Caribbean Charisma: Reflections on Leadership, Legitimacy and Populist Politics 9766370265, 9789766370268, 1588260054

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CARIBBEAN CHARISMA

CARIBBEAN CHARISMA Reflections on Leadership, Legitimacy and Populist Politics

Edited by

ANTON L ALLAHAR

1 Ian Randle Publishers

Kingston

LYNNE

RIENNER

PUBLISHERS

BOULDER& LONDON

First published in Jamaica 2001 by Tan Randle Publishers 11 Cunningham Avenue Box 686 Kingston 6 ©2001 Anton Allahar

All rights reserved-no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the authors or publisher. ISBN 976-637-026-5 paperback

A catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of Jamaica. Published in the United States of America in 2001 by

Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com

and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Caribbean charisma: reflections on leadership, legitimacy, and populist politics/edited by Anton Allahar.

p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-58826-005-4 (alk. paper) 1 Political leadership—Caribbean Area. 2. Charisma (Personality trait)— Caribbean Area. 3. Legitimacy of governments—Caribbean Area. 4. Populism—Caribbean Area. I. Title: Reflections on leadership, legitimacy, and populist politics. II. Allahar, Anton. JL599.5.491 C37 2001 306.2’09729—dc2 1

2001019382

British cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Book design: Sans Serif Cover design: Errol Stennett

This volume is dedicated to all those Caribbean leaders,

whether mentioned in the following pages or not, who have inspired their countries, their peoples, and the region as a whole

by their strength, vision, and example.

Contents

Charisma and Populism: Theoretical Reflections on Pee rtletel anche icine acy a. Me tiesto ioe deeswltees tte tithes ae 1 Anton L Allabar Errol Barrow (1920-78): The Social Construction of

Colonial and Post-colonial Charismatic Leadership in Barbados ......... 33 Hilbourne A Watson

The Limits of Charisma: Grenada’s Eric Gairy (1922-97) and Maurice Bishop (1944-83): Intellectual and Political Biographies........ he Pedro A Noguera Linden Forbes Burnham (1923-85): Unravelling the

Paradox of Post-colonial Charismatic Leadership in Guyana.......... 92 Linden Lewis

Cheddi Jagan (1918-97): Charisma and Guyana’s RESPONSE VVESESTIUCADIEAISIN o25os sectccssesornssversievestuesecansaseungesseoeder 121 Percy C Hintzen

A Very Public Private Man: Trinidad’s Bric: Eustace Williams: (1911283). .-2e Anti ie Recieved Patricia Mohammed

155

Jamaica’s Michael Manley (1924-97): Crossing the CEGHTOUTS OL CN Arisiia ies scodes tanger ttcos cee sce neveSahecacecssauedesdeMeeaectvavons 192 Brian Meeks

Cuba’s Fidel Castro (b 1920): Charisma and Santerfa—Max Weber Revisited ............ccsssscccssssssccesssscesseseees setneecdsenabase 212 Nelson P. Valdés

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Preface

There is a widely held image of West Indians, which casts them as a flamboyant, effervescent and engaging sangmélée set of people. Gordon Lewis sees it as their ‘calm self-assurance, void of either sub-

servience or arrogance’ along with a ‘breezy self-assertiveness’ (1968:26), that pervades the general persona of the West Indian or Caribbean inhabitant. He also notes that they are ‘a widely traveled people’ and ‘a highly sophisticated political people’ (1987:73), thoroughly modern, very cosmopolitan, and very well educated. Their histories of European conquest, colonialism, slavery, indentureship, and dependent capitalism have long exposed them to the global community, and have made them among the most culturally flexible people in the world. As a result, there is perhaps no better key to understanding the Caribbean than to think of it in the words of A Curtis Wilgus: ‘a land of many contrasts as well as numerable similarities’ (1962:xiv). For over the years, ever since the first European contact and Columbus’ mistaken belief that he had found a new sea route to India, there has been vexatious confusion over the geographical and cultural definition of the area. As a region that is noted for both its myth of richness and its richness of myth, whether one is dealing with Walter Raleigh’s ‘El Dorado,’ Ponce de Leén’s ‘Fountain of Youth,’ Daniel Defoe’s legendary character ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ or the dreaded ‘Bermuda Triangle,’ the

Caribbean can be many things to many people. For some, the mere word conjures up images of sun-drenched beaches, tourist paradises, happy natives dancing to rhythmic music, and exotic flora and fauna. To others, the Caribbean is a place where hurricanes and tropical storms menace life on a constant basis, where multitudes of poor, ‘black’ people are daily shaking off their colonial shackles, and where ‘whites’ are not safe alone or in small groups.

