3). Therefore, a political catchphrase was presented as a solution
encompassing every aspect of the problem: SD. It was first presented in the
Brundtland report, giving a general definition: “Sustainable development is
development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of
future generations to meet their own needs” (UN 1987: chapter 2.1). This shows the
basic, broad understanding of SD, while the debate around finding an overarching and
comprehensive definition serves to present more profound definitions, but is of minor
importance for this work. It shall be acknowledged that the concept of SD is one that
can be defined in opposing manners depending on political views (Gupta 2002: 381382) and the valuing of different policy issues (Bagheri and Hjorth 2007: 84; Cousin
2005: 32). Aims consist of limiting growth of both population and consumption
(Meadows et al. 1979; Kates 2000) and limiting the environmentally harmful impact of
human action. In order to be successful the concept needs to be considered in every
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political decision and integrated in every policy area. Whether achieved step by step
(Sklair 2001: 207) or only in an authoritarian system that dictates its citizens necessary
constraints (Schmandt 2000: 218) is questionable. A complication for environmentally
sustainable projects is that they may have high costs in the beginning, but save money
in the future (Scholz et al. 2003: II). Thus, they show no immediate improvement to
citizens’ lives and are unpopular policies aimed for by politicians, as not in their direct
interest.
The concept of Sustainable Development is a major step taken towards rising
environmental awareness on a global level, but it is also disputed critically by many
environmental scholars. Shiva (1992), for example, questions the whole concept
arguing that the market, although posing the original threat to nature, is now seen as
the healing force. The concept embodies a seemingly unsolvable contradiction
between pursuing economic growth and environmental protection at the same time.
This leads to questioning whether true sustainability is possible in profit-oriented
society: “The tense relationship between the two central themes of sustainable
development – the simultaneous desire for economic prosperity and environmental
protection – has lain at the heart of environmental politics and policy making since
time immemorial“ (Jordan 2008: 17; see also Sklair 2001: 205, 248). What originally
intended to be “a compromise between the different social and political actors” in
order to face environmental problems might be “a contradiction in terms”
(Nascimento 2010: 7). Reaching true sustainability, understood as a lifestyle in
harmony with nature, might not be achievable inside the neoliberal framework, but
what needs to be stressed on the other hand is that SD is maybe not sufficient, but
“attainable within the existing framework of economic and social values and
institutions” (Schmandt 2000: 204).
Another response to environmental challenges is the assumption that
technology has the power to find a solution to every problem encountered through
environmental destruction. In order to prevent further environmental harm, less
energy-intense solutions are sought after. This assumption is a truly neoliberal one
(Harvey 2007: 64) and has attracted a large amount of criticism, as using technology
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that is more environmentally friendly does not mean the environment is not harmed at
all. Instead, it is a means to solve the problem that occurred through an increased use
of technology with other, new technological inventions (Fearnside 2002: 740-741).
Thus, Baker (2006) labels sustainability that assumes substitutability of critical natural
capital like oil by technological innovations ‘weak sustainability’, “whereas strong
sustainability assumes some substitutability but imposes strict limits on how much
human capital can compensate for running down natural capital” (Baker 2006: 33).
With the same line of argument, Gupta (2002: 363) calls those pursuing SD through
technology “technological optimists” and also Harvey (2007: 68) does not believe in
technology as an all-round solution.
Technology can be seen as one of the causes of environmental problems and of
resource scarcity rather than the solution for them (Daly 2000: 67; Gore 2007).
Possibly, relying on technology is not sufficient as “there are problems like resource
shortages, climate change, species extinction, epidemics and so forth which constantly
provide proof of the ecological unsustainability of the established system which no
technological or managerial ingenuity has so far managed to fix” (Blühdorn 2007: 262).
It seems clear to ecologists that not every scarce resource can be replaced by a new
technology, and even if it could, nature would still have suffered considerably in the
process. Still, neoliberals believe in the existence of a technical solution for any
possible problem encountered, and policy makers act after this assumption, as the
case study shows. The Brazilian Ministry of Energy and Mines explicitly mentions the
approaching of its environmental priority topics by the search for technical solutions as
their primer solution, for example through the avoidance of emissions through energy
efficiency (EPE 2012: 2; MME/EPE 2012: 358-359).
A third response to this generation’s challenge that can be observed is
Corporate Environmental Responsibility (CER), encompassing all corporate practices
concerning the environment in a direct or indirect way. Environmental impacts and
corporate efforts to diminish these are numerous and CER is thus as hard to grasp as
SD (Vogel 2006: 110). CER often overlaps with technology, especially when regarding
the efficient use of resources. Increased efficiency and an increased number of
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consumers through a better company image are the strongest motivations for a profitorientated company to take account of environmental issues. Apart from that,
“managers acknowledge that regulatory pressure (existing or potential) is one of the
most important factors that encourages improvements in environmental practices and
pertinent technological changes” (Capellin and Giuliani 2004: 49). This limit to free
corporate action is definitely a positive one, whilst its reach is questionable. The case
study can best illustrate limitations to effective corporate environmental action. While
dam construction companies are obliged to provide financial compensation to
dislocated citizens, also environmental compensation projects are envisaged. So far,
they have been of minor effect as the interference with the natural environment is a
complex and not sufficiently researched undertaking. As the World Commission on
Dams reports, the dislocation of species was unsuccessful, because the destination
location was not ready to accommodate the animals (WCD 2000: 77) and fish ladders
are hardly used by spawning fish (Brown 2013: 6-7). The passage from CER to green
washing seems fluent. To summarise the effectiveness of CER, Harvey’s (2007: 172)
words are beneficial: “in some instances capitalist firms have discovered that
increasing efficiency and improved environmental performance can go hand in hand.
Nevertheless, the general balance sheet on the environmental consequences of
neoliberalization is almost certainly negative”.
If these solutions are therefore believed to be an insufficient solution it is
necessary to adopt a more radical standpoint and question free market economics
itself (like Gore 2007: 337; Bandyopadhyay and Shiva 1989: 117; Shiva 1992: 188).
Necessary Changes – A Normative Approach
“*H+umans were meant to take their modest place in a seamless, stable-state web of
living organisms, disturbing that web as little as possible. This would mean sacrifice of
present consumption, but would ensure future survival” (Callenbach 1957: 43)
In order to achieve sustainability, several structural changes need to be aimed at. It
became clear that the market logic as well as the development framework are rather
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harmful for the environment. But apart from this, also the way of thinking about
nature in general, i.e. cultural changes, are a necessary prerequisite for a truly
sustainable management of nature. This section aims to unveil changes that would be
necessary from a purely environmental viewpoint as well as changes that are currently
seen as sufficient solutions for environmental problems.
Questioning the Growth Consensus
True sustainability “calls for a fundamental re-assessment, in theory and practice, of
the interdependence between economy and ecology” (Schmand 2000: 208). It is hardly
contestable that the current economic system takes little account of the environment
and its needs (Bernstein 2002: 2). The market economy ensures efficient profit seeking
and is strongly based on economic growth. Questioning the growth consensus is an
important step towards sustainability, as policy makers are aware of limits to growth
at least since the publishing of the Limits to Growth report (Meadows et al. 1972). This
paragraph aims to identify how environmental concerns can be reconciled inside a
market economy and the neoliberal framework described in the first section.
This is done by firstly giving an example from the case study. A neoliberal
economic and political framework has taken over Brazil since its industrialisation and
production and consumption patterns have changed drastically. It could be argued that
questioning the resulting national growth consensus in order to enable morally
acceptable action is a necessary step to be taken (Fearnside 2006: 25). Around 30% of
the energy produced by the Belo Monte dam is supposed to be sold to regional
industrial mining and aluminium production companies that have an extraordinary
demand of energy (Amazon Watch, Cummings 1990: 4). In order to secure these plans,
firms like ALCOA, Brazil’s biggest producer of aluminium, invested in the Belo Monte
dam construction (Schäfer and Studte 2005: 9-10), which is perceived as an act of
furthering environmental concern about the project. The energy-intense production of
aluminium that is also environmentally harmful has been criticised in relation to the
dam construction. Fearnside (2006) questions the cheap sale of energy to export
industries and comes out in favour of forbidding dam construction in the Amazon
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region. “The price of aluminium would rise to reflect the true environmental cost of
this very wasteful industry, and global consumption would decline to a lower level.
Adding one more hydroelectric project to the grid only postpones insignificantly the
day when Brazil and the world make this fundamental transformation” (Fearnside
2006: 25).
Reducing dam construction would mean to leave growing industries with too
little energy supply or sharply increased energy costs, forcing them to move, reduce
production or shut down entirely. As shown before, a government aiming for
development will seek to avoid such consequences and, much to the opposite, will
foster any infrastructure improving those industries’ profits. Clearly, an abstraction
from the case study example shows that growth comes first and the environment is
regarded as an issue with less meaning. Continuing to apply the market logic on
projects concerning the environment, change cannot be achieved. If this is the aim
anyway, a re-evaluation of nature and its resources must take place.
The only environmental problem recognised in this neoliberal framework is the
possibility that resources might not be allocated and distributed in an efficient manner
(Freeman et al. 1973). It has been shown that the natural environment is regarded
valueless until it provides benefit on the market. This assumption comprises various
problems, not only but primarily for the environment itself. The most obvious one is
that finite natural resources tend to be over-used (Pearce et al. 2000: 171), as “*t+he
invisible hand guiding the market decidedly lacks a green thumb” (Thiele 1999:
89).Ignoring environmental goods that are valueless on the market is what Gore (2007:
183) calls “partial blindness”. To him, it is the “single most powerful force behind what
seem to be irrational decisions about the global environment” (Gore 2007: 183). As
this study is not concerned with decisions regarding projects aiming to save or restore
the environment, but with those aiming to maximize efficiency and benefit on the
market, those decisions are rather perceived as environmentally harmful while entirely
rational. In order to end the unsustainable management of finite natural resources,
ecological or sustainable economics is committed to “create a broader framework that
combines hard business sense with environmental and physical reality” (Steffen 2008:
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488; see also Thiele 1999). This shows that not only from a normative view should the
destruction of natural resources be taken into account by economists. Ignoring the
finite nature of resources leads to wrong assumptions on possible future profitability,
as they are not depreciated although they are used up (Gore 2007: 183-185).
Both negative environmental and economic consequences are thus neglected.
Including environmental losses or ecosystem services into calculations seems
necessary (Steffen 2008: 488; Pearce 2000: 181), but brings other issues to the scene.
Giving environmental services and losses a numerical value is more than just a moral
and philosophical question (Pearce et al. 2000: 172). Judging their value is highly
dependent on ideological preferences and can therefore not be undertaken by an
economist, an environmentalist, or any other person. Instead, many people are
surveyed and asked how much they would be willing to pay for certain environmental
goods and services. A legitimate policy can be derived from such an economic
valuation (Pearce 2000: 180) or cost-benefit analysis (CBA) (Sagoff 1983: 231) that
include citizen’s subjective preferences. The CBA mentioned by Sagoff is one
considering environmental issues and differs from those described in the first section.
A benefit is thereby anything that makes citizens feel better than before (Pearce 2000:
180; Pearce et al. 2000: 172). Pearce et al. (2000: 175-176) list different environmental
values apart from direct money values: The intrinsic or existence value is the value
nature would have even if there were no humans, the bequest value shows what
people would be willing to pay in order that future generations can enjoy intact nature
and the option value measures the likelihood that someone will use the environment
at a later date. All of them are vague values, largely depending on ethical attitudes, but
likely to not be negative. They conclude that the economic value of the natural
environment is higher than traditionally considered by economists, as it consists of the
actual use value, option value and existence value (Pearce et al. 2000: 176).
Acknowledging Non-Market Realities
This section takes a closer look at the development framework described earlier, this
time from a normative viewpoint. In this framework nature is considered relatively
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valueless, as shown above. “The organizing principle of economic development based
on capital accumulation and economic growth renders valueless all properties and
processes of nature and society that are not priced in the market and are not inputs to
commodity production” (Shiva 1992: 188). Thus due to this framework that the
environment is discounted when it comes to decisions regarding projects that could
possibly bring major economic benefits.
The link between encompassing development and dam construction becomes
very obvious when taking a closer look at Brazil’s history. During the military
dictatorship from 1964 to 1985 the government launched ambitious development
plans for the country. Cheap and vast amounts of energy were needed to fulfil those
plans and large dam projects, being the most efficient and a largely available source,
experienced a peak. With those projects two other goals closed in: energy
independence and the control over the whole Brazilian territory, including the vast
Amazon region (Costa 2010: 4; Nascimento 2010: 4). “Viewed as symbols of
modernisation and humanity’s ability to harness nature, dam construction accelerated
dramatically” (WCD 2000: xxix). The tropical rainforest was embraced as an area with
large untapped natural resources that could be transformed into vast financial
resources (Cummings 1990: 34; Costa 2010: 3). The environment was thus
instrumentalised as merely a source of possible financial benefit, mismanaged and not
valued (Hochstetler and Keck 2007: 143-144; Nascimento 2010: 6; Rohter 2012: 193194). Eletrobras was created, back then a state-owned energy agency, and electricity
production was nationalised (Costa 2010: 3; Cummings 1990: 11). Government interest
was thus exceptionally financial and environmentalists had little voice in the
dictatorship. As a reaction, the National Movement of People Affected by Dams
(MNAB) emerged, but was unable to influence government decisions (Nascimento
2010: 6). Also the Belo Monte dam was, under a different name, originally a project
planned during the military dictatorship, then defeated by environmentalists shortly
after the end of it, but resumed in 2003 (Amazon Watch). This shows that during the
dictatorship, being an era strongly committed to economic development and not
permitting environmental disobedience, the environment was entirely discounted.
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Change could only be initiated through pressure by the international
community, especially on the Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro in 1992 (Costa 2010: 44;
Nascimento 2010: 6; Scholz et al. 2003: 77). Outside intervention, considered
impossible during the dictatorship as the sovereignty of the state was highly valued,
became more powerful (Hurrell 1992: 408). Among environmentalists a global debate
concerning boundaries, state sovereignty and the global commons arose, as a state
might not be able to, or should not be given the power to regulate areas that provide a
collective good (Bernstein 2002; Kuehls 1996:25). Still, “preservation or destruction lies
within the sovereign jurisdiction of the Brazilian state” (Hurrell 1992: 408). This
example shows that the stronger the development model is pursued and the less
citizens can voice their wishes, the more often decisions that favour the economy over
the environment are made.
It is important to acknowledge what has been widely criticised: the principle of
the model of development described in this study is based on the Western lifestyle and
worldview, and is therefore lacking an appreciation for different cultures, traditions
and livelihoods (Palmer 1992: 184; Fisher 2013: 8). Self-sustaining, mostly indigenous
communities often live in an environmentally friendly way as they acquire their
livelihood from a local environment. But these “*s+ubsistence farmers and isolated
indigenous populations in Amazonia are likely to be big losers [of globalisation], unless
they can shift to either extraction or tourism” (Peeler 2009:201). Such statements
show that pre-globalised and pre- or non-neoliberal lifestyles are perceived merely as
underdeveloped and that their assimilation to the globalising neoliberalism is
expected. This fact is a contested one: “The paradox and crisis of development arise
from the mistaken identification of culturally perceived poverty with real material
poverty, and the mistaken identification of the growth of commodity production as
providing better human sustenance. In actual fact, there is less water, less fertile soil,
less genetic wealth as a result of the development process” (Shiva 1992: 190).
Traditional lifestyles are confronted with various challenges by the spread of
the neoliberal market that fails to take into account non-market approaches (Acselrad
2008: 75). Societies that are underdeveloped in the traditional development model are
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more environmentally friendly and sustainable as they treat nature as a commons and
do not try to financially profit from it (Shiva 1992: 188). They should therefore be
admired rather than labelled undeveloped and poor peoples (Bandyopadhyay and
Shiva 1989: 116). What sounds like a social issue in the first place has thus major
influence on environmental issues. “Discourses on the benefits of development versus
the costs incurred in environmental and human degradation come to a standstill at the
insistence of Brazil’s need for development” (Cummings 1990: 96).
Political Changes
However the state’s role in environmental issues is seen, it is a necessary regulatory
institution for policy changes (Lipietz 1995: 18). It could be considered a moral
obligation of the state to care for their citizens’ wellbeing (Hochstetler and Keck 2007:
141). On a social level that would mean that in the case of the Belo Monte dam it is not
the government’s right to alter and destroy the livelihood of indigenous populations.
“It is important to remember that before it became a ‘resource,’ water was ‘managed’
for hundreds of years by indigenous communities” (Wickstrom 2008: 287). If
perceiving it as a common good, water could not be used in order to create financial
profit if people are harmed in the process. It is possible to argue that their quality of
life is dependent on social action (Acselrad 2008: 87) and political action concerning
this should therefore be moral. One way of acting morally is in considering the future,
but it is an entirely irrational action. “The question arises how to “widen the ambit of
political discussion to include the question of our relationship to, and impact upon, the
nonhuman world” (Eckersley 1992: 2).
When arguing that the state has the obligation to also take account of the
future wellbeing of its citizens as good as possible, environmental issues come to the
fore. As shown before, natural resource use is not depreciated when calculating
economic viabilities of projects. “Economists accept the tyranny of the immediate as a
basic feature of human nature. *…+ Discounting the future is economically rational. *…+
The problem is that good economics often translates into bad ecology” (Thiele 1999:
86). This way of thinking is largely criticised by environmentalists who argue that
252
possible future or long-term profits remain unseen (Steffen 2008: 409). How the time
focus of policy makers can be widened is a challenging question, as politicians are
naturally more concerned about regaining power in the next election and voters are
convinced more easily by policies that show clear results in the short run.
One of the biggest problems when trying to calculate or estimate future natural
value is that we simply cannot foresee all the effects a project might have. Cummings
(1990) makes a case for not threatening nature when the impact of our action is
unknown. The World Commission on Dams criticises this lack of knowledge: “To date
efforts to counter the ecosystem impacts of large dams have had only limited success.
This is due to limited efforts to understand the ecosystem and the scope and nature of
impacts, the inadequate approach to assessing even anticipated impacts and the only
partial success of minimisation, mitigation and compensation measures” (WCD 2000:
74).
This is partly due to the fact that documentation and examination of
environmental impacts of former projects are not sufficient (Scholz et al. 2003: 44).
But also the impossibility to predict all consequences for a complex ecosystem is part
of the problem. The vast number of – largely unknown – species, for example, might
be of major nutritious or medical use for humans, but the actual use for humans of a
large biodiversity is unknown (Cummings 1990: 25; Hurrell 1992:339). The
climatological effect of a large dam construction might have a global impact
(Cummings 1990: 24; Scholz et al. 2003: I). Cousin’s (2005: 32) definition of SD stresses
the inherent moral part of the concept, arguing that SD is “a class of ideas with
embedded values that place moral weight on the capacity to survive with a reasonable
quality of life”. This moral argument has the capacity to also address a politician’s
rational mind. Namely, immoral action can be described as irrational action on an
international level as it creates an “image problem” (Rohter 2012: 193). Not taking
account of the environment nowadays only shows the “tendency to displace problems
intergenerationally” (Cousin 2005: 34).
The Brazilian government has not shown major interest in environmental
concerns, a feature that can be described as typical for governments in general
253
(Hochstetler and Keck 2007: 151; Rohter 2012: 203-204). Overly loud criticism is
avoided by not informing the population about the current plans, especially after a
plan published in 2010 offered broad insight in project details and attracted large
public criticism (Cummings 1990: 34-43, 95; Fearnside 2006: 20). This “indicates the
increasing sophistication of the electrical sector in guiding public discussion in ways
that minimize questioning of the plans” (Fearnside 2006: 21). Fearnside and Pueyo
(2012: 384) have further detected various mathematical mistakes in reports on carbon
emission. Opaque dealing with the project is tantamount with a lack of democracy.
Paired with unequal political power relations and the assumption that voters are at
least partly community oriented and aware of environmental problems, it can be
argued that democratisation leads to increased environmentalism. This argument is
supported by the observation by the historic development of environmental action in
Brazil.
Brazil has a long history of constructing big dams. As shown before, many big
dams were planned and built during the dictatorship and “given the development and
growth policies at that time, decisions to build large dams and flood large areas of land
did not necessarily consider the resulting social and environmental impacts” (Costa
2010: 1). In the democratisation process, thereafter, local and small environmentalist
groups developed that soon widened their reach by networking and putting an effort
into professionalising (Hochstetler and Keck 2007). This newly developed
environmentalism can be directly related to the process of democratisation
(Nascimento 2010: 5-6). Scholz et al. (2003: IX) state that a strong majority of the
population is against the construction of the dam which shows that the quality of
democracy remains poor. Amazon Watch shares a strong view on this matter on its
homepage: “With the fundamental rights of the affected populations being discarded
in favor of the ongoing construction, they are faced with a state of exceptions that
violates – with the characteristics of a dictatorship – the Democratic State of Laws and
Brazilian society as a whole”. This can be seen as part of the reason why the dam is
being built despite broad public opposition. Infrastructure plans fail to take into
account impact studies and public opinion (Fearnside 2002: 740). Two major
254
conclusions can be retrieved from this line of argument. Firstly, the state of democracy
of states encompassing the neoliberal framework is strongly deficient. As individuals
are considered to also see themselves as members of a larger group instead of as only
rational self-centred individuals, it was assumed that they strive for environmental
improvement but are given no voice. Secondly, from a normative perspective, the
government might have the obligation to be a moral actor and offer providence where
people cannot. Incorporating both points could bring far-reaching improvement of
environmental problems.
Cultural Changes
Changing political and economic structures is not sufficient to achieve sustainability. It
is the summation of every citizen’s behaviour that can trigger change, best illustrated
through the market mechanism itself. As the market seeks the most efficient ways, a
mass change in consumption will automatically lead to an adaption of production and
supply. The same is true for policy making in democracies, provided that a citizen’s
vote can actually trigger change. Thus, change can be triggered in every household
through every consumption decision we take. Assumed that the summation of choices
can change policies (Gore 2007: 338, Lipietz 1995: 17-18, Scholz et al. 2003: II), it is
important to educate citizens on ecological issues. Gore (2007: 223) and Nascimento
(2010: 9) identify education as the key long-term goal, because “the tide of this battle
will turn only when the majority of people in the world become sufficiently aroused by
a shared sense of urgent danger to join an all-out effort” (Gore 2007: 269). Success for
environmental policy would arise from education as the perception of nature would
change.
A shift in valuation of nature could be a first step (Baker 2006: 3-5; Palmer
1992: 185), while a change in consumption patterns is regarded as the most crucial
change (Baker 2006: 34; Fearnside 2006; Kates 2000; Schmandt 2000: 204; Verbong
and Loorbach 2012: 3). Also, the perception that western cultural values are superior
to alternative or indigenous lifestyles needs to be revisited in order to achieve true
sustainability (Wickstrom 2008: 311). This can be achieved, amongst others, by
255
acknowledging other values of the rainforest like aesthetic, ethical, scientific and
medicinal ones (Hurrell 1992: 339). Cultural changes should also not be
underestimated regarding that civil society action was mentioned as a possibility to
trigger change earlier.
Conclusion
In a world of limited natural resources ever-growing production and consumption is
impossible, but the neoliberal framework with its quest for growth and profit poses a
seemingly insoluble threat to the environment. Fulfilling environmental contracts and
targets has become a merely bureaucratic necessity.
The first question answered by this dissertation is why governmental decisions
in general favour the economy over the environment. The hypothesis presented is that
economic actors possess unequally strong political power in a capitalist society. That
the Brazilian government’s decision in favour of the Belo Monte dam was due to
strong lobby groups and a state interest in economic development could be predicted
and confirmed. A revision of the hypothesis was only necessary due to one appearing
factor that might gain importance in other cases. Possibly, far reaching rational civil
society action could bring about change.
The second question answered was a normative one: How can the environment
be taken into account? It has been shown that striving towards a more
environmentally friendly society is not necessarily a radical undertaking. Many changes
can take place inside the currently pursued neoliberal framework and all attempts to
take account of the environment are generally positive ones. Changing consumption
patterns towards a more sustainable level through consuming less and consuming
goods produced in an environmentally friendly process, would lead to a higher
profitability of sustainable goods. Various possibilities to make voter’s voices heard
have been presented. Nevertheless, sufficient change cannot be reached without
harming very basic assumptions of the neoliberal lifestyle. Some implications can be
drawn from the arguments presented in this dissertation. As it was shown that the
environment is not taken account of sufficiently, we might be in need of a new debate
256
regarding the effectiveness of national and international environmental concessions. A
democratisation with increased scope of voters and civil society groups is
indispensable to advance environmentalism.
The theory presented in this study was tested using the method of observation
with a single-case study. The limits of presenting only one case study have already
been mentioned. Other cases would need to be considered, especially ones that show
all the same independent, dependent and condition variables, but differ from the one
examined in other criteria, as for example cases that are not energy related or set in a
different country. This work assumes the Belo Monte dam project to be somewhat
prototypical and therefore likewise behaviour is expected in other cases. For this case
study, a clear congruence between expectation and observation can be perceived.
Economic interests of mainly energy companies, but also aluminium producing
companies that have been brought forth by lobby groups seem to have played an
important role especially in the process of granting the partial installation license. This
led to discounting social and environmental issues. Attempts to alleviate
environmental concerns are of minor scope and generally perceived as insufficient.
The hypothesis that rational civil disobedience could bring change arose from the case
study although it proved to not be valid for the Belo Monte dam. Other examples
proving that civil disobedience can trigger political responses exist, e.g. social media
attention and demonstrations that led to the ‘Arab spring’. This dissertation assumed
that while civil society action countering the Belo Monte dam was partly truly rational,
the reach of attention was not enough to trigger change.
Some counter-arguments can be expected in reaction to this study, one of
them regarding the last-mentioned hypothesis. The assumption that rational civil
disobedience may lead to a shift in decision making, is the only one that the case study
could not prove. Although some groups have shown a highly rational approach raising
international awareness and pressure, the outcome has not been changed. This does
not prove the assumption wrong, however. The level and extent of rational action
might not be high enough to force decision makers to review their opinion. No major
257
global NGO has devoted itself to the project and pressure from other sides like social
media attention on an international level has so far failed to materialise.
Another possibility to explain the contradiction to the assumption is one that
strengthens another thesis presented in this dissertation. It was argued that a lack of
democracy leads to less value of a common citizen’s voice in a capitalist environment.
Although a large group of people protested against the dam building, the government
has approved a partial license. This proves that civil disobedience had little democratic
scope, as was generalised for countries involved in the neoliberal framework. Provided
the lack of democracy is not perceived as inherent to a capitalist society, it is possible
to downgrade this assumption to a condition variable. For every other case tested, a
lack of democracy would then have to be determined before validating the theory.
The critical view of the neoliberal argument is likely to attract criticism. The
market has been criticised for its propensity of benefitting the few and favouring
financial and political inequality. Social and environmental issues are likely to fall by
the wayside. On the other hand, through redistribution mechanisms in a welfare state
all citizens can gain profit from increased financial means available to the state. This
study acknowledges benefits arising from capitalist economies, but questions the
accompanying consequences for the environment. Whether building the dam is a good
outcome of the decision making process, for example, is certainly a question of who is
asked. But considering that the aim of every government-approved project should be
an increase in the citizen’s welfare, undertakings like the building of the Belo Monte
dam are highly questionable.
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The Europeanisation of Hungary: Institutional
adjustment and the effects of European Union
integration
Ben Wright
Abstract
This study will analyse the domestic institutional and political response of Hungary
to European Union enlargement governance with the aim of assessing how
sustainable Europeanisation and Democratisation are post Hungary’s accession to
the European Union. European Union integration governance characterised
heavily by political conditionality favoured efficiency over legitimacy in accession
states. Strides to meet this efficiency, rather than strides towards legitimacy,
consolidation and participation therefore dominated the Hungarian institutional
response. EU accession governance towards Hungary thus represents two
paradoxes: Firstly, by prioritising efficiency of meeting conditionality over
legitimacy, institutional performance and implementation, Europeanisation via
conditionality poses tensions with democratisation, threatening the future
maintenance of both. Secondly, the domestic adaption requirements of
conditionality resulted in centralised structures that blocked Europeanisation, civil
society engagement and political participation, thereby limiting EU influence and
contradicting norms of decentralisation. The study concludes that governance via
conditionality holds poor potential for sustained Europeanisation post accession
and has potentially contributed to the low political participation and backsliding
of democracy in contemporary Hungary.
271
Introduction
On 1st January 2012 a new Hungarian constitution, heavily amended by the ruling
Fidesz party and its president Viktor Orban, entered into force. Action from the
European Union (EU) Commission swiftly followed. On January 17th 2012, the
Commission commenced legal action against Hungary via an accelerated infringement
process, claiming that, by contradicting articles 16, 127 (4) and 130 of the Treaty of the
European Union (TEU), article 8 (3) of the Charter of Fundamental Rights, and article
14 of the Statute of the European System of Central Banks, ‘Hungarian legislation
conflicts with EU law by putting into question the independence of the country's
central bank and data protection authorities and by the measures affecting its
judiciary’ (EC, 2012:1).
The anti-democratic trend of the amended constitution has been a consistent
theme of political proceedings in Hungary since the two-thirds majority election victory
of Fidesz in 2010. A fourth constitutional amendment, regarding limiting political
advertising during election campaigns, has brought the issue of Hungary’s status as a
democratic, Europeanised member state once more to the fore. A recent report by the
EU’s Commission for Democracy through Law (The Venice Commission) concluded the
domestic political situation in Hungary as a ‘threat for constitutional justice and for the
supremacy of the basic principles’ (Venice Commission, 2013:32). The new Hungarian
constitution potentially undermines fundamental EU law from multiple angles: By
limiting autonomy and freedom of speech it could violate basic human rights. By
reducing the influence of the constitutional court it limits checks and balances,
potentially resulting in non-transparent, politicised institutions. In effect, Hungary has
found itself in a political limbo, halfway between a democratic and authoritarian
government.
Concerns over the state of democracy in Hungary are not new. The European
Parliament (EP) made public this May a report drafted over the last 18 months
(Tavares Report) by Rui Tavares and an EP committee on Civil Liberties and Justice and
Home Affairs. The report analysed legislative processes over the last three years in
Hungary and the effects on democracy, fundamental rights and the rule of law. Further
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to assessing the constitutional amendments, the report analysed over 500 changes to
the law by Fidesz, which could be contradictory to human rights and other EU and
international norms (Budapest Business Journal, 2013).
Prime Minister Orban has so far somewhat addressed the concerns of the EU
Commission, slightly amending minor aspects of the constitution to appease the EU.
However, most of these changes amount to a delay in implementation, rather than a
significant change in policy. Many EU development funds to Hungary are currently
suspended, due to doubts around the direction in which they are being spent, in the
face of weak controls and Orban’s centralising economic tendencies.
Ultimately, sanctioning powers to backup a monitoring proposal and
Commission infringement procedures are somewhat weak. More drastic action lies in
the use of article 7 of the TEU, which could suspend a Member State’s voting rights
should they be found to be undermining fundamental European human rights and
democratic values set out in the Copenhagen Criteria. This however, would represent a
failure of Europeanisation and the wider democratising mission EU enlargement
encompassed.
Framework, Methodology and Structure
European integration has been the defining factor of Hungary’s path toward
democratisation. Governance through conditionality, that is the political, institutional
and ideological conditions to be fulfilled in order to achieve EU membership
conditioned by the threat of withholding EU membership, was the central and most
powerful leverage mechanism of the Eastern enlargement of Hungary and Central and
Eastern Europe (CEE) (Schimmelfennig & Sedelmeier, 2005; Grabbe, 2006).
Europeanisation, as the ‘processes of construction, diffusion and institutionalization of
formal and informal rules procedures, policy paradigms, styles, ways of doing things
and shared beliefs and norms’ (Radaelli, 2000:30), defines then the democratisation of
Hungary and its policy and performance alignment with the EU.
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Hungary had to comply with strict democratic criteria to achieve candidate
status in the anticipation stage. As stated at the 1993 Copenhagen Council
Membership requires that the candidate country has achieved stability of
institutions guaranteeing democracy, the rule of law, human rights, and respect
for and, protection of minorities, the existence of a functioning market economy
as well a the capacity to cope with competitive pressure and market forces within
the Union. Membership presupposes the candidate’s ability to take on the
obligations of membership including adherence to the aims of political, economic
and monetary union’ (EU, 2003:13).
Democratisation is often conceived as a theme of or parallel process to
Europeanisation. Hungary’s Europeanisation is undoubtedly also a path of
democratisation. However, antithetical to some suggestions arguing Europeanisation
and Democratisation as indistinguishable in a CEE context (Lippert et al, 2001), this
study suggests a more complex relationship and that Europeanisation and
Democratisation may not be entirely mutually inclusive. Further, evidence of a
democratic deficit within the EU itself (Pridham, 2005) raises the notion that a
democratic deficit could be exported into a candidate state via the enlargement
process (Grabbe, 2003). In regard to candidate or NMS, this would ‘be at some cost to
their democratisation or, at least, to the quality of democracies they are constructing’
(Pridham, 2005:25).
The relevance of this study is based on a decline of levels of democratic
indicators in Hungary. Whilst it addresses the scope of these indicators, the study is
not an in-depth assessment of the state of democracy in Hungary. To support the
backsliding of democracy notion, data from The World Bank, Freedom House, and
Transparency International is used. Currently, Hungary stands accused of undermining
fundamental democratic and human rights norms of the EU. Interestingly however, the
recent low indicators of democracy are underpinned by an excellent record of
democratisation and formal compliance with the EU. Shortly before Hungary’s
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accession to the EU, Freedom House commented on Hungary’s democratic transition
as a ‘most successful democratic transition; its speed and success has made Hungary
clearly one of the most solid democracies among the post-Communist states’
(Freedom House, 2003:287). Further, Hungary was one of the standout performers of
the accession phase, in terms of formal compliance and transposition (EC, 2004).
Compliance improved throughout the early years of membership and Hungary’s
current record of formal compliance and transposition is much higher than many of
the old Member States (OMS) (EC, 2013:9-16). Despite this, under the context of
formal data on Hungary’s compliance with and transposition of EU directives and
legislation, Hungary would appear a model new member state (NMS).
This raises the issue of how far EU internal market scoreboards of formal
compliance and transposition can inform us of the situation on the ground. This study
will therefore analyse the factors contributing to the current domestic political
situation in Hungary, exploring why such drastic constitutional changes have been
initiated in Hungary despite sustained post-accession formal compliance with EU
acquis communautaire (here after referred to as acquis) and democratic EU
governance conditionality. Ultimately, the ‘effectiveness of any legal system is based
on two principles: compliance with and implementation of the legal rules of that order’
(Bieber & Vaerini, 2004:387). Appropriate behaviour regarding the full extent of EU
rules is required for true compliance. Thus, analysing actual implementation of EU law
is relevant for assessing compliance. It is vital therefore to extend study past formal
compliance with EU rules when assessing Europeanisation in a NMS. This study will
therefore take into account levels of implementation of institutions, directives and
laws when making conclusions about whether Europeanisation has been sustained
well beyond accession in Hungary.
By comparing the data from sources used in this study such as The World Bank,
RAND and Freedom House with the EU data on compliance and transposition, it is
apparent that EU data does not accurately reflect actual democratic practice on the
ground and actual levels of compliance. This calls into question then the EU’s status as
a normative, democratising power and the success of its democratising mission in CEE.
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EU policy transfer through integration is a dynamic concept. Raedelli (2000:28-9)
argues that ‘grand theories (such as neo-functionalism, neo-realism and liberal intergovernmentalism) contain elements of rigidity that obstacle the analysis of concrete
policy dynamics in the EU’. The study takes a largely top-down analytical approach to
the relationship between the EU and a candidate/member state. It does acknowledge
however that a ‘comprehensive understanding of the relationship between the
Member States and the European Union requires a systematic integration of the two
dimensions’ (Borzel, 2003:1). Though the study acknowledges the importance of
domestic factors, it focuses on the limitations and weaknesses Europeanisation
through conditionality holds for sustaining the EU acquis and democratic conditions in
an NMS post-accession. Ultimately, the study seeks to identify the effect of EU rule
transfer in the context of Eastern enlargement and will therefore adopt a somewhat
top down perspective.
Unintended consequences of conditionality are key for explaining the current
domestic political situation in Hungary. Crucially, the rigorous demands made by an
external conditionality mechanism had the unintended consequence of the
strengthening of executives over parliament (Agh, 1999; Zubek, 2008; Sedelmeier,
2008). This structure has maintained and granted the current ruling Fidesz party the
ability to amend the Hungarian constitution with little opposition from the Hungarian
parliament. Further, EU accession has been counterproductive in that it has led to the
re-centralisation of the state under EU performance pressure and coordination
mechanisms (Agh, 2010a). Consequently, via centralized coordination dealing only
with domestic elites, social learning and the penetration of EU norms into civil society
is prevented, therefore limiting Deep Europeanisation through socialisation occurring
(Nicolaides, 1999). Thus, only Shallow, rather than Deep Europeanisation has been
allowed to occur (Borzel & Risse, 2006).
The following section will elaborate on these conceptions of Europeanisation
and conditionality, providing a definition of Europeanisation and a contextual basis for
the study. Further, the article will address the literature on Europeanisation,
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Democratisation and conditionality in CEE. The notions of Shallow and Deep
Europeanisation are defined and the investigative aims of the study clarified further.
Section Two provides a brief history and summary of the current state of key
areas of Hungary’s administration and democracy. The section charts the effects of the
impact of EU integration on the Hungarian civil service, domestic political parties, civil
society and on levels of corruption throughout these and other layers of Hungarian
governance. The section finds a mismatch between the demands of the EU and its own
competency and consistency in both its advice and standards to be met. Demands for
institutional change that were not met with exact standards, models or guidelines
posed a significant coordination challenge to the Hungarian administration. This
ultimately led to a centralised core executive leading EU-Hungary relations,
subordinating the role of parliament significantly. These structures essentially
prevented the effects of Europeanisation to be felt amongst wider and civil society,
thereby limiting the diffusion of EU norms and democratic practice.
Section three offers a theoretical basis with which to conceptualise the
empirical findings presented in the previous section. Assessing the notion of
incomplete implementation of institutions and laws, the section finds poor potential
for a sustainability of Europeanisation, whereby Europeanisation via conditionality had
little cause for domestic institutional investment beyond formal compliance.
Europeanisation did occur, but only in the elite core executive who were exposed to
European legislature and norms. This Shallow Europeanisation has poor potential for
being sustained post-accession. Drawing on recent studies by Agh (2012; 2013b), the
section concludes that the weak institutionalisation of EU norms and laws has been
exploited by the weak social consolidation of EU democratic norms, leading to the
democratic backsliding currently occurring. Record lows of political participation in
Hungary symbolise the dissatisfaction with the current democracy in Hungary, where
social and political subsystems are diverging, despite Europeanisation and
Democratisation paths showing a convergence, at least on the surface.
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Setting the Scene: Anticipatory and Adaptive Europeanisation
Despite its former communist identity, Hungary showed gradual reformist and liberal
tendencies from the middle of the 20th century. Coupled with a course of
democratisation that was ‘quick and without serious complication’ (Stojarova et al,
2007:52), anticipatory Europeanisation (aligning to EU policies and norms based on
anticipation of being made a candidate state) was particularly effective in Hungary.
Firstly, Hungary had been exposed to European political and economic models,
with economic liberalisation and decentralisation occurring in the 1980s (Comissio &
Marer, 1986). Secondly, a strong reformist legacy meant Hungary ‘inherited a greater
degree of susceptibility to the EU resulting from their pursuit of an open economic
foreign policy’ (Camyar, 2010:142). Coupled with desire for democratisation and
Europeanisation (present in elites and the public due to recently escaping the shackles
of communism), Hungary was susceptible to EU conditionality and the anticipation of
membership. At a 1997 Luxembourg Council, Hungary ranked highest out of all the CEE
candidate states, with a score of 33 out of a possible 40 points (European Council,
1997). The scores were based on assessment of readiness for a 2004 accession,
amount of issues that required resolving prior to accession and the existence of issues
that could prevent accession should they remain unresolved.