Depending on one’s point of view, the Caribbean could be viewed either as a whole, with great cultural continuity, racial similarity, and

x / Caribbean Charisma

political stability; or each country could be seen as individually harbouring distinct blends of African, East Indian, European and indigenous

cultures,

racial and ethnic strife, snational

and linguistic

peculiarities, and little political consensus. Thus, Eric Williams

(1970), Franklin Knight (1978) and Ileana Rodriguez (1983), spoke of the process of Caribbean unity, while Philip Mason (1970), Marc Zimmerman (1983) and Roberto Marquez (1983), focused on divi-

sion, fragmentation, and even the indifference of Caribbean people toward one another. Whatever image of the Caribbean one holds, it is an acknowledged fact that the region has produced world leaders in many diverse fields and areas. In terms of intellectual accomplishment, there have been Nobel Prize winners in economics and literature, while culturally, the region has also produced internationally acclaimed figures in the entertainment industry, as well as, world-renowned athletes. Politically too, the Caribbean has yielded leaders with statesmanship abilities that are on par with the very best in the world; and it is to some of these that the present volume is devoted. Specifically, the volume proposes to analyse the political successes of several Caribbean leaders going back to the early days of political decolonisation (1960s), when the climate of Caribbean politics was charged with a sense of national euphoria premised on the promise of liberation from colonial tutelage. Seizing the moment and the propitiousness of the political mood, these leaders (Michael Manley, Forbes Burnham, Eric Gairy, Maurice Bishop, Eric Williams, Fidel Castro, Cheddi Jagan, and Errol Barrow), to varying degrees and in

their unique styles, exploited a perceived charismatic endowment, which was woven effectively into a populist politics. In the process, they played with the ideas of empowerment and self-determination with a view to winning and cementing the loyalties of their followers. This often involved the skillful manipulation of socially- and politically-constructed identities, which in turn conditioned populist, nationalist, class and even racial appeals in galvanising support from different segments of their local populations. It was a political period in which mobilisation against the colonial ‘massa’ (master), who was

reconstructed as the Other, easily invited the above-mentioned appeals. The various chapters will seek to assess the degree to which the

Preface / xi

concept of charisma is re/evant to an appreciation of the political triumphs or successes of the leaders in question. Theoretically, we begin with Max Weber’s treatment of the bases of political legitimacy (charismatic, traditional; and rational-legal) and examine how these modern leaders were able to manipulate a perceived charismatic endowment in pursuit of specific political ends. Surely, however, while Weber is not the only scholar to have dealt with the phenomenon of

‘charisma,’ and not all will agree with his analysis, he can be used as a point of departure. Indeed, precisely because intellectual disagreement is the cement of scholarship, honest differences over his descriptions and analyses can only serve to enrich our scholarly | deliberations. What follows, then, is a set of reflections on the

themes of charisma and populism in the intellectual and political biographies of selected Caribbean leaders, and the ways in which those themes came to inform political practice in different Caribbean countries. f In chapter one, Anton Allahar presents some theoretical considera-

tions that reflect the relationship between leadership, charisma, and politics in the Caribbean. Allahar uses the work of Max Weber as the point of departure for these considerations, but does not confine himself to Weber’s sociological insights, for though instructive, the latter were developed in a social and political context far removed from the Caribbean. As there has been much criticism of the utility of the concept of charisma, and much opposition to its use as an analytical tool, we will examine the concept itself with a view to assessing the degree to which it is useful in explaining the dynamic, political psychology between leaders and their followers. During the period under consideration (1960s and 1970s), the English-speaking Caribbean was undergoing a major set of institutional changes, that being, the movement away from colonial dependence on Britain, to political independence and a neo-colonial dependence on the US. For its part, Cuba was forging a new identity as it emerged from its neo-colonial dependence on the US to socialism. It was a heady time of crisis and change for the countries concerned, and in the process, there emerged a cadre of exceptional political leaders the likes of which have not been seen since. With the exceptions of Fidel Castro and Maurice Bishop, all these leaders came to power by liberal democratic means. In Weberian language,