Adaptive Europeanisation, the accession phase in which candidate status were
assured of membership should they meet EU political, institutional and normative
conditions, was also highly effective in Hungary. Political conditionality, legitimised
both by the external incentive of membership and the threat of withholding it, was a
hugely effective tool in achieving compliance with EU laws and directives in Hungary
and throughout CEE (Schimmelfennig & Sedelmeier, 2005; Dimitrova, 2005; Grabbe,
2006; Epstein & Sedelmeier, 2008). Despite the high adjustment costs of
Europeanisation, domestic support for EU integration in Hungary and the perceived
economic benefits membership would bring meant adaption costs were limited in a
rational cost-benefit analysis (Vadchuva, 2005).
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Domestically in Hungary, adaptive Europeanisation required the complete
administrative, political and institutional regulatory adaption and alignment to EU
standards. To ensure this, the EU used both positive and negative conditionality. We
can define conditionality as a ‘set of mutual arrangements by which a government
takes, or promises to take, certain policy actions, in support of which an international
financial institution or other agency will provide specified amounts of financial
assistance’ (Killick, 1986:6). EU conditionality was made even more effective, as it
promised an even greater prize of membership along with financial assistance. To
conceptualise compliance with this conditionality, this study employs the definition of
compliance as a ‘state of conformity or identity between an actors behaviour and a
specified rule’ (Raustida & Slaughter, 2002:539). Along with providing financial
assistance, EU conditionality was predicated on the belief that it would induce
cumulative progress in a target state based on standards and norms dictated by
European standards. However, conditionality was further motivated by ‘doubts about
the ability of the CEE candidates to apply the acquis after accession’ (Schimmelfennig
& Sedelmeier, 2005:25), which could affect the functioning of the single market.
This study compliments the literature on CEE compliance that deems
compliance as relative to domestic coordination levels (Steunberg & Toshkov, 2009;
Dimitrova & Toshkov, 2009) and administrative capacity (Dimitrova, 2010). Moreover,
the findings of the study emphasise the notion in the literature on CEE that compliance
does not necessarily mean implementation (Falkner & Treib, 2008; Falkner, 2010;
Dimitrova, 2010). Compliance cannot inform us of the extent of Europeanisation as the
‘compliance perspective also starts from a given norm… It thus focuses less on the
process than on the outcome of implementation. Moreover, compliance can occur
without implementation’ (Treib, 2008:4).
It is through conditionality then that Europeanisation can be conceptualised as
the ‘varying impact of European integration on domestic arrangements and structures’
(Knill & Lehmkuhl, 1999:1) and a ‘process of change in national institutional and policy
practices that can be attributed to European Integration’ (Goetz & Hix, 2000:61).
However, Europeanisation can occur via different mechanisms and is not necessarily a
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top down process of EU rule transfer. While norms, procedures and policies of
Europeanisation are ‘first defined and consolidated in the making of EU decisions’ they
can be incorporated via processes of ‘diffusion and institutionalization into the logic of
domestic discourses, identities, political structures and public policies’ (Radaelli,
2000:30). Thus, Europeanisation is not exclusively a top down process.
This study will adopt a definition of Europeanisation that extends beyond
conceptualising Europeanisation as a top down process and of relating only to
regulatory and policy alignment. Thus, Radaelli’s (2000) definition will provide the
contextual basis of Europeanisation for the study. Europeanisation must also extend to
behavioural change in a candidate or member state. Europeanisation therefore
incorporates not just the ‘institutionalization of formal and informal rules’, but
‘procedures, policy paradigms, styles, ways of doing things and shared beliefs and
norms’ (Radaelli, 2000:30).
In so doing, we can identify two scopes of Europeanisation; Shallow and Deep
(Borzel & Risse, 2006). Shallow Europeanisation refers to policy alignment and
Europeanisation only on the surface, where institutions may superficially reflect EU
institutions structurally, but are incompletely implemented and thus function poorly
and not in line with EU standards. To identify only Shallow Europeanisation as having
occurred, the study will examine for the following criteria:
• A Centralised core executive structure coordinating EU affairs
• Subordinated role of parliament
• Lack of intermediary links with civil society
• Extension of a domestic democratic deficit
• Incomplete implementation/low or intermediate functioning of institutions
• Opaque and/or politicised civil service
• High levels of corruption
• Lack of behavioural adoption from domestic elites and political parties
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Deep Europeanisation refers to the diffusion of EU norms and standards beyond a core
elite and through all layers of civil society and domestic institutions. This type of
Europeanisation impacts on behaviour and norm adoption, where a society does not
comply merely for the external benefits perceived by compliance, but through true
behavioural and norm adoption. Many academics have posited that this type of social
learning Europeanisation could be most effective, since candidate states incur the full
cost of adaption (Sedelmeier, 2012) and experience behavioural change to norm
application (Grabbe, 2006), rather than complying to conditionality for the purpose of
an external incentive. Further, through these mechanisms states have more autonomy
in the creation of a rule, resulting in cognitive convergence between a candidate state
and the EU (Grabbe, 2003).
The concept of Shallow Europeanisation is critical to the study, providing links
between effects of EU integration and the current political climate in Hungary. The
Shallow Europeanisation criteria allows us to identify and conceptualise a failure or
prevention of the consolidation of democracy as the overarching unintended spin-off
effect of EU integration. The creation or maintenance of a democratic deficit in
Hungary via EU integration thus links the Europeanisation and Democratisation
literature and applies it to the backsliding of democratic practice in Hungary identified
in the study.
Post Accession Compliance and Transposition
Throughout the accession phase, Hungary’s compliance to EU conditionality was
exemplary. Behind only Lithuania, Hungary was the second best performer in terms of
the volume of directives transposed, the number of infringements brought against
them and the speed and rate of transposition (EC, 2004). However, some doubts and
clues to a possible lack of capacity to implement and sustain the acquis post accession
are present in the Commission’s final monitoring report on Hungary before accession.
‘Hungary has continued to make progress in building up its administrative capacity to
apply the acquis in most areas. However, further efforts will have to be made in
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particular areas’ (EC, 2003:10). Further, the report marked a fight against corruption as
a high priority, along with reform in multiple sectors where policy alignment with the
EU was intermediate or low (EC, 2003). Ultimately though, Hungary’s accession was a
relatively smooth process, especially in the context of the Eastern enlargement, where
many states had significant problems in building capacity and achieving regulatory
alignment. Hungary joined the EU on May 1st 2004.
Formally at least, doubts towards Hungary’s ability to sustain the acquis and
continue excellent compliance and transposition appeared unfounded. Upon
membership, Hungary’s transposition deficit (the number of directives not
domestically transposed within a designated deadline) was 11%, far above the EU
average of 2.2% (EC, 2004:12). This quickly improved, with Hungary’s 2005
transposition deficit at 0.7%, making Hungary one of only eleven member states to
meet the EU target deficit of 1.5% (EC, 2005:10). Currently, Hungary’s transposition
deficit lies at 0.5%, which equals the EU target (EC, 2013:11).
In relation to infringement proceedings brought against them, Hungary again
performed much better than the majority of other Member States. With the third
lowest reasoned opinion charges between 2005-07 and zero referrals to the European
Court of Justice (ECJ), Hungary was the third best performer in this regard (Sedelmeier,
2008).
Despite the current concerns the EU holds over Hungary’s domestic
constitutional legislation, infringement proceedings against Hungary have not
increased since Fidesz gained a two-thirds supermajority in 2010. The 2011 scoreboard
shows 22 open proceedings against Hungary, which marks a 7% drop in open
procedures since 2007 (EC, 2011:20). However, the latest scoreboard shows 21
proceedings against Hungary remain open, suggesting a lack of concern with Fidesz to
close proceedings and transpose correctly and fully open EU directives. Further, the
average speed of resolving infringement cases in Hungary is 31.6 months, which is five
months longer than the EU average (EC, 2013).
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Formal compliance, even in the current stormy EU-Hungary relational climate,
remains excellent. Given the current political situation in Hungary this suggests that
formal compliance cannot inform us of the situation on the ground. Beyond formal
compliance there exists an ‘implementation deficit’ (Mastenbroek, 2005:1103), where
directives that the EU has been notified to have been transposed and implemented,
are not correctly or fully domestically implemented. Falkner and Treib (2008) define
this as a world of dead letters, characterised by ‘politicized transposition processes and
systematic application and enforcement problems’ (Falkner & Treib, 2008:293).
The Europeanisation of Hungary
Both EU accession criteria and post accession transposition of directives posed
‘exceptional coordinating challenges’ (Goetz & Wollmann, 2001:875) to the Hungarian
governments throughout and beyond the accession phase. As will be highlighted in this
section, ‘accession conditions and negotiations privilege a relatively small group of
central government officials over other political actors’ (Grabbe, 2001:1013).
Consequently, the demands of transposing the vast EU legislature produced tensions
with European norms of decentralisation and democratisation. This tension was
exacerbated by inconsistent and incompetent EU advice and approaches. EU accession
criteria demanded rapid transposition, which in turn demanded of Hungary a
centralised executive over all administrative institutions. This however, is at odds with
EU norms of regional autonomy and pluralistic legislative processes norms, which were
relegated under accession criteria performance.
This section will analyse the Europeanisation processes of the Hungarian civil
service, domestic political parties and civil society. It will also assess the contemporary
performance of these institutions, actors and sectors and link the findings to effects of
EU governance through conditionality. To do so, data is sourced from think tanks and
international organisation such as Transparency International (TI), Freedom House,
The World Bank, The Economics Intelligence Unit (EIU) and the RAND Corporation.
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Politicisation of the Civil Service
Desiring to construct a European style civil service, Hungary was the first country in
CEE to approve and implement an act on the legal status of civil servants’ (Agh,
2009:6). Further, a legacy of civil service reform existed in Hungary prior to EU
democratisation, with the bureaucracy exposed to western traditions and civil service
professionalisation beginning in the 1960s (Ghindar, 2009).
However, due to the absolute priority of achieving EU membership in Hungary,
a split occurred in the Hungarian public administration whereby processes of EU
related issues were dealt with separately to domestic processes of the administration
as a whole. In attempting to meet the rigorous demands and standards set by the
Commission, a ‘combination of approaches involving financial incentives and
maintaining staff continuity resulted in the emergence of an EU elite among civil
servants in the central public administration’ (Agh & Rozsas, 2009:22). This split
between domestic and EU business in the administration, along with the resulting
administrative elite, ensured good coordination and compliance in EU matters preaccession. The EU elite retained their positions despite successive changes in
government and were better paid and allowed to hold office for six years, despite
normal diplomatic service being four or five years (Fink-Hafner, 2005). The division
between EU and domestic aspects of the administration coupled with the above
factors resulted in a sustained deep fragmentation in the public administration in
Hungary (Nunberg, 2001). This fragmentation would reduce administrative capacity
post accession, leading to difficulties with EU compliance and transposition of
directives.
Politicisation was inherent in the Hungarian civil service during and after
accession, despite its early adoption of a civil service law. De-politicisation of the civil
service would conflict with ruling governments’ interests of power consolidation.
Successive governments of the accession phase replaced civil officials with outsiders of
the public administration brought in at senior positions (Ghindar, 2009). As a result of
the state-building processes brought on by European integration and a postcommunist context, conditions were ‘ideal for party patronage’ (Meyer-Sahling &
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Veen, 2012), ensuring a continually politicised civil service. This is evidenced during the
1998-2002 Fidesz-MPP coalition government, whereby the prime-minister ‘became
effectively unconstrained in the capacity to appoint senior level officials’ (Ghindar,
2009:145). These conditions and the demands of EU coordination and compliance
sustained this issue, ensuring high levels of politicisation.
The final EU monitoring report on Hungary before its accession stated ‘the
recruitment and promotion system in the Hungarian civil service is still not fully inline
with the essential civil service principles such as equal access and competition based
on merit’ (EC, 2003:12). Recent data has affirmed that these trends have continued
post accession. A Meyer-Sahling and Veen (2012) study awarded Hungary an overall
politicisation of the civil service country score of 54, representing an intermediate level
of civil service politicisation. However, the ‘scores are very high for the top level, while
the second level below the minister is located in a grey area between politics and
administration’ (Meyer-Sahling & Veen, 2012:10). Senior and elite levels of the civil
service remain highly politicised therefore, actually increasing after accession, due to
the pre-accession factor of prime ministerial control of appointees in this area
remaining. The top two positions in the civil service ministries are currently political
appointments. This ‘weakens civil service accountability and undermines
professionalism and neutrality’ (Meyer-Sahling, 2009:21). The two-thirds majority won
by the Fidesz party in 2010 has enabled the government full legislative control to
change civil service legislation. Consequently, the checks and balances system has
been ruined, with the civil service now directly dependent on the Fidesz party. The
Europeanisation effects of EU integration were concentrated in the administrative and
executive elite throughout the process. The resulting post-accession structure has
maintained, ensuring EU norms have not spread throughout the public administration.
Civil Society & Parliament
Year
2006
2008
2010
2011
2012
Rating
5
5.56
5.56
5
4.44
Table 1. Political Participation in Hungary, 2006-2012. (1-10, with 10 being best)
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Source: EIU. Various Years. Economist Intelligence Unit. www.eiu.com
A Parliamentary Committee on European Community Affairs established in 1992 was
largely a ‘symbolic political move, which did not evolve into an important practical role
for Hungarian Parliament in managing EU affairs’ (Fink-Hafner, 2005:23). Hungarian
parliament should have had a decisive role in focusing national interests of social
groups and Civil Society Organisations (CSO) into EU negotiations.
This task has also turned out to be more difficult because the ECE governments
have almost completely monopolized the representation of national interests and its
aggregation has to resolve the problems of increasing conflicts among social groups
and the growing mass of victims of the integration’ (Agh, 2001:421).
Due to the coordinative demands of transposing the mass of EU directives, the
domestic legislative procedure was conducted by a centralised governmental
executive. Throughout the accession phase the role of the Hungarian parliament
remained limited largely to affirming government approved accession policy (Agh,
2001). The huge amount of legislature that needed to be transposed throughout the
accession period resulted in a fast tracking procedure, which essentially relegated
parliamentary involvement. Consequently, whilst highlighting both the EU and
domestic Hungarian consensus on accession, it also demonstrates the ‘lack of
awareness of the details of the legislation being passed on the part of
parliamentarians’ (Grabbe, 2001:1017).
The 2002 Civil Society Strategy (modified in 2006) has helped NGOs gain
influence. The strategy allows the taxpayer to contribute 1% of their personal income
tax through the National Civil Fund (NCA) to an NGO or CSO. The NCA will also match
this donation through state budgets and distribute them throughout NGOs and CSOs
accordingly (Freedom House, 2008). However, a dependence on state financing may
lead to the political capture of some NGOs with the fear that ‘NGOS and CSOs may be
utilised to gain political power and recognition’ (RAND, 2010).
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Currently, state funds for NGOs distributed through the NCA are shrinking, with
a fivefold shrink from average annual budgets in the 2012 budget plan putting the
‘financially fragile civil sphere at serious risk’ (Freedom House, 2012). Burdens causing
shrinking of the NGO sector also are extended towards all CSOs and representatives. A
new 2012 law will replace the NCA with a National Fund of Cooperation. Whereas 90%
of NCA delegates were made of CSO representatives, ‘under the new system, this
proportion will drop to 30%, with the majority of the members chosen instead by the
government’ (Freedom House, 2012). Political influence over the non-governmental
and civil society sector seems to be increasing therefore. Further, a reduction in funds
leads to weakening and undermining the legitimacy of NGOs and CSOs, as they have
been found to partake in illegal and corrupt practice to secure more money or evade
taxes (TI, 2011).
The elitist, top down structure of party organisation institutionalised by the
demands of EU governance fostered weak organisational linkages with society and civil
society, with low membership of parliamentary parties in Hungary compared to
western societies (Agh, 2013a). This problem was exacerbated by no formally
recognised role of parliament and no publically available information on EU matters as
characteristic of the consultation of EU issues in Hungary (Laffan, 2003). Civil society
had little voice, with a severe lack of communication opportunities for organised
interests (Agh, 1999). Fink-Hafner (2005) highlights a lack of formal participation rules
that have prevented civil society actors from engaging in EU coordination structures.
With little parliamentary or civil society involvement and understanding of European
legislature, Europeanisation could not diffuse throughout civil society in Hungary.
Thus, a lack of awareness of EU norms and policies permeated into Hungarian civil
society, rather than the permeation of Europeanisation.
There has been ‘increasing evidence within the EU itself of a strengthening of
executive and bureaucratic power at the cost of popular involvement’ (Pridham,
2005:3). A further paradox of enlargement and EU integration is that ‘despite
successive reforms which make the EU more in keeping with the liberal democratic
model of the state, the democratic deficit persists at EU level and appears to be
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worsening at Member State level too’ (Warleigh, 2003:2). Such an image was reflected
in the Hungarian structure once integration began. This served to ‘widen the already
somewhat controversial gap between elites and mass publics’ (Pridham, 2005:3),
straining the legitimacy of the new democracy. Further, the distinct inability of the EU
to share interests and commonalities between the OMS does not bode well for the
prospects of norm consolidation in an accession state. In this manner, Grabbe (2001)
argues that, via enlargement, both a domestic democratic deficit is extended and also
that the EU could export its own democratic deficit into candidate states through the
enlargement process.
‘Democracy is more than the sum of its institutions. A democratic political
culture is also crucial for its legitimacy, smooth functioning and ultimately the
sustainability of democracy’ (EIU, 2008:116). However, the socio-political exclusion of
civil society fostered by domestic Hungarian approaches to EU integration has lead to
current weak levels of participatory politics in Hungary and a demobilisation of civil
society associations (Agh, 2010b). Democratic structuring principals were more cultural
than social in Hungry, with a big-divide between left and right political parties limiting
the possibility of national compromises and the possibility of a true multi-actor
democracy (Agh, 2013a). Social exclusion, fostered by mass economic exclusion and
unemployment created among low skilled workers in the first stage of Europeanisation
and democratic transition, has thus resulted in ‘no incentive for the proper political
mobilization into the new democratic institutional framework’ (Agh, 2013b:6). A
democratic political culture created by Europeanisation of Hungarian civil society has
not occurred therefore. Parliament’s communicative role – informing and educating
the population of accession negotiations and agreements – was hindered, due to its
subordinated role under state administration in coordinating EU affairs. This role was
further weakened by the low public trust in parliament that resulted from its poor
performance (Agh, 2001). Poor intermediaries between parliament and civil society
exacerbate this issue and prevent Europeanisation of civil society. Ultimately, the
adoption of parliamentary norms and ethos could not be achieved in an accession
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process whereby parliament had a subordinated role, weak public communication and
low capacity for negotiating or understanding EU policy.
Europeanisation of Political Parties
Most domestic parties were supportive of EU integration throughout the accession
phase, with a widely held belief of integration as ‘beneficial for Hungarians in
neighbouring countries preventing the emergence of a strong nationalist opposition to
the EU’ (Enyedi, 2006:66). While policy alignment and other direct effects on party
politics did appear (at least on the surface), this only constrained hard Eurosceptic and
extreme parties, whilst soft Euroscepticism existed through accession and has
continued post accession. As Taggart and Szczerbiak (2004) highlight, Eurosceptic
ideologies can exist in parties despite a party not making it publically salient or
downplaying the issue. Indirect EU influence on party organisation, policy and political
structure shows how European influence on political parties was limited (Enyedi, 2006;
Grabbe, 2006; Batory; 2002; Batory; 2009). Due to the complex domestic actor
constellations, the EU’s impact on domestic party politics is diffused and reduced
(Grabbe, 2001).
Accession did run relatively smoothly for Hungary in political terms, with EU
integration a high priority issue, especially for the 1998-2002 Fidesz-MPP coalition.
Despite high levels of public support for EU integration compared to domestic issues,
the EU issue held little political salience throughout the accession process. Despite a
majority 84% of the Hungarian public endorsing membership, less than half (45%)
turned out to vote on the issue of European integration referendum (Batory, 2009).
Immediately after losing office, Viktor Orban gave public speeches on possible
negative consequences of integration, criticising the EU (Grabbe, 2006), despite
remaining supportive of integration overall. Criticising the EU so soon after losing
office and his involvement with EU coordination shows the failure of Europeanisation
mechanisms to instil behavioural norms. This ‘soft eurosceptism’ (Agh, 2003:6) of
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Orban and Fidesz shows a lack of European behaviour adoption that perhaps provides
a hint of future policy reverting from EU alignment.
Further un-European aspects are to be found when the first period of the
Orban government’s rule is analysed. Through heavily involving the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs with EU coordination and increasing the prime-ministers role, Orbans
approach has been termed ‘national interest Euroscepticism’ (Taggart & Szczerbiak,
2001:18). The following presidency of Prime-Minister Medgyessy saw the minister’s
role drastically increase, with the prime-minister present in EU officials and member
state meetings. This ‘saw an element of politicisation enter the hierarchy’ (Agh &
Rozsas, 2009:24-5) of institutional and political centralisation, when EU norms and
ideology implied a move toward decentralisation.
Ultimately, EU policy remained largely un-politicised by all major domestic
parties throughout. Current Prime-Minister Orban was often quick to criticise the EU
throughout the accession process, often opposing EU norms and comparing the rule of
Brussels to that of Communist Moscow both pre and post accession (Grabbe, 2006).
Despite this however, Fidesz remained largely supportive of European integration,
representing a desire for the benefits EU membership brings, whilst not being truly
affected by Europeanisation.
Batory (2009) highlights how both Fidesz and the socialist party’s election
manifestos paid little reference to EU policy. Focus lay with domestic politics, and
therefore ‘Fidesz-MPP’s rhetoric towards a domestic audience centred on its image as
a staunch defender of the national interest’ (Batory, 2002:5). Pro and anti EU
sentiment is insufficient in accounting for Europeanisation of political parties in
Hungary therefore. Rather, the ‘behaviour of Fidesz in these debates shows the
dichotomy (or continuum) or pro and anti EU attitudes is insufficient to describe the
range of party positions, and parties may accept EU membership with the ambition of
moulding it from within’ (Enyedi, 2006:68).
Corruption
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The final EU monitoring report on Hungary before accession acknowledged that
‘corruption continues to represent a serious problem in this country and is perceived
by the Hungarian population as a relatively widespread phenomena’ (EC, 2003:14).
EU integration did define an anti-corruption legal framework to match
European standards. However, enforcement of anti-corruption measures are lacking.
Rather than a reduction in perceived levels of corruption, studies repeatedly highlight
(RAND, 2010; TI, 2011) a linear growth of corruption in Hungary continuing beyond EU
accession. Interestingly, in contrast to centralised agents responsible for the
coordination of EU affairs, there is in Hungary ‘no one single body created for
investigation and prosecution of corruption’ (Rand, 2010:2). Consequently, perceived
public sector corruption has increased in Hungary since EU membership (EIU, 2012).
Anti-corruption measures have been somewhat frequently initiated, though they
suffer from poor implementation and enforcement beyond the legislative stage. A
2006 law on lobbying and a 2007 New Order and Freedom comprehensive government
program both operate weakly due to poor implementation and operationalization
(Rand, 2010). A 2007 Anti-Corruption Coordination Board, established to convene with
NGOs and CSOs and draft anti-corruption strategies is yet to go beyond an advisory
role in the implementation stage (Rand, 2010).
An OSCE report on the 2010 election deemed it an overall fair, democratic
process (OSCE, 2010). However, new electoral laws passed in 2011 reduced
parliamentary members and increased the single member districts. This law ‘Sparked
strong resistance from the opposition for its blatant gerrymandering of the new
constituencies, an increase in the number of signatures required for candidacy, a
shorter period for collecting these signatures, and changes in the allocation of excess
and lost votes that favour the dominant party’ (Freedom House, 2012:43).
Combined with weak political culture and political participation - 6.88 and 4.44
out of a possible 10 respectively, with political participation the lowest in the region
(EIU, 2012:4) - in effect, this law could considerably enhance the Fidesz stranglehold on
political power in Hungary for the future. The supermajority the current Fidesz
government holds could allow it to tackle corruption more effectively, though instead
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it has led to further state control by private interest groups (TI, 2012). A Fidesz
initiated resolution, Good Governance and the Clarity of Public Life, could address
‘existing loopholes in anticorruption legislation, but implementation lagged during the
year. The designated workers groups’ activities were uncoordinated and deterred
consultation with civil society, and by the end of 2012 none of the specified deadlines
had been met’ (Freedom House, 2013:64).
The recent global financial and economic crisis has exacerbated the corruption
situation. However, current conceptions of domestic corruption can be linked to the
fact that the ‘imported institutions in the democratization-cum-Europeanization
process did not work properly even before the global crisis (Agh, 2013a:58). A lack of
social consolidation, caused by incomplete Europeanisation through all layers of
Hungarian society and governance, has resulted in declining trust in domestic
institutions and elites. Ultimately, a lack of improvement EU integration had on
perceived corruption coupled with recent political developments have led to
unprecedented levels of perceived corruption in Hungary. The latest Transparency
International (TI) Global Corruption Barometer found highly increased levels of
perceived corruption of political and administrative elite (The findings of the study,
which interviewed 1000 Hungarians in 2012 found:
• 61 out of 100 Hungarians thought corruption had increased in the past two
years
• Hungarians believe political parties are the most corrupt
• 8 out of ten Hungarians think that the government’s actions are partly or fully
influenced by the interests of particular business circles
• 70% of Hungarians would not report a case of corruption
(Ti, 2012:1).
These levels are amongst the worst in the region. Such a high percentage of
Hungarians are unwilling to report a case of corruption due to the belief of a lack of
governmental concern or follow up. This highlights the lack of trust in administrative
and political elites. In effect, ‘all other features of the quality of democracy have faded
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away, above all the social capital or the trust in political institutions and political elites’
(Agh, 2013a:57).
Political parties and actors are perceived as the most corrupt agents by
Hungarian society (Rand, 2010; TI, 2011). Such levels of corruption represent a
decoupling of democratic practice with institutions, which is highlighted repeatedly in
contemporary Hungary. Fidesz’s majority allows it to appoint leaders to any institution
or organisations without confirmation from opposing parties. Political autonomy of
institutions is always in doubt, since Fidesz have repeatedly appointed party members
or sympathisers as leaders of institutions, as a Freedom House report explains ‘In an
illustration of the problem, the head of the State Audit Office (Allami Szamvevoszek, or
ASZ), the ultimate institution responsible for the financial and economic oversight of
the parliament and public spending, is Laszlo Domokos, who was a Fidesz lawmaker at
the time of his appointment. In November 2012, ASZ presented its annual award for
outstanding and exemplary performance in building the office’s professional prestige
and importance to Antal Rogan, the leader of Fidesz’s parliamentary caucus’’ (Freedom
House, 2013:65).
Further notable instances of corrupt practice of politicians are numerous,
enabled, unsurprisingly, by the Fidesz party’s two-thirds super majority. For example,
Prime-Minister Viktor Orban passed legislation to reduce the number of tobacco
concession licenses from around 40,000 to 5,500 in 2012 (Global Post, 2013). Almost
all those who retained or were awarded licences were Fidesz members or supporters
closely related to the party (Open Access, 2013). Many of the new licensees have no
experience in the business, whereas families or individuals with a long history in the
sector have lost their licenses. Close ties with Fidesz appear to be the key criterion. In
an interview with a Hungarian Newspaper, one local council member explained how
Fidesz council members made favourable treatment selections of applicants based on
their relationship with Fidesz (Hungarian Spectrum, 2013). Despite the Fidesz criterion
publically emerging via a leak, Orban again used the parliamentary supermajority to
block public access of the data. Restricting the freedom of data and information is a
central theme of EU concern of an undermining of democracy in Hungary.
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Concluding Remarks
Ultimately, the scope of the accession agenda in CEE went well beyond that of the
OMS, in that the EU possessed influence over the quality and organisation of political
institutions and civil services (Grabbe, 2001). However, this influence was not matched
with consistent advice and support. The EU had no clear benchmarks to measure
effective implementing capacity and no formal rules to define the concept of effective
implementation and enforcement (Nicolaides, 1999). Thus, the EU was inconsistent
and ineffective in shaping Hungary’s administrative and political organisation to EU
standards, inspiring largely a centralised and politicised political and public
administration.
While conditionality and reform pressure was intense, the EU provided no
specific institutional model for civil service management, with the Commission and
SIGMA instead assessing the compatibility of candidate states institutional models with
European principles of public administration and the potential of these institutions to
sustain European practice (Meyer-Sahling, 2009). Given the high adaption required of
Europeaniastion and Democratisation, unspecific democratic criteria worked against
the effectiveness of the forces. EU acquis and democratic conditions were ‘vague and,
on the whole, difficult to translate into practice’ (Le Gloannec & Rupnik, 2008:55).
Implementation problems were to be expected of an enlargement process undertaken
as the EU struggled to forge its own identity as a normative power and democratiser.
Pre-accession pressure to reform essentially ended upon accession. Very few
post-accession external incentives or mechanisms to support sustainable civil service
reform came from the EU after Hungary’s accession. Unsurprisingly, where external
financial incentives were provided a positive record of reform was maintained. The
European Social Fund (ESF) targeted training policy in CEEC civil services and a positive
reform agenda has been maintained in this area in Hungary (Meyer-Sahling, 2009).
Thus, analysis of the civil service in Hungary supports the thesis of incentive driven
conditionality as insufficient to sustain Europeanisation post-accession, once the
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external incentive disappears. The halting or reversal of civil service reforms in postaccession Hungary symbolises effectively the limitations of political and institutional
reforms driven by EU conditionality therefore.
Rather than institutionalisation of EU norms and appropriate behaviour,
corrupt and politicised practice seems further and further concreted into Hungarian
processes. Despite the rise of corruption in Hungary, it is increasingly difficult to track
and prove corrupt practice, since ‘simple bilateral corrupt relationships have been
evolving in the direction of more elaborated and institutionalized ones’ (Rand, 2010:3).
The accession process brought about over-centralisation in Hungary, which has
lingered in institutional and political structure and organisation post EU accession. The
effects of this – politics over policy, weak governance and enhanced politicisation in
the administrative elite of political parties – are a consistent theme across CEE and
especially Hungary (NISPAcee, 2012).
A large failure of the integration process was the small impact it had on the
domestic logic of political behaviour in Hungary (Grabbe, 2006; Enyedi, 2006; Batory;
2009). Europeanisation cannot necessarily survive successive governments (Grabbe,
2006) and with domestic political parties somewhat unaffected, sustained policy and
practical alignment is doubtful. Therefore, ‘once accession was achieved, and politics
reverted to “natural” antagonistic patterns, the underlying fragility of east-central
European political systems was exposed’ (EIU, 2012:20). The absence of a political
culture of democracy in Hungary means there is little to reinforce any democratic
cracks that may appear post-accession.
Ultimately then, despite professing norms of democratisation and
regionalisation, the requirements of EU conditionality instead ‘produce a set of
incentives and constraints that largely excludes both sub-national actors and
parliaments from the accession process, and increases the weight of central state
bodies’ (Grabbe, 2001:1026). A greater parliamentary role could have facilitated better
links with civil society, better framing of national interest into EU policy and created
sustainable internal political harmonisation of Europeanisation. The relegation of the
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role and effectiveness of parliament due to accession conditions strongly correlates
with limited democratisation in Hungary. The ‘reform of parliaments in new
democracies has to start and end up with the reform of the responsiveness by making
parliaments more sensitive to public demands as a precondition for the
parliamentarization of the EU integration’ (Agh, 2001:431). The continuation of preaccession conditions that prevented this thus limited or even inspired a backsliding of
democracy in post-accession Hungary.
As the next section will highlight, this holds direct links with the state of
Europeanisation in a domestic state, as only top layers of elite officials are
Europeanised, with wider civil society and parliament marginalised. This surface level
(shallow) Europeanisation of administration and political parties is reflected by
Hungary’s adaption and integration into the EU in an institutional sense, which were
characterised by incomplete and poorly functioning institutions.
Institutional Adaption to Europeanisation
The ‘operationalisation of institutions and procedures during the adaptive period of
Europeanisation was guided by the specific demands of the European Union and the
accession process’ (Agh & Rozsas, 2009:28). Thus, conditionality not only defined the
directives and norms to which institutions and organisations should aspire to, but also
their operation and structure. This was made more effective by the weak
institutionalisation of policy environments in Hungary, due to its communist history
(Sissenich, 2007). However, inconsistent and unspecific standards towards institutional
capacity and operation limited the impact and sustainability EU induced reform
possessed.
As highlighted in the previous section, administration and governance in
Hungary became highly centralised in order to deal with the demands of compliance
with EU accession legislature. This section will elaborate further on these issues,
tracing institutional adaption to Europeanisation as coordinated through a centralised
core executive. We can identify a core executive as usually a prime-minister, finance
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minister and non-sectoral ministers. However, this study will also use the core
executive definition of the ‘complex web of institutions networks and practices
surrounding the prime-minister, cabinet, cabinet committees and their official
counterparts’ (Rhodes, 1995:2).
This section will delve deeper into the notion of a centralised core executive in
Hungary being a direct institutional response to EU conditionality and a direct cause of
current backsliding of Europeanisation and democracy. Further, it will draw links
between Hungary’s centralised executive coordination structure and a limitation in
levels of Europeanisation allowed to occur in Hungary. The resulting Shallow
Europeanisation is hypothesised as a direct result of EU conditionality led governance
and a direct cause of the democratic deficit and backsliding in Hungary. Conversely,
Deep Europeanisation is hypothesised as resulting from social learning or norm
adoption via non-conditioned EU governance mechanisms and possesses better
prospects for sustainability.
Europeanisation of the Hungarian Core Executive
The creation of a Hungarian core executive began in 1990. The ‘constitutional
amendments of 1990 reinforced prime-ministerial influence and power and the
Council of Ministers Office changed into a PMO with enforced coordination power and
inter-ministerial consultations were gradually institutionalised’ (Zubek, 2008:132).
However, an overhaul of the executive organisation began after 1996.
The EU-Hungary Europe Association agreement required the establishment of
three institutions: the Association Council, Association Committee, and the Joint
Parliamentary Committee (EC, 1994). Despite Hungarian preference to strengthen
bilateral institutions (Mayhew, 1998), the EU’s ‘preference lay with the development
of multilateral structures’ (Agh & Rozsas, 2009:8). In order to address coordination
issues and ensure efficient management of EU coordination, the European Integration
Cabinet was introduced in 1996, which marked the highest level of coordination of EU
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issues (Agh, 1999). The State Secretariat for Integration was established in May of the
same year.
Domestic institutions have not been impenetrable to change from ruling
governments in Hungary. Both the Orban and Medgyessy governments made
significant alterations to executive institutions and further concentrated co-ordination
centrally. Importantly, during the Orban government’s first period, two of the highest
coordination structures, the EU Integration Cabinet and the EU Task Force, were
abolished. This prevented policies from being implemented across sectoral lines
(Nunberg, 2001), centralising the executive further and limiting the diffusion of
Europeanisation.
A centralised core executive also held the most promise for good performance
in regards to EU compliance and rule adoption, which was an essential factor of
achieving membership. Coordination of the implementation of directives and
legislatures that horizontally spanned multiple sectors required excellent coordination.
To overcome this, The Ministry of Justice were granted total control of legislative
planning in Hungary, ensuring incentives and monitoring toward ministers and other
departments’ (Agh, 1999). This power previously lay with the Office for European
Affairs and the EU Department in the Foreign Office. However, this ‘two centred
structure’ was seen as ineffective, poorly coordinated and as hosting a rivalry that
reduced the effectiveness of the resolution of EU affairs (Vida, 2002:59). This
centralisation of the core executive could solve coordination problems and overcome
the issues that diffuse and collective action resulting from the demands of EU
compliance and conditionality could bring about (Zubek, 2008).
Since the accession phase was defined by a mass of formal rule adoption,
‘centralised, effective coordination of EU affairs at the national level was vital for a
candidate state to support successful, qualitative and prompt adaptions to the EU’s
legislation and adoption of the acquis’ (Fink-Hafner, 2005:6). Also, since in the Eastern
enlargement the candidate countries had little say in EU policy and had to formally
adapt institutions before contributing to discussions, high coordination led to
increasing the negotiating strength of a CEE candidate state (Fink-Hafner, 2005).
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Consequently, the ever-increasing demands of EU integration and coordination
resulted in a ‘structural dimension of centrality to the coordination and management
of EU business in the Hungarian executive’ (Agh & Rozsas, 2009:15). EU compliance
thus required ‘bureaucracies to establish new regulatory instances, to centralize their
regulatory procures or to introduce structures of horizontal co-ordination (Bauer et al,
2007:408).
However, whilst a centralised model adhered to levels of EU compliance and
reform, this adjustment is counterproductive post accession, as Agh (2010b:9) explains
‘The new member states in East Central Europe have traditionally been centralized
unitary states, albeit with some democratization of macro-politics. As a paradox, even
the EU accession and the post-accession period have produced a counterproductive
process because it has led to the recentralization of the state under EU performance
pressure.’
Implementation of Institutions and the Limitations of EU Political Conditionality
The use of positive and negative political conditionality was a very effective
mechanism in achieving compliance with EU policy. However, the extent to which
regulatory and policy alignment actually occurred in Hungary is far below the level to
which the transposition and compliance data would suggest. As section two
highlighted, when we examine the actual implementation and functioning of
institutions and structures that the EU deems Europeanised, it is apparent that
Europeanisation has been extremely limited in its diffusion into Hungarian institutions,
political actors and civil society. This suggests that extremely limited behavioural
adoption or social learning has occurred, which holds severe problems for sustainable
Europeanisation.
Institutional misfit between EU institutions and CEE institutions in many
respects influenced the heavily conditioned adaptational pressures applied by the EU
during the Eastern enlargement. However, the goodness of fit between EU
institutional models in a post-Communist CEE context is debatable and the future
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functioning of EU imposed institutions could be impaired therefore (Borzel & Risse,
2003). Domestic norms and processes could ultimately be incompatible with EU norms
(Dimitrova & Rhinard, 2005). While domestic actors are in place to facilitate
compliance, the implementation and functioning of EU imposed institutions is not
assured through Europeanisation or politically conditioned integration mechanisms.
EU rules created for a Western economic context may not fit with CEE actor
preference, economic climate or political processes. Further, ‘from a power
distributive rational choice approach, we can expect that, given a choice between
different rules in implementation procedures, actors would seek to find the rule that
maximises their influence’ (Dimitorova, 2010:140). Europeanisation ‘may lead to
convergence in policy outcomes, but at best to clustered convergence and continuing
divergence with regard to policy processes and instruments, politics and polities’
(Grabbe, 2006:65). Thus, institutions that are domestically applied according to EU
conditionality may have poor potential in terms of sustaining internal Europeanisation.
The inability to specify exact horizontal capacity requirements could negatively
impact the legitimacy and credibility of the EU and have implications for both rule
adoption and the diffusion of Europeanisation into CEE candidate states. This issue
could be exacerbated through negative conditionality, in which EU targets, such as a
functioning civil service, were not set with definitive guidelines or exact standards that
had to be met. Domestic political actors in Hungary were often confused about how
far to Europeanise particular institutions or sectors to achieve compliance.
While EU monitoring reports preached an improvement in administrative
capacity and transparent processes, ‘ the union had no acquis, no common rules
regarding the capacity of administrations or the administrative organisation of
member states’ (Dimitrova, 2005:80).
The PHARE twinning programs in Hungary’s civil service conceptualise this issue
effectively. PHARE is part of the soft encouragement measures used by the EU to
provide financial and technical assistance towards implementation in Hungary. The
twinning programs sent civil servants from Member States to assist with
implementation and operationalization in Hungary throughout accession. However,
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these twinning agents operated by their own state and cultural norms, rather than EU
norms. Consequently, twinning agents were ‘concerned with standards and technical
issues rather than overall institutional models or policy directions’ (Grabbe, 2003:315),
since a clearly defined EU model does not exist. The opportunity for behavioural
adoption, social learning and norm diffusion throughout the Hungarian civil service
was essentially missed therefore, with technical issues taking precedence above
operating by EU methods and to EU standards.