xii / Caribbean Charisma

they were modern leaders, whose authority and legitimacy resided in their rational appeals to their followers, and the fact that their leadership was legally constituted. Why, then, concern ourselves with the phenomenon of charisma? How is it articulated with populism? What is the political relevance of charisma in a system of rationallegal rule? And outside of the liberal democratic context, how might charismatic and populist politics explain the successes of Castro and Bishop? Finally, how do these deliberations serve to enrich current theories of political leadership? In chapter two, Hilbourne Watson takes us to the Barbados of Errol Barrow, where the social construction of the latter’s charismatic political leadership is highlighted. According to Watson, charismatic political leadership does not create inequality. Barbados is already a society grounded in capitalist inequality. Errol Barrow felt social democracy would have brought effective power to a majority that could not actualise that power beyond the logic of the abstract universality, because that majority was not rooted in capital. He relied on rhetoric to constrain the middle strata which was committed to acquiring power beyond their entitlements, but-he had no plan to effectively limit the already massive power of an economically dominant ‘three percent minority.’ Freedom and justice bear the trace of force because the version of justice that prevails in societies like Barbados is anchored in force. Charisma never rises above contradictions of class, gender, or ethnicity; rather it displaces the most fundamental of those contradictions. Political society, including civil society, with its complex array of institutions, plays roles in how meaning and values are produced, and how the various social classes serve to legitimate the status quo through their spontaneous consent to being ruled. In chapter three, Pedro Noguera focuses on two Grenadian leaders, Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop, and seeks to analyse popular responses to their charismatic leadership. Max Weber has argued that popular support for a charismatic leader is based upon irrational and emotional responses to someone who is perceived as possessing “extraordinary gifts and talents.’ Like many poor nations, the vast majority of Grenada’s population could be said to have endured conditions of hardship for much of the island’s history. Interestingly, the emergence of two charismatic leaders—Eric Gairy in 1950 and Maurice

Preface / xiii

Bishop in the early 1970s—coincided with major social upheavals which brought about significant political changes for poor and working people on the island. Yet, aside from their charismatic leadership styles, the two leaders are identified with opposing political and ideological orientations, and in fact, they regarded each other as political enemies. This paper seeks to explore the social basis of support for these two leaders. Utilising survey data, an analysis of popular responses to the charismatic qualities of Gairy and Bishop will be used to critically examine the notion that support for a charismatic leader is rooted in an irrational popular response to social hardships. Chapter four, written by Linden Lewis introduces one of the two’ Guyanese leaders treated in this volume—Forbes Burnham—and seeks to unravel what Lewis calls the paradox of post-colonial charismatic leadership. He examines the emergence of Linden Forbes Burnham as a major political figure in Guyanese history, and analyses his prominence in the struggle agamst colonialism, his emergence as a charismatic political leader, and his consolidation of power during the major stages of Guyanese political history—from colonialism, through to independence, and ultimately to the phase of the Cooperative Socialist Republic. During this political evolution, Burnham skilfully metamorphosed from a popular, indigenous political figure, to the maximum leader, whose leadership, though decidedly autocratic, continued to enjoy a certain popular appeal that extended beyond his native Guyana and the Caribbean. He became a champion of Third World political causes such the New International Economic Order and the Non-Aligned Movement, thus raising his international political profile, which he manipulated to camouflage authoritarian domestic policies. The chapter will also examine Burnham’s exploitation of the issue of race in a socially polarised country with a history of racial strife. Among other things, the chapter highlights the contradictions of charismatic leadership by looking at Burnham’s rhetorical flare, his penchant for style, his grassroots appeal, his cult of the personality and his preoccupation with his place in history. Also highlighted is how Burnham’s rule raises many vexing questions about charisma and its relation to patriarchal domination in the Caribbean. In chapter five, Percy Hintzen presents the other Guyanese leader: Cheddi Jagan. He argues that Jagan’s appeal was not necessarily that of the messiah and its definitive association with charisma. Rather, it

xiv / Caribbean Charisma

was his embodiment of the aspirations of the East Indian rural proletariat and peasantry for a creolité that accommodated the essence of their identity and their struggle for humanity. Jagan represented a challenge to the racialised ascriptions of colonialism. In him was the confirmation of their mutablility. His life was one of shattering barriers that hitherto were considered indestructible. He sought to demonstrate their porous and permeable natures, and in the process, he straddled a world of polar opposites. His roots lay in a rural, East Indian, Hindu reality. But he was thrust into a westernised Christian world of the non-proletarian and non-peasant elites. He was repulsed equally by the snobbery of the creole elite and the exclusivity of Western representations and practice; but the freedom of the urban, Western world proved particularly attractive, even though it offered little to assuage his longings for the ‘simple pleasures of the countryside . . . full of rich experiences.’ These contrasts shaped his lifelong quest to accommodate the liberal, egalitarian ethic of westernism, couched in the language of freedom, while seeking escape from the exploitation and snobbery that it engendered. These were the contradictions that shaped his life and that produced the institutions that challenged the core of racialised, western capitalism. It was in this institutionalisation that rested Jagan’s charisma. Next, in chapter six, Patricia Mohammed switches the focus to ‘Trinidad’s Eric Williams, and asks: what visions and fears did the man