Unspecific external standards were matched by coordination and consistency
issues within the EU itself. Despite attempts to create a general horizontal capacity
criterion, definitions were inconsistent and under-defined whilst assessment of the
criteria was out of reach. Further, there are ‘no EU treaty provisions regarding the
design of the member states’ public administrations and no general body of European
law in the public administration sphere’ (Dimitrova, 2002:180). Through
Europeanisation mechanisms, the ‘consistency of the policy advice given is uncertain,
as the different EU agencies and bilateral contacts could give contradictory messages
about implementation of policies that were not clearly defined under the acquis’
(Grabbe, 2006:60).
The EU also exhibited lack of clarity toward implementation capacity.
Implementation of EU law is the responsibility of member and candidate states, as
according to Article 10 TEU (EU, 1992). Therefore, ‘member states are responsible for
implementing Community Law except where the task has been expressly assigned to a
Community institution or body’ (Lenaerts & Van Nuffel, 1999:392). Placing
implementation as a general obligation of member or accession states is ‘frequently
misread as establishing a general competence of the Member States over the
implementation of EC law’ (Bieber & Vaerini, 2004:387). However, ‘This general
obligation does not provide member states with clear criteria or benchmarks to
develop and demonstrate effective implementation capacity. Moreover, the
Community competencies are rather rudimentary in the field of administrative
structures and procedures. Consequently, there is a lack of formal rules on the
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meaning of the concept of effective implementation and/or enforcement capacity’
(NISPAcee, 2005:71-2).
Increasing state and administrative capacity could be veiled as increasing the
ability to uphold an effective democracy, but EU incentive really lay in the functioning
of Hungary as a Member State and its ability to sustain the acquis and single market.
Both the EU and OMS presented no model; ‘The EU itself was not sufficiently
developed as a political system to set an example’ whilst the various OMS
‘’represented somewhat different state traditions and looked back to different
administrative practices’ (Pridham, 2005:122).
A resulting post accession problem is the extent to which institutions and
directives are implemented and therefore the extent of their performance. For Agh
(2013b:9), ‘the essence of the conflict is that the formal structures of institutions were
established but they did not have the policy content as the really working functions’.
Sustainable democratic practice is not possible without fully implemented institutions
that address and include civil society actors. Improperly or incompletely implemented
institutions, structures or policies could have strong negative implications for their
operation and sustainability post accession. For instance, fully implemented
institutions would likely bring about high de-adaption costs to be bargained against the
costs of non-compliance. However, institutions that are not properly implemented
would not necessarily have to be dismantled; a ‘more cost efficient strategy – since it
might remain undetected for longer – could be a decoupling between institutional
practice and formal rules through their lax application’ (Sedelmeier, 2012:23). This
notion frames the high compliance/low Europeanisation paradox effectively, as a
directive could be notified to the Commission as fully transposed, yet the institution or
law may not have been implemented on the ground fully, if at all. The relationship
between good formal compliance and Europeanisation is not therefore mutual.
Sissenich (2002) describes poor implementation under the context of EU
conditionality as literal transposition, whereby little adaption occurs with affected
groups, whilst areas are not appropriately informed, notified or prepared. Poor
implementation could be the result of insufficient domestic administrative capacity. A
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World Bank (2006) study found a decline in Hungary-EU coordination capacity as well
as overall coordination and capacity as ‘well below the required level for advanced
administrative systems’ (World Bank, 2006:9) since accession. While integration
mechanisms ensured good coordination, in the case of Hungary, they have failed to
implement sufficient administrative capacity to sustain the acquis. Ultimately, ‘moving
from the management of the accession process to the management of membership
required a significant change of approach and the need to role out specialised
European integration capacity throughout the state administration’ (World Bank,
2006:9). Conceiving of domestic incapacity in this respect represents a failure of the EU
in ensuring sustained post-accession Europeanisation. Further, if we interpret
politicisation as impeding effective administrative and capacity development (Pierre &
Peters, 2003), then we can trace a link between unintended effects of integration (a
politicised civil service and elite core executive) and constrained administrative
capacity post-accession.
The external incentive governing pre-accession conditionality was the promise
of EU membership. Upon achieving membership, this external incentive is of course
immediately removed, though this did not reduce levels of compliance from Hungary.
However, this external incentive may have been replaced, rather than removed, with
‘financial and technical support for administrative and judicial capacity building’
(Schimmelfennig & Trauner, 2009:3) providing incentive for domestic capacity building.
The loss of pre-accession membership conditionality ‘Has been largely
counterbalanced by the strong financial initiatives of conditioned EU funding to new
member countries and by the increased linkage with the EU that has strengthened
socialization mechanisms and peer pressure to conform to the norms of the European
club’ (Levitz & Pop-Eleches, 2010:460).
Further, for the first three years of Hungary’s membership, the EU possessed
enhanced sanctioning powers towards instances of non-compliance. Under article 27
of the Act of Accession, ‘if a new member state has failed to implement commitments
undertaken in the context of the accession negotiations’ (EC, 2003:357), then the
Commission may ‘adopt European regulations or decision establishing appropriate
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measures’ (EC, 2003:357). This power was only accessible for the first three years of
Hungary’s membership. After 2008, there was no drop in the levels and rates of
compliance and transposition in Hungary. Thus, the presence of this sanctioning power
is unsatisfactory toward explaining sustained post-accession compliance.
Theorising Europeanisation: Shallow and Deep Europeanisation
The centralised core executive structures that characterised the pre-accession
structure of Hungary were a direct institutional response to the requirements of
legislative capacity and responding effectively to EU conditionality. This structure has
maintained post-accession. However, these structures essentially block
Europeanisation diffusing both horizontally and vertically, preventing a deep diffusion
of Europeanisation into civil society. Instead, Europeanisation is focused on a small
group of political elites. The very nature of integration mechanisms governed by
conditionality and its focus on administrative and legislative capacity can therefore
inhibit the potential for Europeanisation to diffuse in a target state. Therefore, heavily
conditioned enlargement mechanisms can both be linked to a sustainable
Europeanisation and Democratisation in the future.
In this manner, EU integration governed by strict conditionality has lead to
incomplete Europeanisation, as there was no social consolidation of EU democratic
norms (Agh, 2013a). The huge impact of the current global financial crisis in Hungary
has exploited this issue and lead to declining trust in domestic elites and institutions.
With no social consolidation of EU norms or Europeanisation of layers of Hungarian
governance and civil society, only Shallow Europeanisation has occurred in Hungary. In
this manner, parties have only fashioned a Western image for themselves, with no real
behaviour adoption occurring and only a top layer of Hungarian elites reached, but not
affected, by Europeanisation. Through Shallow Europeanisation, only superficial
domestic change occurs, whereby norms and laws were weakly institutionalised so
state and government actors would not be heavily constrained and had the
opportunity for policy reversal post-accession. Through constraining the opportunity
304
for domestic preference to be uploaded into EU policy, incentive for investment into
institutions was limited, meaning deep, locked in Europeanisation was unlikely to
occur (Goetz, 2005). Once accession was assured then, ‘domestic preferences could reassert themselves, with the result that, as in Hungary, administrative and political
decentralization and regionalization initiatives effectively stalled’ (Goetz, 2005:273).
Conversely, Deep Europeanisation would have permeated throughout civil
society, transforming civil society, NMS parties, conceptions of membership and
political party relations (Agh, 2013a). This could have led to party organisation and
popular beliefs transforming and thus perhaps prevented the democratic backsliding
currently exhibited in Hungary. Key to norms penetrating a society deeply is social
consolidation of said norms. This has not been achieved in Hungary, and consequently
‘social disintegration has been the main process behind the subsequent political crisis’
(Agh, 2012:3). While this social disintegration has not necessarily been the fault of the
EU – Agh (2012; 2013a) regards the triple threat crisis of EU regulatory transformation,
post-accession crisis and the global economic crisis as the impetus – the lack of focus
on social policy and consolidation meant there was little in the way of structural
reinforcements to prevent it occurring. Social policy has played a back role throughout
the integration process, ‘as the monitoring reports following the progress of the
candidate countries show, the concerns of the EU remained economic and political’
(Ferge & Juhasz, 2004:233).
Current levels of political participation and pro EU attitudes among society
highlight the domestic deficit in Hungary. Just 17.2% of the Hungarian population
thought EU membership a bad thing in 2007, with 42.8% believing membership to be
neither good nor bad, and 2.6% didn’t know (Eurobarometer, various years). This
number increased in the 2011 survey, with 22% of society against EU membership.
These figures are compounded by a slip from 37.4% of society being pro EU in 2003, to
31.8% in 2011 (Eurobarometer, 2011).
Heavily conditioned EU criteria, which left no opportunity for domestic
preference to be uploaded and integrated (Sedelmeier, 2008) had limited potential for
ensuring sustained Europeanisation, since for sustainable institutional change ‘policy
305
must be pulled in by societal actors, rather than decreed by policy makers alone’
(Jacoby, 2001:15). Deep Europeanisation has therefore been prevented, by EU
governance mechanisms predicated on conditionality, domestic institutional and
structural responses to these mechanisms, the lack of engagement these mechanisms
had with domestic societies, and the lack of intermediary links between domestic
governments and domestic civil societies these mechanisms allowed.
Thus, EU accession criteria represents a paradox: The formal compliance
requirements of accession result in centralised structures that block Europeanisation,
contradict EU norms of decentralisation and regionalisation and ultimately inhibit the
potential of sustainable post-accession Europeanisation. For example, the accession
process ‘excluded sub-state elites from processes of sub-state reform’ (Grabbe,
2001:1026). These issues are exacerbated by the limitations of the Commission’s
measuring system for compliance and transposition of EU directives. Commission data
is based on notifications from a member state when a directive is domestically
transposed. This is unreliable from two perspectives. Firstly, the vested interest both
the EU and Hungary had in hyperbole helps explain the good compliance/poor
implementation paradox. ‘Both the main sources for Europeanisation (EU institutions
and candidate governments) have a vested interest in claiming the EU is the principal
driver of most reforms’ (Grabbe, 2003:310). For Hungary, institutional isomorphism
could be used to exaggerate levels of Europeanisation, enhancing an image of
legitimacy to aid the membership cause. For the EU, advanced Europeanisation in CEE
would enhance its image as a democratising power. Second, notification of compliance
by a Member State does not result in any confirmation that a directive has been fully
implemented in a Member State. Commission data then, ‘does not inform of the
timeliness and correctness of transposition, let alone about actual enforcement’
(Mastenbroek, 2005:1104). Non-compliance, through conscious or unconscious
incomplete application and enforcement, can often go undetected therefore.
Consequently, the EU itself could use institutional isomorphism itself as assessment
criteria. The EU’s ‘lack of comprehensive measures of compliance led it to look at
similarity of institutional structures’ (Grabbe, 2006:70). Fatally for the durability of
306
these structures post-accession, so doing does not measure the actual
implementation, policy content and functioning of these institutions.
Further, the process of Europeanisation can at times be conceived as running
counterproductive to Democratisation, as portrayed effectively by Pridham (2005:98)
Given that accession shifts attention very decidedly to governments and elites,
one immediately observes where Europeanisation could have possible negative
effects on democratisation. This question is necessary in view of the shift in the
relationship between democratisation and Europeanisation that comes with
moving from the first stage of pre-negotiations (when the political conditions are
at the forefront) to the following stage of membership negotiations and their
increasing pressures to deliver on efficiency and effectiveness by candidate
countries. The danger comes thus from the bureaucratisation of relations with
Brussels and the effect this might have on the domestic political process through
the possible distortion of decision making at the cost of political involvement and
consultation. This tendency may or may not have lasting effects on postCommunist democratisation. Hence, the question of efficiency versus democracy
is posed.
Governance by conditionality, that favoured efficiency over legitimacy, could delay or
prevent true democratic consolidation therefore. European integration has certainly
encompassed a democratising process for Hungary. However, as highlighted in this
study, Hungary was a reformist state with economic liberalisation occurring decades
before the end of Communism and a transition to democracy occurring almost
immediately after. With transition in motion, democratic consolidation was the goal of
EU integration. This required ‘making new democracies secure, extending their life
expectancy beyond the short term, of making them immune against the threat of
authoritarian regression, and of building dams against eventual reverse waves’
(Schedler, 1998:92). As this study has shown, it appears true democratic consolidation
has not occurred through Europeanisation in Hungary. If so, EU integration has been a
307
failure in its democratising and Europeanising mission in Hungary, and perhaps
elsewhere in CEE.
Concluding Remarks
‘The inherent complexity of any system of multilevel governance puts compliance with
legal rules at risk’ (Bieber & Vaerini, 2004:389). Thus, centralising domestic
coordination mechanisms through a core executive was a rational response by
Hungarian political actors, to ensure compliance remained high.
Integration governed by conditionality essentially inhibited the genuine mass
support a domestic democracy requires to function. This was replaced instead by a
‘colonization of the administrative positions at all levels in the political system that has
generated its negative consequences for the participatory democracy and its political
performance’ (Agh, 2013a:53). This has led to an increasing gap between elites and
public in Hungary, maintaining a democratic deficit, even beyond accession. Thus, the
‘problem of overriding concentration on the business of accession has had a
systematic significance’ (Pridham, 2005:59) for the new democracy in Hungary.
The rapidity of the process of Europeanisation via conditionality had
implications for future institutional performance and stability. ‘Learning effects due to
specialised knowledge required for the operation of an institution’ (Sedelmeier,
2012:23) were essentially suppressed. However, with legislation rushed through by
elites with little parliamentary or civil society involvement, domestic actors had little
opportunity to understand or learn from development and Democratisation (Grabbe,
2006). The rapid Europeanisation of Hungary also had negative implications for
sustainable democracy. Massive change ‘coming from Europeanisation, conducted
invariably at a rapid pace creates enormous governmental if not systematic overload
at a time when new democracies are not yet settled or perhaps robust enough to
withstand such pressures’ (Pridham, 2005:98). In this manner, Europeanisation and
Democratisation could actually have been occurring in conflict, rather than as a
harmonious parallel. Consequently, a ‘multi-actor democracy is too big a challenge for
308
Hungary currently, as social and territorial actors are expected to play a larger role due
to decentralisation at the regional level’ (Agh, 2013a:34).
Informal mechanisms could be more effective in directly addressing and
remedying the application and enforcement problems in Hungary. Mechanisms such as
financial support or social learning ‘indicate a slow but steady move toward
sustainable improvement in enforcement’ (Krizsan, 2009:3). Soft policy, such as
progress or structural funds that address civil society and increase state capacity could
help sustain both formal transposition and transparent policy that sees laws and
institutions effectively implemented and operationalized to the norms they are
supposed to be built on. However the impact of these soft mechanisms could be
limited as they often have less incentive to be adopted than conditioned mechanisms
(Sedelmeier, 2008). EU sanctioning powers perhaps need to be more resolutely
defined and applied therefore. As president Barosso admits, ‘we need a better
developed set of instruments – not just the alternative between the soft power of
political persuasion and the nuclear option of Article 7 of the Treaty’ (Barrosso,
2012:5).
Conclusion
The Europeanisation of Hungary was extremely limited in its long-term effectiveness
and sustainability. Europeanisation should ‘on the one hand encompass downloading
of EU policies by states as well as uploading of national preferences to the EU level’
(Borzel, 1999:576). However, Europeanisation via political conditionality essentially left
no opportunity for domestic preference to be uploaded to the EU level. This top down
rule transfer prevented a diffusion of EU norms spreading throughout Hungarian
society, inhibited behavioural learning through institution building and led to little
investment in institutions and laws established via conditionality. Domestic Hungarian
concern lay with complying with the formal demands of conditionality, rather than
fully implementing them on the ground. Due to this, post-accession democratic
functioning has been inhibited and institutions and administration have remained
309
highly politicised and corrupt. For Borzel & Risse (2012:193), ‘such institutional
decoupling was to be expected since Deep Europeanisation requires the internalisation
of EU norms and rules’.
Lack of investment and participation in political structures constrains Hungary’s
ability to sustain a functioning democracy. For Agh (2013b:2),‘the Europeanization and
Democratization of the public administration and the public policy in ECE cannot be
completed without the participative democracy, that is, without the participation of
the large masses of the population in the new institutional structures’. However, this is
prevented by the elitist top down executive structure, administrative organisation and
cultural rather than social structuring principles that were established in Hungary as a
response to EU integration governance. These issues create a large divide between left
and right and thereby limit the potential for national compromise.
All areas of EU accession and integration governance toward Hungary
essentially present a paradox, in that the EU’s efforts to ‘promote democratic
development are at odds with the incentives created by the accession process, where
the EU gives greater priority to efficiency over legitimacy’ (Grabbe, 2001:1029). EU
concern lay with efficiency and formal compliance, rather than implementation and
whether laws and directives were implemented completely. Domestic Hungarian focus
reflected that of the EU, since achieving the external incentive (EU membership)
seemed to only require formal compliance. Politicised, corrupt and poorly functioning
institutions and administration thus characterise post-accession Hungary.
Given the scale of the democratising task Eastern enlargement comprised, the
integration of CEE can in many respects be conceived as a success. However, as this
study has highlighted, EU mechanisms of integration are perhaps not ideally suited to a
post-Communist transitioning democracy and, in the case of Hungary, held poor
potential for sustained Europeanisation. Specifically, the intensive use of political
conditionality inhibited mechanisms of sustained policy and regulatory alignment,
those of social learning and behavioural adoption. However, whilst in hindsight this
may appear a policy misstep from the EU, in reality, options were extremely limited.
310
The severe institutional misfit between Hungary and the EU meant heavy adaptational
pressure was a rational decision, in the interests of both the EU and Hungary.
The conditionality process ‘establishes a hierarchy of compliance with
international/EU requirements the legitimacy of which depends on cognitive and
behavioural change: adopting EU institutions or norms without a change in the political
culture and behaviour would eventually undermine the EU from within’ (Le Gloannec
& Rupnik, 2006:56).
It is through this conception that this study links the effects of conditionality
and the Shallow Europeanisation concept to contemporary Hungary. Once
membership had been achieved by Hungary, incentives to comply and fully implement
conditions were far less attractive. Lacking a credible threat or incentive to comply, the
post-accession context exploits Shallow Europeanisation and the failure of integration
to achieve a change in political culture, behaviour and logic. This climate can facilitate
policy and normative dis-alignment and the re-return to populist rule visible in
contemporary Hungary. EU integration as a tool of democratising Hungary therefore
failed, as conditionality isolated civil society and citizens throughout the accession
phase. Democratic norms were not consolidated and a political culture of democracy
not created. Once conditionality loses its legitimacy, credibility and threat of noncompliance, Europeanisation is unlikely to be sustained, as domestic institutions and
political actors do not function according to EU democratic norms.
Ultimately, in a Hungarian state that was already showing de-centralisation and
regionalisation norms and processes emerging before the integration process began,
European integration has been counter-productive, by re-centralising the state under
EU performance pressure and coordination mechanisms. This represents a further
paradox of EU integration under a Hungarian context: Asymmetric EU Integration,
intended to bring about de-centralisation, regionalisation, democratisation and
Europeanisation essentially necessitated the opposite norms and processes to be
implemented and consolidated. As the prominent mechanism of the Europeanisation
of Hungary, political conditionality can be therefore linked to the backsliding of
democracy in Hungary.
311
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To what extent the two generations of Chinese
women peasant workers are able to benefit from
the factory work opportunities?
Wei Zhu
Abstract
Economic reforms in China have brought opportunities to Chinese rural women,
and have drawn them into the front lines of global capitalism. These opportunities
have enabled rural women to migrate to cities and generate independent income.
However, the state bureaucracy, the forces of global capitalism, and a culture of
patriarchy tend to exploit these migrant women from rural areas, rather than
provide space for them to benefit. It is important to examine how the twogeneration women peasant-workers that have lived since the advent of reforms
have responded to these conditions of exploitation. Moreover, in line with
continuing trends of social change and technological development, the secondgeneration women peasant-workers have enjoyed more opportunities and a
greater power of negotiation. The comparison of these two generations shows
that they have different characteristics, implying that the influences of work
opportunities on the two generations are changing.