Eric Williams have for the society he ruled for thirty years? What insider’s knowledge and political insights could he have acquired to have led his country through a successful anti-colonial struggle, and provided its people with the gift of their first locally written history book on the eve of Independence from Britain? Williams personally crafted a lifelong support for himself and the party he led to victory, and in the process he made some bold moves. Among these was the fact that he inspired the loyalty of women, whom he drew into the fold of political culture when it was still unpopular to do so. Yet, for the majority of the population, Williams remained an enigma from the first day of his reign to the very end, and even beyond the grave. In this chapter, Mohammed attempts to peel away the dark glasses and see what lay behind those protective lens. She does this by examining a range of sources, including his published books, through biographies and biographical articles, and newspaper reports, but

Preface / xv

drawing primarily on interviews with persons who have known him or can relate the impact he had on their lives. Chapter seven is devoted to Jamaica’s Michael Manley, as Brian Meeks attempts to deconstruct what he refers to as ‘the components of a charismatic career.’ For Meeks Michael Manley is undoubtedly one of the most important Caribbean politicians of the post-independence era. What accounted for his rise to power and his overwhelming, charismatic personality? Was it his natural inheritance as the son of Norman Manley, one of the acknowledged ‘fathers’ of the Jamaican State? Or did he blaze his own path to prominence as a militant and dependable trade union leader? What was the role of millenarian philosophy in the transformation of the too human Michael into the near deity Joshua? And what were the effects of race and class on this remarkable transition? These and other questions are debated against the theoretical background of Weberian notions of charismatic leadership and subsequent Marxist and neo-Marxist rejoinders. Finally, in chapter eight we come to the best known charismatic leader and politician of the Caribbean, if not of the entire world today: Fidel Castro. In this chapter, Ne/sén Valdés tackles Castro’s charisma and the role it has played in shaping the form, content, and direction of the Cuban Revolution. The political system he has engineered in Cuba reflects an uneasy balance of formal institutions and charismatic authority. The latter is based on Fidel’s personal qualities, as well as those invested in him by the Cuban people. Of special significance here, is the practice of Santeria, the popular Afro-Cuban religion, which has played a major part in Castro’s continuing legitimacy in the eyes of the bulk of the Cuban population. Castro’s leadership is based on the permanent reaffirmation of his authority via the mobilisation of the population. His contact with the population is his very claim to power, and that claim, which he earned as a

guerrilla fighter, has been heavily bolstered by his popular acceptance as one who is blessed by the Gods. From the mid 1970s to 1986, he allowed a process of institutionalisation to gain ground, while his own very personal touch diminished; but as changes in the former USSR threatened the stability of his regime, he went back to the charismatic model. Charismatic authority is a demanding task. Castro’s legitimacy cannot be separated from the benefits that the popu-

xvi / Caribbean Charisma

lation received through the distributionist policies of the regime. He led the process of establishing new institutions; he introduced the method of mass mobilisation; he also defined the pattern of concentrating resources away from the urban areas, and instilled in the population the belief that they have an inherent right to a job, to proper health care and education.

FERS

Acknowledgements The editor would like to acknowledge The University of Western Ontario’s Faculty of Social Science and its Alumni Research Award Programme for their support in the preparation of this volume.

1

ANTON

L ALLAHAR

Charisma and Populism Theoretical Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy

Introduction

This is not a book about charisma per se. We are not interested in the minutiae of ‘charismatic institutions, charismatic corporate bodies, or even charismatic things’ (Shils 1965:201; 207). Instead, we are attempt-

ing to understand various Caribbean political leaders in the two decades following independence (1960s and 1970s): their claims to legitimacy; their relationships with their followers; and the contexts in which they rose to their positions as leaders. In tracing their paths to political power, we have found that the concept of ‘charisma’ is highly relevant. It is not that charisma explains all, or even the bulk of their successes; however, we propose to demonstrate that it is an important political asset that cannot be easily cast aside or ignored in an appreciation of the politics of the era.

For anyone who reads the extensive writings of Max Weber (1864-1920) on charisma, one thing is evident: the concept is anything but clear and straightforward. Indeed, his discussions of the various types of charisma, which include clan charisma, warrior charisma, primitive

military charisma, hereditary or lineage charisma, political charisma of ancient China, pure or genuine charisma, and office charisma, are defi-

nitely not simple or unidimensional. Charisma is difficult to define, but most people are prepared to attest to its existence; and in existing, it has definite consequences for social organisation, power and domination. In other words, because charismatic leaders have a greater hold on their followers than non-charismatic leaders, their charismatically oriented followers seem not to mind if they bend or break the rules. This gives

2 / Caribbean Charisma

such leaders greater flexibility in realising their political wills and renders them very relevant to any study of power, politics, social movements and social change. : Given Weber’s rather general approach to the topic of political charisma, and the fact that virtually all academic work on this subject has been rooted in his original insights, this very generality ‘set the stage for the current condition of charisma research,’ in which such matters as the

dialectical relationship between charismatic leaders and their followers, are accorded ‘only passing acknowledgment and virtually no empirical specification . . .. (Madsen and Snow 1991:2). As a result, the thorny sociological and psychological issues associated with charismatic leaders, their followers, and the contexts in which these are played out ‘are left in a condition of scientific limbo sometimes described as theory rich but data poor’ (Ibid:32). The present volume seeks to add to the former and to remedy the latter. Weber was in no way convinced that he had exhausted the definition of the term, or that he had successfully documented its myriad consequences for human social organisation. For these reasons we feel somewhat comfortable in extending his discussion to cover certain Caribbean politicians, who, in various ways and to different degrees, have exhibited elements of charismatic possession, whether genuine (pure) or routinised (manufactured). We want specifically to extend his concept of ‘office charisma’ and to apply it to these Caribbean politicians who are each different from the other. For example, one extreme is Fidel Castro, who

comes closest to Weber’s idea of a pure charismatic, while another is Cheddi Jagan, who likely embodies the central characteristics of manufactured charisma, while Eric Gairy probably falls somewhere in the middle. Having said this, we can get straight to the issue at hand. Surely, of all the political questions ever asked, the most important is not whether men and women shall be ruled. That is taken for granted, and particularly in a world where the population is increasing as rapidly as at present, it is clear that we cannot all be rulers. More important, then, are the

related questions: who shall rule? How will the ruler be chosen? And on what bases will the ruler’s legitimacy rest? This concern with legitimacy is at the heart of Weber’s political sociology. Among other things, Weber’s work concerned the relationship between social control and social order. Control, as we know, can be either

coerced or given freely, and while most leaders would prefer to have

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 3

their followers willingly submit to their rule, it is often the case that force must be used. In the words of Machiavelli: ‘Thus it comes about that all armed prophets have conquered and unarmed ones failed; for . .. it 1s easy to persuade people of a thing, but difficult to keep them in that persuasion. And so it is necessary to order things so that when they no longer believe, they can be made to believe by force’ (1950:49-50). The difficulty with a system of social control based on coercion or force, however, is that one could expect a fair measure of instability and potential disorder. For Weber, a system of rule which stemmed from the exercise of raw power was mere tyranny, and as soon as the tyrannical leader let down his guard, those over whom he ruled could be expected to plot his over- © throw. Therein lay the instability, for: ‘Power is an interpersonal situation; those who hold power are empowered. They depend upon and continue only so long as there is a continuing stream of empowering responses’ (Lasswell 1948:10). What Lasswell is hinting at, is the distinc-

tion Weber makes between power and authority. Here, although he does not recognise it, he is talking of legitimate power, which is authority. Raw power, on the other hand, which rests on fear and the use or threat of brute force, is a different matter. Understood as the legitimate use of power, then, authority results in a

system of stable rule premised on the fact that the ruler’s exercise of power is perceived by the ruled as fair and correct. Such perception, what Machiavelli refers to as ‘persuasion,’ is often ideologically manufactured by the principal agents of socialisation. The latter are charged with inculcating the society’s dominant belief systems, its values, culture, and norms. To this end, the family, the educational system, the economic,

political and religious institutions, as well as the media and the entertainment industries, are responsible for ensuring the ideological production and reproduction of ordinary citizens, and for guaranteeing a certain measure of social peace and the orderly transition from one generation to the next. And it is only when these ideological supports— persuasion—fail or falter, that force (a la Machiavelli) is brought into the picture. The sociological question for Weber, therefore, was: what are the different possible types of legitimate rule or authority? Basically, he identified three ideal types of authority or legitimate domination (Vol 1,