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Introduction
China's economic reforms since the late 1970s have completely changed China's
society and the fate of many Chinese. Chinese women peasant-workers, who are from
rural areas and migrate to cities to work, are one of the significant groups. They
dominate the export-oriented manufacturing industries in China as well as in many
other developing countries (Salzinger, 2002). According to the government's data
(NBSC, 2013), there are about 262 million migrant people from rural areas. One third
of these migrants are women. It is said that they promote China's economic miracle
(Razavi and Pearson, 2004). Conversely, as one women peasant-worker, also an
interviewee of this research says, 'if there had not been the economic reforms, which
promoted the export-oriented manufacturing industries and generated many work
opportunities, rural women might still stay in rural areas, doing agricultural work and
looking after families for their entire life'. Therefore, the fate of these women attracts
concern from many people. On one hand, the economic reforms have challenged the
traditional gender division of labour in rural areas, offering new for rural. Reforms have
also decomposed the strict urban-rural division characteristic of the planned-economy
period, allowing rural-to-urban migration and generating a new social category—the
peasant-worker. On the other hand, similar to poor women in many other developing
countries, Chinese women peasant-workers may be the last group to benefit from this
process. As Deng Xiaoping said, reforms were intended 'to let some people get rich
first'—and women peasant-workers have never been part of this ‘some’.
Chinese rural women have indeed gained opportunities and the possibility to
change their fate and pursue their dreams. This dissertation aims to explore the extent
to which this possibility has been and can be realised. China has gained a reputation as
the 'world factory', while many Chinese factories are known as 'sweatshops’ as in some
other developing countries. In other words, these new work opportunities are also
chances for the forces of global capitalism to exploit women workers. Moreover, since
the 1980s, concerns have been raised as to whether Third World women can benefit
from factory work opportunities. It is argued by feminists that Third World women are
exploited by both global capitalism and patriarchy. Global capitalism does not
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challenge patriarchy, but instead may intensify, decompose and recompose it (Elson
and Pearson, 1981). In research conducted in China, represented by Pun's (2005), it is
shown that in the context of contemporary China—an interesting combination of
socialist ideology and market economy—women peasant-workers are oppressed not
only by global capitalism and patriarchy, but also by the state.
The perception of Chinese women peasant-workers is that they are young,
docile and hard-working, as shown in much of the literature, echoing the general
image of Third World women workers (Elson and Pearson, 1981; Zhu, 2008).
Moreover, because of China's resident system, rural people are not allowed to settle in
cities. This resident system makes rural people subordinate, inferior and cheap in
urban labour market. These characteristics make them popular in manufacturing
industries. Yet, these characteristics are also responsible for their subordinate status in
gender relations, the society, and the labour market. However, according to media
reports about Chinese women peasant-workers in recent years, these characteristics
are not changeless. For example, women peasant-workers nowadays require higher
wages and have begun to struggle for them (Reuters, 2011). In order to examine the
changes taking place within this group, we compare the two generations of women
peasant-workers that have existed since the advent of China’s economic reforms: the
first generation, comprising those who entered the labour market in the 1980s to the
mid-1990s, and the second, comprising those entering the market after the late 1990s.
This comparison attempts to offer an indication of whether, and to what extent,
women peasant-workers are able to benefit from factory work opportunities in
contemporary China, and a case to examine the universality and time effectiveness of
claims about Third World women's roles in work, made by the researchers, which are
discussed below.
Two threads are followed herein in discussing the extent to which the two
generations of Chinese women peasant-workers are able to benefit from
manufacturing work opportunities. The first thread discusses the macro context,
focusing on changes of government policy and development of global capital in China.
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It shows the way in which, during the 35-year economic reforms, the state and global
capital, collaborating with patriarchy, have exploited rural women and restricted their
development. It further discusses how the state and global capital respond to the
changes of market and society, and the dynamics of how they collaborate and restrain
each other. The second thread discusses the subjectivity of these two generations of
women peasant-workers. In other words, it compares their experiences, identities, and
how they seize the opportunities and respond to the impacts of the state, society, and
culture. We argue that, in order for the exploitation of women peasant-workers to
continue, their key characteristics, such as docility and cheapness, must be intensified
or at least retained. In other words, the different characteristics shown by the secondgeneration of women peasant-workers may be the key in overturning their status of
subordination. Therefore, this thread explores the possibility for these women to
benefit through changes in their lives and thoughts at the micro level.
Methodology
The materials presented here are from historical literature about Chinese women
peasant-workers and interviews involving six women peasant-workers, aged between
21-33, belonging to the second generation. There has been much empirical research
on the first generation, so the interviews only focus on the second one. Four of the
interviewees are currently working in Chinese factories and two used to work in such
factories and subsequently established an NGO serving women peasant-workers in
2012. The interviews took place over the Internet through an instant messaging
programme. The four current women peasant-workers were recruited through the
NGO. Of course, the small size of this sample cannot represent the full scope of
second-generation women peasant-workers. However, an attempt has been made to
capture a diversity of perspectives: the interviewees include married and unmarried
persons, a person who received an industrial injury, and persons whose roles changed
from worker to NGO staff. Moreover, the interviews are grounded in the historical
research on Chinese women peasant-workers, which is surveyed herein. Because of
335
the limited scale of the interviews, they are used primarily to examine claims about
second-generation women peasant-workers and to offer some clues in comprehending
their situation. In order to protect the interviewees, they are anonymised herein
through the use of pseudonyms.
Literature Review
In order to examine the different situations faced by the two generations of Chinese
women peasant-workers, it is necessary to review the research on the role of women
in paid work, especially in factory work, in developing countries worldwide. Since the
1970s, when many women in developing countries began to participate in factory
work, many researchers have discussed whether factory work can change women’s
subordination in gender relations, because factory work leads to the capacity to
generate independent income, which may allow women to gain more autonomy and
power within household and society. In the context of market-economy China, these
discussions offer a theoretical framework within which to analyse the situation in
China. On the other hand, the comparison of the two generations can also help to
examine the universality of these theories and may provide new angles for
understanding this issue.
Why Women Are ‘Suitable’ for Factory Work
The participation of women in paid work—an effect that changes the traditional
gender division of labour—is discussed by many researchers. In the traditional gender
division of labour at household level, men are responsible for productive work or
generating incomes for the survival of the household, whilst women are mainly
responsible for reproductive work, such as the bearing and care of children. However,
the gender division of labour is recomposed but not decomposed by the new role of
women in a developing society, meaning that women must engage in both productive
and reproductive work (Irving, 2008). In addition, women’s development of career and
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other benefits are restricted by their reproductive role. They are considered a ‘reserve
army of labour’ (Standing, 1989) and as inferior labourers, mainly because they must
bear and care for children (Elson and Pearson, 1981). Elson and Pearson (1981) argue
that the reproductive responsibility of women is beneficial to factories, because
factories are able to adjust the number of workers flexibly. They are easily fired and rehired by factories. Furthermore, the secondary status of women in the labour market
tends to result in women workers receiving lower pay and worse working conditions
than men doing similar jobs (Elson and Pearson, 1981a). Dependency theory argues
that, in this way, capitalism can exploit women workers as much as possible, through
low wages and terrible working conditions (Mackintosh, 1981; Lim, 1990).
According to Mies (1986, cited in Pearson, 1998), the reason why women
interest factory employers more is that they are restricted by their responsibilities,
while men can plan their lives freely. Similarly, Elson and Pearson (1981) argue that
women are not able to become complete breadwinners, because their reproductive
responsibilities cannot be socialised completely. Therefore, most of the women factory
workers in developing countries are young and single or childless (Pearson, 1998). This
is because young girls not only are more reproductive, but also lack family
responsibilities (Lim, 1990). In other words, they can fully engage in factory work.
Compared with productive work, reproductive work is more important for women
(Pearson, 1998), which means unmarried women are more available to work in
factories. However, many cases suggest that whether unmarried women are more
popular than married ones in manufacturing industries also depends on other factors.
For example, in China, married women peasant-workers might be more loyal than
unmarried ones, because married women must feed their children (BSR, 2013),
meaning that some factories may tend to hire more married women.
It was also noticed by some researchers in the 1980s that women were more
likely to engage in ‘unskilled’ or ‘semi-skilled’ work, while men usually dominate skilled
work, such as construction and transportation industries (Phillips and Taylor, 1980).
On the one hand, women’s training is usually ‘invisible’, because this sort of training
337
happens on private occasions and in daily life. Consequently, women’s skills are often
regarded as untrained (Elson and Pearson, 1981). However, the demand for domestic
labour in Chinese cities in recent years has been increasing significantly. As a result,
domestic work—traditional women's work—has been revalued in the market, and
many men also engage in this industry (Lin and Mac an Ghaill, 2013). Unfortunately,
this does not automatically mean that women's work is upgraded or that domestic
work is shared by both men and women within households. Instead, the revaluation of
domestic work may only happen in the commercial marketplace. According to Lin and
Mac an Ghaill (2013), the men who engage in 'women's work' tend to discover the
masculinities in the work. For example, cleaning storm windows is dangerous and
requires strength, a task for which men may be better suited. This suggests that men
tend to engage in skilled work, such as revalued domestic work, and regard masculinity
as a key precondition for engaging in such work.
Apart from their disadvantages, the ‘advantage’ of women with respect to
factory work is their ‘nimble fingers’. Women are often regarded as naturally having
‘nimble fingers’ and as docile and willing to accept tedious, repetitious, and
monotonous work (Elson and Pearson, 1981). These attributes, as well as their low
wage requirements and high productivity, are also crucial ‘competitive factors’ of
women in the labour market. Yet, Elson and Pearson (1981) argue that the ‘nimble
fingers’ are not natural or inherited biologically from their mothers. Instead, the
‘nimble fingers’ of women are trained through women’s work, such as sewing,
according to their female roles. Similarly, the docility of women is also cultivated in
daily life. At the same time, labour-intensive manufacturing industries include a lot of
elaborate manual labour, which requires workers with ‘nimble fingers’ (Pearson,
1998).
How Factory Work Opportunities Impact Women
The question of whether women can benefit from factory work opportunities and
whether women’s subordination in gender relations can be changed has raised a lot of
338
discussion. Some proponents, represented by Lim, argue that women can be
independent from family and gain more influence in family affairs through generating
an income. The advantages also include more independence and autonomy, higher
incomes for consumption or for education and dowry, freedom to choose a spouse,
and more life experience and wider horizons (Lim, 1990). It is also stated that work
opportunities in the context of globalisation can reduce the income gap between men
and women, as well as sex discrimination, because in order to win the global business
competition, factories would rather offer jobs to women, who are cheaper labourers
(Chan et al, 2013).
However, some opponents, represented by Elson and Pearson, criticise this
conclusion as too optimistic and simplified (Pearson, 2007). Pearson (1998) challenges
Lim’s (1990) argument that women are willing to work in modern factories, because of
lack of modern job opportunities in developing countries. Pearson argues that in many
cases, women are forced to work and sacrifice their future by their families, in order to
support other family members. Moreover, Pearson (1998) also questions whether
women can gain power to make decisions and autonomy to spend the money they
earn. Some cases in Asian countries show that their income may be reallocated by
their families, such as for the education or wedding of a brother.
In principle, capitalism is gender-neutral, which means it chooses labour based
on cost rather than gender. The reason why it favours women more than men is
women’s low wage and high productivity (Pearson, 1998). However, in practice, it is
suggested that patriarchy is integrated into capitalism. Irving (2007) argues industries
are dominated by men, who benefit from restricting women at the bottom of labour
market. Phillips and Taylor (1980) believe that the emergence of capitalism was based
on the existing patriarchy, which is unlikely to be eliminated automatically.
Furthermore, labour market institutions are the bearers of gender relations and also
intensify gender inequalities. On one hand, all the labour market institutions are
gendered, such as labour legislation and job evaluation systems. On the other, the
labour market does not challenge but adapts the gender division of labour within the
339
household, restricting women's career development and intensifying the existing
gender inequalities (Elson, 1999).
Contrary to Lim’s optimistic assumption, Elson and Pearson (1981) believe that
women’s participation in factory work cannot automatically change women’s
subordination in gender relations. But the situation is not static. The changes of
economy, politics and culture create new gender relations (Irving, 2008). There are
three tendencies of these changes: to intensify, decompose and recompose the
existing subordination of gender. For example, in factories, the male boss and female
worker relation is a new sort of subordination of gender (Elson and Pearson, 1981).
In summary, we are concerned here with the dynamics of patriarchy and
capitalism that influence the expectations, experiences, and status of women workers
in developing countries. Although it is widely agreed that the situations of women
workers differ in different contexts (Lim, 1990; Pearson, 2007), this section presents a
critical literature review of theories and concepts used in analysing the case of women
peasant-workers in China.
Conceptual Framework
As mentioned above, peasant-workers refer to migrants from rural areas. They are
usually called dagongzai/dagongmei in social discourse distinguishing sex or
nongmingong in both social and official discourses. We adopt the term
nongmingong—nongmin refers to peasant and gong refers to worker in Chinese.
However, in most of the literature on Chinese peasant-workers, the authors prefer to
use dagongzai/dagongmei rather than peasant-worker, because dagongzai and
dagongmei refer to men and women peasant-workers respectively, distinguishing sex
(Zheng, 2007). Zai and mei refer to young men and young women, implying one of the
main characteristics of peasant-workers—they were usually very young when they first
migrate to cities. Moreover, different from the gongren class—the working class—who
used to be the masters of this socialist country, dagong refers to working for bosses,
340
implicating lower status, temporary work and lack of social protection (Pun, 2007). We
agree with the explanation and use of the term dagongzai/dagongmei, because it
clearly presents the changes of gender relations and workers’ social status in discourse
of the society from the planned-economy period to the market-economy period in
China. However, we prefer to adopt the term ‘women peasant-worker’ for three
reasons.
First, we herein compare the two generations of women peasant-workers and
observe that there are still many first-generation women peasant-workers in labour
markets, who are no longer young. The term dagongmei is not suitable for these
women, either. It suggests a change of demand in the labour market, which is
discussed below. Second, dagongzai/dagongmei is an unofficial and oral term, while
peasant-worker—nongmingong—is used in both governmental and social discourses.
It implies that ‘peasant-worker’ as a social category is constructed not only by the
society, but also by the government, which is more powerful and efficient. Third, the
term ‘peasant-worker’ clearly presents the dilemma of these people. As Pun and Lu
(2010) state, they are not pure workers, because they do not have the right to settle
down in cities; nor are they peasants, because they do not have lands and do not work
on fields.
The phrase ‘women peasant-worker’ refers to three types of status of this
category of person—women, peasant, and worker. These three statuses echo the
argument claimed by many authors, represented by Pun (2005), that such people are
affected or even oppressed by patriarchy, the state, and global capitalism. Moreover,
these three factors not only affect Chinese women peasant-workers jointly, but also
strengthen one another in this process (Pun, 2005).
In terms of the ‘women’ status, gender inequalities still exist in traditional
families, especially in rural areas. Girls are usually the last to receive investment from
their family in education (Yuan, 2005:80). In many cases, as with poor women in other
developing countries, Chinese rural women are forced to sacrifice themselves to
support other family members, such as for brothers’ education or weddings (Pearson,
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1998). Although, in the Mao period, the central government underwent a gender
equality reform to integrate women in production and offer them equal legal status,
this top-down reform did not really improve gender relations, especially in rural areas
and within households; this is discussed in section 3.
In terms of the ‘peasant’ status, this refers not to their occupation, but rather
to their identity in contemporary discourses created by the state. The main aim of the
economic reforms is to achieve modernity. One of the mottos is 'yu shijie jiegui'-linking tracks with the rest of the world—the western countries. This discourse of
modernisation constructs urban-rural differences—urban areas are modern and rural
areas are backward (Jiang, 2003; Gaetano, 2004). Thus, ‘peasant’ as a traditional but
not modern occupation refers to 'backward' rural people in social discourse.
Moreover, the Chinese resident system—the Hukou System—divides residents into
urban and rural residents. Rural people cannot enjoy urbanites' benefits, which makes
them secondary residents institutionally.
In terms of the ‘worker’ status, in contrast to the workers in the Mao period,
who were the masters of the country, ‘factory worker’ is a low-level occupation
nowadays in China. The Chinese adopt the western phrases—blue and white collar to
distinguish low-level and high-level work, represented by factory and office work
respectively. Moreover, the factory is the field that presents joint oppression from the
state and capitalism on women peasant-workers most intensively (Pun, 2005:16). In
the whole processes of recruiting and producing, which are discussed below, factories
attempt to exploit workers as much as possible. In sum, the phrase ‘women peasantworker’ is not only a conventional term, but also indicates the complicated situation
faced by this category of people, and the way social and governmental discourses and
state power construct their status and identities.
The phrase ‘women peasant-worker’ is adopted by both the two generations,
because they still cannot get urban hukou to settle down in cities or enjoy the same
benefits as urbanites. These three statuses define the dilemma they face—they are
sexually subordinated in the household and the labour market, they are 'backward'
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and inferior residents, and they are fully exploited by capitalism. This does not mean
the situation has not changed at all from the first to the second generation, but the
continuing usage of the phrase indicates that the second generation still faces many of
the same inequalities their mothers faced.
Government Policies and Global Capitalism
This sectoion presents the main context in contemporary China and discusses the
implications of these contexts. We focus on how factory work opportunities emerge
and in what conditions rural women are able to seize these opportunities.
Furthermore, this section analyses the changes of this context in different respects,
including government policies and globalisation of capitalism, and discusses how these
factors affect the abilities of the two generations of women peasant-workers to
interact with and respond to the changes of market and society.
Government Policies
In the massive migration process of the ‘tide of peasant-workers’, the Chinese central
government plays the most important role. From the economic reforms that attract
foreign investment, to the changes of the Hukou System that controls the flow of rural
people, the central government plays a manipulative role that dominates the whole
process through its incomparable power. This section focuses on the changes of
government policies in the historical process.
Economic Reforms
During the Cultural Revolution of 1966-76, China’s economy almost collapsed and the
authority of the Communist Party was challenged. In 1978, Deng Xiaoping regained
power of the party and decided to launch large-scale economic reforms, changing the
development model from a centrally-planned economy to a partial market economy,
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in order to boost China’s economy and reduce poverty. In 1979, the central
government set up four Special Economic Zones (SEZs) along the south-eastern coast,
in order to attract foreign investment. In the mid-1980s, more similar zones, called
export-oriented industrial zones or technology development zones, were set up and
opened to the world (Berik et al, 2007; Pun, 2007).
These government policies and China’s own advantages, such as an ample
cheap labour force, attracted much foreign investment from all over the world. This
investment has mainly focused on labour-intensive manufacturing industries, such as
garment and electronic industries, requiring a large number of workers. Consequently,
many rural people, especially young and unmarried rural women from all around the
country, migrated to the south-eastern cities to work in factories (Jacka and Gaetano,
2004; Pun, 2007).
Apart from the ‘opening’ policies, the central government also launched radical
agricultural reforms in rural areas. Since the 1950s, the central government had
established people’s communes in rural areas all around the country. During that time,
peasants worked for their communes and with very limited wages, but they ate in the
common cafeterias for free. However, the communes had to be responsible for
feeding all the rural people, no matter whether there was sufficient demand for labour
(Li et al, 2007). In the late 1970s, along with the other economic reforms, the central
government eliminated communes in rural areas and launched the Household
Production Responsibility System (HPRS). Decollectivisation of agriculture has led to a
huge labour surplus in rural areas (Jacka, 2006:6).
On one hand, the central government promoted economic reforms in the
south-eastern coast, attracting foreign investment and generating work opportunities.
On the other hand, the agricultural reform made the rural people available to fulfil the
demand of the labour market. This combination of economic reforms set up a sound
foundation to attract foreign investment and boost the national economy. On the
other hand, the reforms stimulated peasants' incentives to improve productivity in
agriculture and provided opportunities to access a larger world. However, the
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economic reforms further expanded the urban-rural, coast-inland and East-West
differences. Moreover, alongside the increasing competition of agricultural products,
peasants’ income decreased. Lack of work opportunities in rural areas, decreased
income of farming, and stimulation from cities have led to the migration of a huge
quantity of rural people to cities looking for opportunities.
In 2000, in order to narrow the differences between coastal areas and the
hinterlands, the central government underwent another economic reform—the
Western Development Programme. This reform aimed to attract foreign and domestic
investment to the hinterland provinces (Lai, 2002). As a result, many factories have
moved to the hinterlands from the SEZs, for cheaper land and labour forces. Moreover,
for many peasant-workers, the coastal areas are not as attractive as they were in the
1990s, because the hinterland cities are closer to their hometowns, with lower living
costs and stress. This reform also indicates the control of the central government on
economy and people’s flow (Reuters, 2010).
The Hukou System
On one hand, the economic reforms generate work opportunities and offer chances to
rural people to migrate to cities. On the other, China's specific resident registration
system—the Hukou System—prevents rural migrants from settling in cities. Since the
Mao period, the Hukou System has been used to control migration by the central
government.
The Hukou System was launched in the late 1950s. Under this system, people
were classified to agricultural or non-agricultural hukou (residence permits) according
to their place of registration. It is a very effective way to control rural-to-urban
migration because migrants were not allowed to stay in the places they did not belong
to without the permission of the government (Davin, 2004; Jacka and Gaetano, 2004).
In the 1980s, in order to fulfil the increased demand of labour caused by the
economic reforms and to solve the unemployment problem in rural areas, the central
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government loosened the Hukou System, allowing certain rural people to work in cities
(Davin, 2004). Migrants without urban hukou cannot enjoy the benefits that urban
citizens have, such as housing, healthcare and education.
In rural areas, the social welfare of rural peoples was provided by their family
or commune before the economic reforms (Davin, 1994). Alongside the elimination of
communes, the welfare of rural people has also declined. Rural people must rely on
their families, friends, or fellow villagers in difficult times (Yan, 1996, cited in Davin,
2004). Under the Hukou System, if rural-to-urban migrants could get urban hukou
easily, the government had to be responsible for providing social welfare and
entitlements to the migrants. Thus, it is extremely difficult for the rural-to-urban
labourers to become permanent urban citizens.
Furthermore, because rural migrants are not permanent residents and their
residence permit is temporary, they are regarded as inferior citizens. They can only do
the work that urban people are not willing to do, which is typically low-paid, hard, dirty
or ‘immoral’ work, such as construction and factory work (Tan, 2005). Moreover,
under the Hukou System, they are only able to work in cities, but not settle in cities
and enjoy the welfare and rights as other urban residents do (Pun, 2007).Thus,
peasant-workers contribute significantly to China’s economy, but do not gain a
commensurate reward. In addition, in order to ensure economic growth, local
governments often sacrifice peasant-workers’ rights. As Chan and Pun (2010) state,
because of peasant-workers’ inferior status and governmental nonfeasance in
protecting their rights, employers are able to exploit peasant-workers easily. At the
same time, the Hukou System helps the government avoid the responsibility of
guaranteeing the rights of migrants.
Gender Equality Reform
The central government launched a wide scale of gender equality reforms during the
Mao period. In addition to ensuring the equality of women with men in terms of legal
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status, the central government also encouraged women to join in social production to
achieve their self-worth (Razavi and Pearson, 2004). This radical reform deconstructed
the traditional Chinese gender division of labour—‘men outside the home, women
inside’ (nan zhu wai, nv zhu nei). Since then, it has become common for women to
work outside, which is a crucial foundation that enables the government to mobilise a
vast number of rural women to migrate and work in cities. As Razavi and Pearson
(2004) claim, foreign investments and manufacturing industries benefit from the
state’s previous social investment. In other words, capital in contemporary China can
more easily exploit Chinese women workers than those in other developing countries,
because they had been mobilised by the government before the economic reforms.
However, although the Chinese women are able to achieve their self-worth
through participating in work nowadays, gender equality has not been achieved in
China. The practice of mobilising women through gender movement has been
criticised as a tactic for the contemporary socialist government/party to consolidate its
power (Molyneux, 1996, cited in Razavi and Pearson, 2004). Moreover, the method
that the Chinese government adopted was a simplistic and orthodox Marxist approach,
based on the supposition that the participation of women in social production is
sufficient to liberate them (Jacka, 2006:38). This simplistic view of gender equality and
top-down approach are insufficient to completely deconstruct the gender inequalities
in China, which have lasted for thousands of years, especially in rural areas. The
unequal gender relations within the household and the gender division of labour are
still important factors that constrain rural women’s development; this is discussed in
the next section. This Marxist approach to the liberation of women has been criticised
by many authors (Wolf and Margery, 1985, cited in Jacka, 2006:38) as ‘unfinished’ or
‘postponed’, failing to solve the fundamental gender inequality whilst placing a double
burden on the shoulders of women.
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Global Capitalism
As mentioned above, since the 1980s, because of the economic reforms, China has
attracted considerable foreign investment. Depending on an abundant labour force
and transnational or foreign investment, the state establishes an export-oriented
development model. Whilst this model has led in part to the economic miracle in
China, it has also drawn Chinese rural people, especially rural women, into the process
of globalised capitalism (Chen and Pun, 2010). This section focuses on the non-stateowned export-oriented manufacturing enterprises, which emerge after the economic
reforms of the late 1970s. Although many women peasant-workers work in domestic
factories, they still participate in the global economy, because the products they make
are sold all over the world.
Gender Segregation in Manufacturing Industries
Floor shops in manufacturing industries in China are dominated by women peasantworkers (Davin, 2004). This does not mean that Chinese women peasant-workers
control manufacturing industries, because they remain at the lowest working levels.
Razavi and Pearson (2004) observe that in the Special Economic Zones (SEZs),
technological and managerial work is usually assumed by foreigners or middle-class
men, while women peasant-workers usually do unskilled or low-skilled work. Both
horizontal segregation—the domination of a given type of work by a single sex—and
vertical segregation—the tendency for high-level work to be assumed predominantly
by one sex—are evident in manufacturing and processing industries (Irving, 2007).
Male peasant-workers usually engage in construction, mining, and
transportation industries, which require stronger body strength but are higher-paid
(Tan, 2005; Lin and Mac an Ghaill, 2013). These types of work are traditionally men’s
work in rural areas, demonstrating their masculinities. For example, rural men are
usually responsible for constructing their own houses or those of others (Lin & Mac an
Ghaill, 2013). The capabilities of men in construction and other such fields are trained
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and gendered during the process of maturation in society, echoing the situation with
the ‘nimble fingers’ of women. Conversely, women peasant-workers usually engage in
manufacturing industries, service industries, domestic service, and prostitution (Pan,
1999, cited in Zhu, 2008). Even though rural women leave the private realm and their
villages, they still do the equivalent work, such as housework and caring for others, in
cities that they once performed in rural areas. The same is true of men. Thus, the
traditional gender division of labour within the household has been adopted in the
labour market.
As with manufacturing industries in many other developing countries, the
Chinese factories also favour young women, who are seen as docile, careful, and able
to tolerate monotonous and repetitious work. The bodies of these women are also
considered more suitable to factory machines (Pun, 2005:134-135). Chinese women
are traditionally oppressed by patriarchy and cultivated to be docile and careful (Zhu,
2008), echoing the situations in other developing countries (Elson and Pearson, 1981).
Compared with middle-aged women, young women have fewer health problems and
more energy. Because manufacturing industries often request workers to work
overtime, energetic young single women are preferred: they are more able to handle
long work hours, and do not have to assume other family responsibilities (Davin, 2004;
Zhu, 2008). These characteristics of rural young Chinese women enable them to obtain
manufacturing work opportunities, but also render them vulnerable to exploitation.
However, the young rural woman’s dominance in floor shops is changing. Along
with the labour shortage in manufacturing industries in recent years, married women
have also come back to the urban labour market. Many married women peasantworkers also work in manufacturing industries, because factories cannot recruit
enough young workers (Mi and Liu, 2013). Moreover, men have also begun to join the
group of assembly line workers, although women are still more popular. In the 1980s
and the 1990s, it was very difficult to find factory work and the requirements for
workers were very strict, because there was a sufficient labour force. However, since
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the 2000s, with increasing capital expansion and labour shortage, employers have
loosened their requirements for workers (Chan and Pun, 2010).
Although the participation of men in assembly lines challenges the gender
division of labour in the labour market, it does not automatically decompose the
gender inequalities. First, it does not automatically increase the possibility for women
to get promotion. In this situation, no matter what sex the workers are, the hierarchy
within factories is still gendered. Instead of improvement of gender relations, the
manager/worker relation among men indicates that another type of hierarchy is
adopted in the workplace. Lin, Mac, and Ghaill (2013) argue that, in traditional Chinese
values, sangang, the three cardinal guides—monarch rules ministers, father rules sons,
and husband rules wives—refer to the basic hierarchical relationships in traditional
China. In modern China, the father-son relationship has been extended to urban
workplaces. In other words, when a man does traditional women’s work, in order to
adjust this subordination—which used to belong to women—he regards the employer
as an agency that offers protection, like a father. Therefore, it is more likely that the
participation of men in this 'subordinated' work is because they admit their
subordination in the hierarchy, rather than that any challenge or revaluation of
traditional notions of women's work and subordination are taking place in the labour
market.
Wage, Working Conditions and Development Prospects
Manufacturing factories are often called ‘sweatshops’, implying a difficult working
environment, low wages and long working times. However, as discussed above,
abundant workers who can tolerate these difficult conditions are a very important
factor in the development of export-oriented industries in China, leading to the
availability of ‘made in China’ products all over the world. In terms of wages, it is
known that overall wages have continued to rise. Peasant-workers earned 50-60
pounds per month in the SEZs in the mid-1990s, and by the year 2000 they were able
to earn about 100 pounds per month (Knox, 1997, cited in Davin, 2004; Davin, 2004).
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At present, the minimum wage in Shenzhen, one of the SEZs, is 160 pounds per month
(Lu, 2013). However, even though the wages of workers have risen, the cost of living
has likewise risen. The real wage growth of Chinese peasant-workers actually started in
2005 (Chan and Pun, 2010). Workers’ wages usually constitute a very small part of all
the profits of products. For example, Chinese workers earn less than 10 dollars by
assembling a 575-dollar iPhone, while Apple can earn almost 60% of the profits
(Kraemer and Dedrick, 2011). In addition, almost half of their wages are from overtime
work (Tan, 2000; Chan and Pun, 2010). According to Chan and Pun’s (2010) research,
for example, at Foxconn—the biggest electronic product contractor in Asia— worker’s
overtime hours are 103.36 hours, which is over twice as much as the statutory
overtime working hours—44 hours. Although workers are not forced to work
overtime, they would be punished if they refused (Davin 2004, Chan and Pun, 2010).
For example, in the factories where the participants of this research work, if they
refuse to work overtime for some time, as punishment their employers would not
permit them to take any overtime work. This situation is also demonstrated in Chan
and Pun’s (2010) research on Foxconn. As a result, these workers can only earn
minimum wage, about a half of the usual wage they earn, which is not sufficient to
support their cost of living.
On one hand, under the pressure of low wages, workers would like to work
overtime. According to the wage composition of a worker at Foxconn in 2010, the
wage of normal work time is about 0.71 pounds per hour, but overtime wage is about
1.1 pounds per hour (Chan and Pun, 2010). Even though many cities have set up
minimum wage, the minimum wage is usually too little for living in cities. Many
peasant-workers would like to take the overtime work and reduction of such work is a
form of punishment. In terms of this problem, the key is that hourly pay is so low that
workers have to work overtime. On the other hand, as Davin (2004) argues, in order to
remain competitive in the global market of manufacturing industries, the central
government might keep the worst management on labour issues and keep ignoring the
rights of labour. Moreover, the promotion of government officers is usually based on
the achievement of economic development (Schröder, 2012). Therefore the local
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governments usually ignore workers’ rights, including wage arrears and frequent
injuries (Zheng, 2007).
Lack of prospects for promotion and training is also a form of exploitation of
workers. Although many women peasant-workers wish to get promoted, there are few
opportunities to be trained for upgraded skills and capabilities (BSR, 2013). One
explanation of the lack of promotion prospects for peasant-workers is they change
work too frequently (Lian et al, 2012). However, according to the interviewees of this
research, it is extremely difficult for the floor shop workers to rise to the managerial
positions. Factories usually only offer basic training to new workers to familiarise them
with the products they make, and some training about security and health (BSR, 2013).
Assembly line work is repetitive, taking from a few seconds to a few minutes to
complete each step. Assembly line workers can learn little in the way of knowledge,
skills or capabilities from this kind of work. No matter how long they work in one
position, the only thing they learn from the work is a specific process of assembling a
product.
In the 1980s and the 1990s, there were limited work opportunities; it was
difficult for peasant-workers to find factory work, so that peasant-workers did not
have the power to negotiate with employers (Chan and Pun, 2010). In recent years,
labour shortage has been a big problem for manufacturing industries (Chan and Pun,
2010). However, the situation has not changed a lot. Along with the Western
Development Programme, more work opportunities have been generated in the
hinterland regions. Many peasant-workers migrated back to the cities closer to their
hometown from the coast, but with similar working conditions. Although their wages
have been increasing, they are still very low (Hogg, 2010). There are three main
reasons that prevent them from gaining the power of negotiation. First, they are
flowing very frequently. It is very difficult for them to establish communities that are
able to negotiate with employers collectively. For example, as Xiaoli (28 years old)—
one of the interviewees who established a women peasant-worker NGO—says, one of
the main difficulties the peasant-worker NGOs face is that workers might migrate to
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other places at any time, making it very difficult to cultivate worker leaders. Second,
peasant-workers, including both of the generations, have very few ways to search for
jobs. They usually rely on their own social network—the co-villagers or relatives, who
are also peasant-workers (Jacka and Gaetano, 2004). The information about job
opportunities of peasant-workers is usually heard from others rather than discovered
from media such as newspapers or the Internet. This prevents them from searching for
jobs with the best pay and working conditions all around the country, and increases
the cost of job discovery. Third, the central government and the local governments
play crucial roles in constraining workers' wages and working conditions. The state
faces challenges from other developing countries with abundant cheap labour, while
the local governments have to compete with each other in order to develop the local
economy. As a result, although there are many laws protecting workers’ rights, these
laws are not implemented effectively.
Management and Dormitory System
Strict management practices in manufacturing industries are pointed out by many
media reports and scholars (Chan and Pun, 2010). These practices are intended to
guarantee productivity. According to the research in manufacturing industries from the
1990s to the 2000s, the situations in factories have not improved a lot (Pun, 2005;
Jacka, 2006; Chan and Pun, 2010). Factories usually set up very strict schedules to
arrange production and the lives of workers. Usually factories run all the time and
arrange two to three shifts. Except for a very limited meal time, workers work almost
from the time they wake until the time they sleep. According to Pun (2005), in an
electronic factory in one SEZ, the day-shift workers had to wake up at 6:30 a.m. and
work until 22:00 p.m. Peasant-workers in manufacturing industries do not have much
private time, which leads to high stress and little opportunity to develop themselves.
Production settings in floor shops are also arranged for productivity. The
assembly line is the most effective equipment for the discipline of workers. As
mentioned above, assembly line workers take their own position and repeat the same
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movement every day, making them the master of that process. Because they are
extremely familiar with the process they do, they do not need to think when they are
working on such lines. Many manufacturing workers say they feel like a machine (Chan
and Pun, 2010). As Pun (2005:77-78) argues, assembly line settings tend to discipline
women, who only repeat the same movement without thinking and are easily
replaced. In addition, assembly lines are set up by the factories to run at a specific
speed. Workers must follow the set speed of assembly lines. Once they are not able to
follow this speed, they will be criticised by the managers or even be punished. When
the workers adjust to the speed, factories will accelerate the speed until the workers
are burned out and unable to keep up (Pun, 2005:91-93; Chan and Pun, 2010).
Apart from floor shop work, the dormitory system enables employers to
control workers’ daily life. On one hand, this system offers accommodation to peasantworkers in cities, enabling them to live in cities. On the other, this system also enables
factories to exploit workers’ time and bodies outside of the workplace. Under this
system, workers are required to obey the rules set up by the factories even outside the
workplace. The dormitory system creates an atom-like life space for workers, making
workers feel like they are living alone, even though they have roommates. Because of
the shift structure, workers sharing the same room are not always arranged at the
same shifts. When some stay at their accommodation, others are at work. They might
never have the opportunity to meet in their own rooms (Pun, 2007; Chan and Pun,
2010). In 2010, 14 Foxconn workers committed suicide, one of whom had never been
known by his roommates before he did so (Liu and Yang, 2010). This system separates
workers from family, friends, and communities. However, it is welcomed by the
parents of some young women peasant-workers, because their daughters do not have
the chance to come into contact with other men, which can protect their virginity
(Davin, 2004).
This section presents the ways and extents to which the state and global capital
exploit women peasant-workers in order to benefit from the process of economic
development in contemporary China. To respond to the question of this dissertation, it
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is clear that the state and the machinery of globalised capitalism provide little space
for women peasant-workers to benefit from these factory work opportunities. It is true
that rural women might stay in rural areas doing agricultural work and caring for
families for their entire lives, if the state and capitalism had not generated these work
opportunities. It is also true that these jobs offer hope and the chance for rural women
to enrich their lives. However, the space for women peasant-workers is so limited that
they hardly have the chance to benefit beyond having a factory job. Even though the
society and market have changed, and the state and capital interests also adjust their
strategy to respond to the changes, they still attempt to maximise their benefits at the
expense of the peasant-workers. Moreover, traditional values, such patriarchy and
hierarchy, also play a part in this process, intensifying the negative impacts of the state
bureaucracy and global capitalism on women peasant-workers.
Experiences, Identities and Subjectivities of the Two Generations of Women PeasantWorkers
The previous section shows how the state and global capitalism influence women
peasant-workers. However, this cannot explain why so many rural women prefer to
migrate to cities rather than stay in rural areas. Neither the first-generation nor the
second-generation women peasant-workers are forced to work in factories. Moreover,
before most rural women migrate to cities, they have heard reports of the difficulties
of factory work and city life from the women who previously experienced them. Many
of them still decide to venture forth. In order to respond to the question of this
dissertation, apart from exploring whether the environment provides chances and
space for them to benefit, it is also necessary to explore in what way these two
generations of women seize these opportunities and pursue their dreams, happiness
and freedom. By drawing comparisons between these two generations of working
women, this section attempts to explore the differences between them, such as the
contrasting ways in which they respond to poor working conditions, their relations
with family, and their expectations of the future.
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Thus, this section focuses on presenting the subjectivity of these women
peasant-workers. They are not objects of culture, power, and ideology, but subjects
that attempt to practice and resist in the process of globalisation and modernisation in
contemporary China (Pun, 2005:12-13). Each generation of women peasant-workers is
unique, making different decisions to maximise the chance to benefit from the
opportunities of this era. Yet they also show some similarities, enabling us to explore in
what respects the market, society, and culture have remained the same during the 35
years since the advent of China’s economic reforms.
The First Generation of Women Peasant-Workers
The economic factor is definitely one of the most important. Although the agricultural
reform has improved productivity and liberated labour, the concomitant increase in
agricultural product supply inevitably led to price reduction, causing incomes in rural
households to fall. Moreover, rural areas were lacking in work opportunities, resulting
in a high rate of unemployment (Jacka, 2006:6). In order to increase household
income, in many cases rural women had to go out to work as well as men, especially
the eldest daughters of a family (Tan, 2005). The families of such rural young women
usually did not prevent them from going out to work, because unmarried daughters
can provide little assistance at home, so that their departure is not seen as a great loss
(Lee, 1998:74-75).
However, generation of income was not the only reason that women decided
to work in factories. Even though rural people suffer from poverty in rural areas,
factory work is never an attractive opportunity. The central government’s emphasis on
urban development has led to severe inequalities between urban and rural areas.
These urban-rural differences have generated the desire in rural people to abandon
their backward life and join the modern way of living (Pun, 2005:71-75). These desires
were intensified by contact with previous rural-to-urban migrants. For example, in past
occasions of the Chinese traditional new year, many migrants dressed up and brought
presents with them when they returned to their hometowns. Meili (27 years old), one
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of the interviewees, says, 'Before I came to the city, I had believed there was gold
everywhere in cities, because the co-villagers, who had gone to cities, always wore
jewellery and fancy clothes.' Such experiences also created the desire in rural young
people to pursue a better life in cities.
For rural young girls, the city represented hope, opportunity and also hardship
(Razavi and Pearson, 2004). However, according to the very well-known traditional
Chinese motto--'chi de ku zhong ku, fang wei ren shang ren'--if you wish to be the best
person, you must suffer the bitterest of the bitter—rural women knew they had to
suffer hardship in order to achieve their dream. Moreover, rural life is also hard, boring
and lack of development chances.