1978:212-16). The first is traditional authority, and concerns the compliance of followers with the bidding of the leader simply on the basis of

4 / Caribbean Charisma

tradition. They obey the leader’s commands and wishes, not on the basis of rational calculation, but simply because that is what has always been done. This, for example, is the kind of authority one associates with a monarch such as Elizabeth, Queen of England, whose faithful followers

accept the traditions and rituals which make the royal family special, and which grant its members legitimacy. The same may be said about the relationship between Roman Catholics and the Pope. While neither the Queen nor the Pope is democratically elected by her or his constituents or followers, this fact does not lessen the likelihood that their orders will

be willingly or unquestioningly obeyed by most. Weber’s second system of legitimate rule was termed rational-legal authority. As its name suggests, this form of rule is rational, planned, deliberate, and legally binding on the ruled. The rational-legal leader is chosen on the basis of clearly specified criteria and is bound by clear rules of conduct. Unlike traditional leaders, such as kings and pharaohs, who are not voted on by their followers, and whose children are expected to succeed them, examples of rational-legal leaders are presidents, prime ministers, civic politicians, and heads of various organisations and associations. The latter operate within the context of multiple, competing parties or interest groups, they have opponents, and their potential constituents rationally and objectively weigh their leadership claims against those of their competitors before making their informed decisions about voting. Rational-legal authority is thus, based on a free, open competition in which merit alone is deemed to matter. Then there is charismatic authority, which stems more from the emotional, and irrational aspects of the human make-up. For Weber, the term ‘charisma’ refers to: a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is considered extraordinary and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These are . . . not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as of divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as ‘leader’ (Weber Vol 1, 1978:241)

i

Charismatic leaders are obeyed because their followers see it as their duty to obey them. Further, their recognition of the genuineness of the leader’s charisma and their obedience to him (or her) ‘is a matter of

complete personal devotion to the possessor of the quality, arising out of

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 5

enthusiasm, or of despair and hope’ (Ibid:242). Unlike traditional and rational-legal authority, therefore, charismatic authority knows no formal rules and answers to no precedents, and this is what makes it unstable and unpredictable, while rendering its holders dangerous or revolutionary. In other words, from the perspectives of both liberal democracy and dictatorship, any leader who is able to move the masses on the basis of emotional appeal, who does not require the legitimacy conferred by votes, and whose leadership is not based on coercion or the instilling of fear in his followers, is dangerous for there is no conventional way of controlling him or her. According to Reinhard Bendix, their approval and legitimacy have ‘nothing to do with choice. The leader is called by a higher power and cannot refuse, and the followers are duty-bound to © obey the leader who possesses the charismatic qualification’ (1962:301). And to this, Ann Ruth Willner will add: ‘Charisma disdains formal organizational rules and procedures’ (1984:179).

As might be appreciated, then, the study of charisma is a complex and difficult one to undertake. Particularly in the modern age, the term has been so loosely employed by the media and other popular commentators, that it is now unclear what charisma is and who has it. One com-

mon confusion concerns the use of the term to mean sexy or attractive. Thus, for example, Hollywood actors and superstar athletes are commonly deemed to be charismatic because of the glitz and glamour that surround them, and in part, also because of their highly visible and opulent lifestyles and their outrageous salaries. But this is not the understanding of the term employed in this study. For our purposes, the followers of charismatic leaders are persuaded by what they perceive as special qualities in the latter and are predisposed to carry out the commands of their leaders at tremendous cost to themselves, sometimes even

risking life and limb: ‘When they voluntarily sacrifice something, materially or otherwise, or undergo hardships at the bidding of a leader to further policies that are his rather than theirs, the stimulus would seem to be his charisma’ (Willner 1984:189). This would clearly disqualify the sexy movie stars, the million-selling recording artistes, basketball and

baseball superheroes, and so on. For genuine charisma involves ‘intense devotion to and extraordinary reverence for the leader’ (Madsen and Snow 1991:5), who is often perceived as having divine inspiration.! ‘To this end, the charismatic leader makes no claim to rationality and the follower demands none. In the words of Joseph Bensman and Michael Givant: ‘The charismatic leader does not attempt in principle to argue