The pursuit of freedom, expanding horizons and escape from traditional
authorities are also important reasons (Pun, 2005:71-75). Indeed, many women
peasant-workers experienced a certain degree of freedom when they are away from
their family and other traditional authorities (Jacka, 2005; Jacka, 2006:7). Moreover,
the first-generation women peasant-workers usually went back to their hometown to
get married and might stay in rural areas afterwards, the urban experience was
precious for them (Pun, 2007). According to their expectation of city life and the
reasons they decided to migrate to cities, it is not suitable to regard them merely as
objects of oppression. They are also individuals, pursuing happiness, development, and
freedom.
City Life, Factory Work, and Identity
For peasant-workers, solving the hukou problem to allow for settlement in a city is
extremely difficult. Therefore, becoming a real urbanite might be just an impossible
dream. On the other hand, many women peasant-workers yearned for the urban
woman's lifestyle (Jacka, 2006:8). However, apart from their different lifestyle, their
peasant-worker identity also made it very difficult to get involved in the city (Jacka,
2006:8). They were discriminated against by urban people (Jacka and Gaetano, 2004),
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and were only able to do the work urban people were not willing to do, such as factory
work, low-level service industry work, domestic work, and prostitution.
Competition in service industries is very intense, requiring workers to be
physically attractive and adept at speaking—requirements that many low-educated
rural young women were unable to meet. Working hours in service industries were
also very long. As for prostitution, participation in such work made it unlikely that they
could marry a good man, because the chastity of women is a very important traditional
Chinese value. Domestic work is also hard, dirty, and fiercely competitive, as well as
providing little opportunity for private time. Therefore, while factory work may not be
the only choice for women peasant-workers, other options were not much more
attractive. None of these forms of work can draw the lives of women peasant-workers
closer to those of urban women. Moreover, these jobs even exacerbate the
differences between peasant-workers and urban women. Even though they yearned
for the lifestyle of urban women, the big gap between urban and rural areas prevented
them from acting like such women (Jacak, 2006:8). Their 'backward' image—the way
they spoke and dressed—implied their rural identities. These traits, as well as their
education level, capability and social network, also made it more difficult to get decent
work and positions of higher status, such as that of a salesgirl in a high-level shopping
mall.
Marriage, Life Circle, and Gender Relations Within the Household
As mentioned above, many rural girls migrated to cities to pursue freedom, escaping
from family and other traditional authorities. However, for many of them, this
freedom would not last long, because traditional values dictated that women should
eventually marry. The view that women should marry is still very popular in China,
even in cities. Those women who have not married and who are over 27 years of age
are referred to as 'leftover' women (Magistad, 2013). It was very difficult for women
peasant-workers to find a suitable husband in cities, because their social circle was
very limited and people in cities were not as reliable as those from their home
358
environments. Therefore, they usually returned to their hometowns and their parents
would introduce them to some good men of whom they approved (Pun, 2007). After
marrying, many such women would stay in rural areas to take care of children and
parents, and do agricultural work. Their husbands would return to the cities to earn
money to feed the family (Tan, 2005).
Pun (2005) notices this phenomenon, which was also demonstrated by her
research participants. However, in fact, many women returned to cities and left their
children to the elderly. Because Pun’s research participants in the 1990s had not
married, it is reasonable that they believed they would stay in rural areas for their
entire life after marrying. In terms of the population structure in rural areas since the
economic reforms, there were three tendencies. The first is the ‘feminisation of
agriculture’, which means most of the rural men migrated to cities and their wives had
to take their position in agricultural labour (Zuo, 2004). The second is that there are
many ‘left-behind children and elderly’, which means that both married men and
women migrated to cities and left their children to the grandparents to look after.
According to the latest government data, there are over 60,000,000 'left-behind
children' in rural areas (Xinghuawang, 2013). The third is that there are many peasantworkers’ children in cities (Qian, 2011). These tendencies look contradictory, but they
indicate the diverse decisions women peasant-workers make. They also show that not
all rural married women stayed in rural areas; many even took their children to cities.
However, more women than men stayed in rural areas. According to the historical
data, the number of women peasant-workers is about a half that of men, implying that
the rural men who migrate to cities are twice as women (NBSC, 2008; NBSC, 2013).
It is also important to examine the relations of these women with their parents
when they begin to contribute to the household economy and whether they are able
to decide how to spend the money they earn. One kind of freedom women peasantworkers gain from working in cities is that they have their own money and their
parents are too far to interfere. They usually send money home, but they can decide
how much to send. Moreover, even though they can only earn very limited money in
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factories, the money they send home might be still more than their parents' annual
income as peasants, which improves their status within the household (Jacka,
2006:177-179; Zheng, 2007).
Resistance
The main difference between the two generations is about the way they resist the
authorities, especially the state and global capitalism. Pun (2005:71-75) indicates that
the migration of first-generation women peasant-workers is a way to resist patriarchy
and the 'backward' rural areas. They intended to pursue their freedom and happiness
and change their fate through migrating to cities. However, that is also what their
family and the state want.
Pun (2005:169-173) indicates that another means of resistance employed by
the first-generation women is their body's pain. Because of the long and repetitive
work, many workers experienced occupational sickness, such as neck pain. The pains
of every worker on the same assembly line are able to slow down the speed of
production. Moreover, these pains also demonstrate that their bodies are not
perfectly suited to assembly lines. However, all these resistance approaches are too
obscure and moderate. As Zheng (2010) notes, if pain is a kind of resistance, nothing is
not resistance.
The Second Generation
For the rural women who were born in the 1980s and the 1990s, migrating to cities is
inevitable. As mentioned above, many grew up in cities; and many were raised by
their grandparents, but learnt much about cities from the migrants. The city for them
is not as mysterious as for their mothers. On the other hand, they are more educated,
independent, and confident (BSR, 2013). Their motivation for migrating to cities is not
the pursuit of freedom for several years, or expanding their horizons, but for self-
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development, and even career development (Pun and Lu, 2010). However, they are
not as easily satisfied as their parents. They want higher wages, more promotion
prospects and more opportunities for growth. Thus, resistance is a very important
theme of their city life and work experience.
Reasons for Migrating To and Staying In Cities and the Expectations of Women
Peasant-Workers
Reduction of household poverty is still an important reason for the migration of many
second-generation women peasant-workers (Ma and Jocobs, 2010). Almost all the
interviewees claim this is their main reason. This does not mean that the struggles of
the first generation of peasant-workers did not improve their life at all. Because rural
people lack social protection as mentioned above, especially pensions and healthcare,
if a family member were to come down with a serious illness, they would have to
borrow money from relatives and friends. As Siya (21 years old), one of the
interviewees, says, her family is deeply in debt, because of her sickness at a young age
and her father's sickness several years ago. In order to repay the debt, she has to give
up the chance to study in college and work in the city instead.
Another reason is that, for many rural young people, especially those leftbehind children, there are few families and peers staying in rural areas. Without the
presence of their families, it is reasonable that they do not feel their hometowns to be
home. Moreover, if they migrate to the city where their families have already stayed
for years, at least they will have those families to rely on. Meili's case is very typical.
Both of her parents were working in a city, leaving her and her brother in their rural
hometown. When she was 15 years old, her parents took her brother to the city
because he got sick, leaving her alone in their rural home. Even though she was too
young to work according to the law, she still decided to join her family and borrowed
an identity card to work in a factory.
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Compared with the first-generation women peasant-workers, who were willing
to pursue freedom and expand their horizons, the new generation of women peasantworkers regard career development very highly. They are not satisfied by factory work
and always want better jobs. Moreover, they are not happy with the low wages and
long working hours in factories, because they have fewer economic pressures and
longer careers than their mothers (Pun and Lu, 2010). The One-Child Policy, in effect
since the 1980s, has meant that the new generation has few brothers and sisters,
which means less economic pressure within households (Guan, 2011). As a result, the
rate of change of work is very high among the second generation. One research study
shows that the second-generation peasant-workers change jobs 0.26 times per year on
average, three times as much as the first generation (Pun and Lu, 2010).
In sum, the reasons for the second generation of women peasant-workers to
migrate to or stay in cities are mostly different from those of their mothers. For the
second generation, it is even seen as unreasonable to stay in rural areas, because
'there is nothing to do‘, according to all the interviewees. Doing agricultural work,
getting married and looking after children are not included in their 'to do' list,
especially for the unmarried women. As a rural woman, pursuing self-development is
becoming increasingly acceptable.
City Life and Identity
Even though the first-generation peasant-workers have worked in cities for over 20
years, peasant-workers' social status in cities has not improved. They are still inferior
residents in cities. They usually live in industrial areas or urban villages, where the
houses are owned by locals and rented to migrants. Peasant-workers' children can
only study in private schools, because the public schools only accept children with local
hukou (Qian, 2011). Therefore, even though peasant-workers live in cities, they are
actually excluded from the urban communities. However, even though it is so difficult
to stay in cities, they are more willing to get the urban hukou and settle down in cities
with the same benefits as urbanites (Guan, 2011). In contrast with the first generation,
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the second-generation women peasant-workers actively attempt to shed their
'backward' image and get involved in city life. Therefore, they spend a much larger
proportion of their incomes on body consumption, such as clothing and makeup
products (Wang and Yan, 2011).
As Luojing (32 years old) and Jieyu—interviewees who migrated to cities over
10 years ago—state, they do not consider themselves urbanites; but they will not
return to rural areas, either. Alongside the economic development in the hinterland
regions in recent years, many peasant-workers have migrated back to hinterland cities
from coastal areas (NBSC, 2008; NBSC, 2013). It is reasonable that many peasantworkers migrated to the cities closer to their hometowns. While coastal cities offer
more opportunities, the cities closest to their hometowns are more friendly and they
spend less money and time on travelling. But no matter coastal or hinterland cities,
they prefer cities to rural areas, and they do not have urban hukou. The secondgeneration women peasant-workers face a dilemma that they are not accepted by
cities and cannot go back to rural areas, because there are few opportunities in rural
areas.
Indeed, there are many opportunities in cities. However, the second generation
of women peasant-workers is not necessarily any more able to seize these
opportunities than their mothers were. As mentioned in the previous section, there
are still few promotion prospects for factory workers. The first-generation women
peasant-workers may not expect promotion, because many of them quit or lost their
jobs after getting married; the second-generation women peasant-workers do expect
promotion and development, but they still lack these things. All of the interviewees,
who are currently working in factories, want to change to a more promising form of
work, but none of them know what work to do. Luojing, who has already worked in an
electronics factory for 10 years, is still working in a floor shop. As the other
interviewees reflect, floor shop workers have very limited chances for promotion;
many of them are still the lowest-level workers after many years in the same factory.
363
Marriage and Gender Relations Within the Household
Compared to the first-generation women peasant-workers, the second generation is
more willing to find a spouse by themselves (Zhang and Hu, 2013). Moreover, the
range of options is also much larger, not limited only to co-villagers or the men their
parents approve. For example, Mozi (30 years old) met her husband through the
Internet. Jieyu's husband is her colleague, who is from a different province. Siya just
began a relationship with a man who she met at a gathering. The rural girls nowadays
have a strong will to pursue their own happiness.
In addition, because of the One-Child Policy, most of the second-generation
women peasant-workers have one or no siblings. In the past, rural women might have
to struggle to win the attention of their parents; nowadays, they have much more
attention from their parents, especially those who are only children. However, some
rural girls have to give up their study and work in cities to support their brothers’
educations, such as Xiaoli, who did better than her brother in school. This suggests that
the top-down policy may change the structures of family, but is not able to change
completely the inequalities of gender.
Resistance
For the second-generation women peasant-workers, the most common approach to
resistance is to change work. On one hand, because workers change jobs very
frequently, it is difficult for employers to recruit enough workers. In order to keep the
workers, many employers have to raise wages and improve working conditions (Mi and
Liu, 2013). Similarly, in order to keep peasant-workers in the region, many local
governments set up minimum wage (Chan and Pun, 2010). On the other hand, this
situation benefits the factories, because they can avoid many responsibilities to the old
employees. In fact, even though workers want to find better jobs, this is not easy to
achieve, because they find that conditions of others factories are similar. For example,
364
many workers at Foxconn have quit and come back several times, because they found
the other factories are similar (Chan and Pun, 2010).
The second-generation peasant-workers have a greater will to learn than their
mothers (Zheng, 2007). However, as mentioned above, they might not have the time
and energy to attend courses. One of the largest differences between the two
generations is the way they gain information and communicate. Because of the
popularisation of smartphones and the Internet, most of the peasant-workers own a
smartphone and have Internet access (Wang, 2013). However, most only use their
phones for entertainment rather than for gaining knowledge or finding jobs (Guan,
2011; Wang, 2013). If they used their smartphones to gain more information about
employers and working conditions, or if they learnt the labours laws via the Internet, it
is likely that they might have more power to negotiate with employers and protect
themselves. The development and popularisation of communication technology
indeed shows the potential for low-level workers to acquire information much more
easily, which is an important part of power.
There are two kinds of radical resistance—individual and collective resistance.
Individual resistance usually takes the forms of asking for compensation for industrial
injury, and ultimately suicide. The most famous suicide cases are the 14 suicides at
Foxconn in 2010. A hopeless future, repetitive work, high pressure, and a lonely life, as
discussed above, are the factors that lead to such suicide. Chan and Pun (2010)
consider these suicides as a kind to protest to express the anger and hopelessness of
the peasant-workers. In terms of industrial injury, the work of women peasantworkers—manufacturing—is not as dangerous as that of men—construction and
transportation. Therefore the proportion of women asking for industrial injury
compensation is much smaller than men (Zhang and Yao, 2012). In fact, peasantworkers usually do not know how to protect their rights and local governments usually
ignore their rights, as mentioned above. If they decide to sue their employer, they
might spend much money, time and energy for only a small chance of success. For
example, Xiaoli received an injury to her right hand when she was working in 2008. She
365
spent two years on treating her hand and finally it became disabled. Eventually in 2012
she received compensation—about 18,000 pounds—with help from an NGO. This is a
successful case in which a worker who lost her right hand finally received very limited
compensation with help from an outside organisation. There are many other peasantworkers that do not receive help from anyone and might not receive any
compensation, as Xiaoli states. In addition, as Xiaoli, who eventually established her
own NGO to help other women peasant-workers, states, compared with men, women
have more constraints when fighting for their rights. In many cases she has dealt with,
the womens’ families might not allow them to sue the employer, because it is very
difficult to succeed, and once they succeed, they might be considered as aggressive
women, a perception that can have a negative effect on their marriage prospects. In
addition, although compensation is very limited, such as in the case of Xiaoli's 18,000
pounds, it is still a lot of money for rural people. Should a rural girl acquire such a sum,
her relatives might try to take it, with the excuse that it is not necessary for women to
keep such money.
In terms of collective resistance, there are increasingly worker strikes and
protests happening in China (Grammaticas, 2010). It is claimed by many authors that
the peasant-workers become angry and cannot keep silent any longer (Guan, 2011).
However, most such strikes were not prepared well, and both employers and local
governments attempt to hamper the strikes. As a result, very few strikes are successful
(Loong-Yu and Shan, 2007). Moreover, alongside the fast development of civil society
in China in recent years, grass-roots worker NGOs and trade unions have also
appeared. For example, Xiaoli and Meili's NGO aims to cultivate worker leaders like
themselves, who were cultivated by another NGO. They hope that these leaders can
establish more worker NGOs or organise more actions to fight for their rights.
However, most of the promoters of the strikes are men. In most cases, women
peasant-workers play a supportive role rather than an organising role (Pun and Lu,
2010). Moreover, among the worker NGOs all around the country, there are very few
NGOs focusing on women peasant-workers. There is a lack of research about women
peasant-worker NGOs in China. As Xiaoli estimates, there are only about five women
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peasant-worker NGOs in the whole of the country. Furthermore, one of the main
reasons that she decided to establish her NGO is that the worker NGO for whom she
worked before did not have any gender perspective, often ignoring the unique needs
and circumstances of women peasant-workers'.
There are similarities and differences between the situations of the two
generations of women peasant-workers. One similarity is that neither of them receive
sufficient economic benefit from their work, and they are unable to gain the urban
hukou. Even though the second-generation might have more power to negotiate with
the employers, they still face many constraints. Another similarity is that both of them
attempt to pursue happiness and freedom. Because it is unlikely that the state, global
capitalism, and patriarchy will make more space for the women peasant-workers to
benefit, their wills and actions to struggle for their happiness and freedom are crucial.
In terms of differences, the second generation is more educated and ambitious, thanks
to their parents. However, they also face a dilemma that their mothers did not: they
are more urbanised and have less connection with their hometown. As a result,
settling in cities is an impossible dream, and going back to rural areas has become a
nightmare for them. No matter where they are, they are always strangers. Last but not
least, another difference is that the second generation is more resistant to established
power structures. However, while the worker-government and worker-employer
conflicts become increasingly white-hot, the common appeals of both genders of
peasant-workers lead to concerns of gender inequality being overlooked and ignored.
Conclusion
We have shown herein a picture of how the state, global capitalism and traditional
patriarchy exploit rural women to benefit from the process of modernisation and
globalisation in contemporary China. This picture shows the ways in which women
peasant-workers as individuals, and as a social group, resist these authorities and
struggle to gain better livelihoods for themselves. It also shows the dynamics among
the state, global capitalism, and patriarchy, and how these forces interact. Although
367
the tragic image presented by these Chinese women peasant-workers is now wellknown, they always strive to control and better their own lives.
Before the Mao period, rural women only belonged to their family; during the
Mao period, rural women also belonged to the state and the collective; in the postMao period, it might be their first time to leave the domain of the traditional
authorities and make their own decisions. The movement of rural women from
families and communes to cities not only promoted the economic miracle, but also
enabled rural women from all around the country to create and share their common
experiences. From the first generation to the second one, the means for resisting
entrenched authority have become increasingly radical and active. This does not mean
that radical action must lead to empowerment; but without actions arising from their
own hearts, it is unlikely that the state, global capitalism and patriarchy would make
the improvement of these women’s lives a priority.
It may still be too early to fully estimate the extent to which Chinese women
peasant-workers can benefit from factory work opportunities. However, it is possible
to explore the tendencies and potentials by comparing the two generations. On the
other hand, the women peasant-workers assemble electronic products at their
workplaces, and they also consume these products in the market. The low price of
smartphones enables them to participate in the Internet, and offers them a chance
and possibility to get information easily and to establish virtual communities. Although
this possibility has not come true on a large scale, this indeed shows the potential for
change.
There are also some changes that have taken place in the society. For example,
rural girls have more opportunities for education, as a result of the One-Child Policy.
Moreover, some international organisations have begun to intervene in the issue of
workers' rights in manufacturing industries in recent years, promoted by globalisation.
These changes suggest that the state, global capitalism, and patriarchy not only
intensify one another, but also at times hamper one another. However, this does not
mean the dynamics among these three forces would lead to a more equal and free
368
society, or women peasant-workers could gain real benefit from their work. Most of
the time, they are co-operators with the status quo. Furthermore, the relations of
Chinese women peasant-workers and the state, global capitalism, and patriarchy are
all hierarchical—ruler/people, employer/employee, father/daughter, and
husband/wife. These three forces tend use these hierarchical relations to control
women peasant-workers. For example, a docile daughter is considered a good worker
by capitalism, and cheap labourers are very good resources for the government to use
to boost the economy. If one of the three forces is hampered, it might influence the
others.
For the first-generation women peasant-workers, they have gained the chance
to earn their own incomes and make some decisions for themselves. For the second
generation, they are able to obtain more freedom, in terms of determining the course
of their own lives, and have more approaches and options for negotiating with
employers. They are not as docile as their mothers and the women workers in other
developing countries referenced in the literature of the 1980s and 1990s, and they
have begun to resist the repetitive work, low wages, and long working hours.
Moreover, the development of technology also shows the potential to empower
women peasant-workers. It is true that the state, global capitalism, and patriarchy
tend to constrain the extent to which they can benefit from their efforts; but it is also
true that the woman peasant-worker always seeks to challenge these traditional
authority structures, to pursue the freedom and happiness that she deserves.
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