6 / Caribbean Charisma

‘

logically the validity of his message, though he does attempt to claim for his message the authenticity of its divine source’ (1975:578). At best, the phenomenon of charisma is multi-dimensional and not easily given to empirical observation, recording, testing and specification. For this reason, a project of this sort is anathema to positivistic epistemology because it seeks to apply interpretive schemas and subjective meanings with a view to accessing the fuzzy ideas, thoughts, and knowledge hidden in the minds of individuals. It is a complex mix of subjective feelings and impressions accompanied by certain undeniable objective outcomes: charismatic leaders do have tangible impacts on their societies and those around them. To acknowledge that the study of a subject is difficult or even daunting is, however, not reason enough for its abandonment. Indeed, to persist in the face of seemingly impossible theoretical and conceptual tangles is surely more intellectually noble than to declare the task undoable and to give up on that defeatist basis. Hence, in the present study, it is our aim to lay bare some of the hidden dimensions of the concept and to try to understand how such radically dissimilar individuals as Hitler and Gandhi, for example, might be measured by the same yardstick: charisma. The point here is that the focus on charisma is not an end in itself. Rather, it is domination and authority that leaders seek, whether these are based on traditional, ra-

tional-legal, or charismatic appeals. And in the present study, we are interested in exploring various dimensions of the latter—charismatic authority—as we attempt to assess the successes of various Caribbean leaders, who came to power both by ballots and by bullets, and who are deemed to have possessed charismatic qualities. Pure Charisma

Weber makes a distinction between pure or genuine charisma and modern or less ‘pure’ forms of charisma. In reference to the former, he noted that ‘Charisma can only be “awakened” and “tested”; it cannot be “learned” or “taught” (Weber Vol 1, 1978:249). Given the different conditions under which it is born, however, we will see how it can indeed ‘be

taught and learned’ (Vol 11, 1978:1143). To this latter category belong lineage or heredity charisma, charisma of primogeniture, charismatic kingship, office charisma and so on. Pure charisma ‘is based neither on enacted or traditional order nor on acquired rights, but on legitimation through heroism and revelation’

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 7

(Vol 11, 1978:1146). It is particularly disdainful of economic pursuits or economic gain and prefers instead to be supported by voluntary gifts and communal largesse: ‘charisma quite deliberately shuns the possession of money and of pecuniary income’ (Gerth and Mills 1958:247). As such, wherever pure charisma ‘appears, it constitutes a “call” in the most emphatic sense of the word, a “mission” or a “spiritual duty” (Vol 1, 1978:244). Further, since pure charisma cannot be achieved or acquired,

it is indeed a rare political phenomenon. Because the bulk of humankind is generally comfortable with being cast in the role of follower rather than that of leader, times of national

crisis or serious social upheaval are particularly noteworthy for throwing up charismatic leaders. Thus, Irvine Schiffer notes that the ‘call to the © charismatic role can come from “a rescue-hungry people” in a time of crisis or distress, which predisposes them “to invest a leader with charisma (1973:11). Those who are needy in this way ‘will charismatize a leader and allow themselves to be carried away by the charismatic experience’ (Glassman 1975:617). These are the ones Edward Shils described as ‘weak,’ and as needing some sort of emotional direction and psychological order in their universe. Their vulnerabilities are protected and their anxieties are calmed by the charismatic leader, who stirs their passions and in whom the weak see the possibility of salvation; and following Shils, Irvine Schiffer agreed that the masses are generally weak and in search of leadership. This is due to their general alienation from the bigger picture of national politics and economics, which predisposes the masses to creating and charismatising their leaders: “Che people of all nations have not in the main been equipped with insight and compre999

hension into the socio-cultural and economic forces of their time’ (Schiffer 1973:8).

Stated differently, compared with the charismatic leader, ‘Most human beings, because their endowment is inferior or because they lack opportunities to develop relevant capacities, do not attain that intensity of contact’ and as a consequence of charismatising another ‘their own weaker responsiveness is fortified and heightened’ (Shils 1965:202). In making the same point, Ronald Glassman employs an existentialistFreudian language and speaks of humans who fall into ‘states of existential despair’ when faced by unpredictable, uncontrollable or ‘dangerous situations’ that generate anxiety in them. In such a context, ‘because of the long dependency-and-love period of human childhood, humans may turn toward a parental figure and assume a childlike dependency and

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subordinate attitude of behavior’ (1975:617) when presented with someone who is possessed of genuine charisma. The essence of such charisma is seen to reside in a direct, unmediated, face-to-face, immediate, non-institutionalised and relational link between the leader and his or her followers. In the words of Bendix,

charisma speaks to a sort of ‘magic power’ that is a unique and ‘transient attribute’ of the individual in question. It is ‘an inimitable quality that some higher power is believed to have bestowed upon one person’ (1962:304; 305). Thus conceived, the genuinely charismatic individual is

possessed of superhuman or extraordinary qualities that literally defy definition, for the qualities in question are subjectively experienced by the followers, and require no real, tangible, empirical proof of their existence. This is precisely why Weber noted that ‘Charismatic belief revolutionizes men “from within” and shapes material and social conditions according to its revolutionary will’ (Vol 11, 1978:1116). Further, a special feature of charismatic leadership concerns the oratorical skills of the leader, where the emphasis is on form rather than content. Thus, Willner writes that ‘rhetorical spellbinding and the charismatic affect it can induce are produced less by logic and ideas than by emotional stimuli, by words as symbols of more than their literal meaning, in short, by the style of verbal communication’ (1984:152). Among the Caribbean leaders treated in this volume, Fidel Castro, Forbes Burnham, and Michael Manley stand out as exceptional orators and superb technicians of the word. Among the defining features of charisma are: the willingness of the followers to obey unhesitatingly whatever the leader may order; to forgive the leader for odd setbacks; and to acknowledge that extraordinary people who do extraordinary things must be given extraordinary leeway in realising their mission. On this score, the charismatised followers do not always seek to evaluate or rationally calculate the results of the leader’s actions. They are often prepared to turn a blind eye if he falters here or there, and if they can identify one or two crucial issues on which they are in total agreement with the leader, ‘they will unquestioningly accept his judgement on a range of issues, including those outside his area of competence’ (Willner 1984:55). As Samuel Eisenstadt points out,

however, the down side of charismatic possession is that charisma is not permanent or everlasting, for the leader’s ‘charismatic claim breaks down if his mission is not recognized by those to whom he feels he has been sent’ (1968:20).

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 9

Since it is the duty of the followers to recognise and do the bidding of the charismatic leader, one might also expect that the leader has the reciprocal obligation to ‘deliver the goods’ or fulfill the wishes and expectations of the followers.-This can be anything from leading them to military victory, turning around a moribund economy, coming to their aid in the event of a natural disaster, or even just defending their national honour in an international forum. Such acts are easily viewed as heroic and lead ‘those to whom he addresses his mission to recognize him as their charismatically qualified leader’ (Ibid). The genuinely charismatic leader is seen to possess some or all of the following attributes: immunity from harm, magical or divine protection, a capacity to overcome great danger, invincibility, and prescience (Willner 1984:22). As might be imagined, however, given the shifting tides of international politics, the vagaries of international economics, and the uncontrollability of such things as natural disasters, this could be a very tall order even for the truly gifted leader. As a consequence, charismatic leaders are always in jeopardy of having their ‘magic’ disappear. Repeated defeats in war, chronic economic hardships, and inability to work ‘miracles’ of various kinds can lead to the withdrawal of the followers’ adulation; for charisma is a combination of three things: (a) the individ-

ual qualities held by the leader; (b) the willingness of the followers to continue to recognise him or her as charismatic; and (c) the context or

situation at hand that affords both the leader and the followers the opportunity to charismatise an event or an occurrence—for example, a crisis. Routinisation of Charisma

The obvious impossibility of anyone indefinitely possessing charismatic qualities and demonstrating their presence is what led Weber to develop his ideas around the ‘routinisation of charisma.’ This is the process by which charisma becomes depersonalised and is no longer seen as a personal gift with special, even magical qualities. Instead, as noted above, it is cast as ‘a capacity that, in principle, can be taught and learned’ (Vol 11, 1978:1143). Nevertheless, though changed, Weber insists that routinised charisma is still charisma. Routinised charisma is counterposed to pure charisma. Indeed, the former, also known as modern or ‘manufactured charisma’, is necessary precisely because of the rarity of pure charisma, and because ‘pure’

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charisma is unstable, unpredictable, and has what might best be referred to as a short shelf life. According to Weber, ‘in its pure form charismatic authority .. . cannot remain stable, but becomes either traditionalized or rationalized, or a combination of both’ (Vol 1, 1978:246). Fueled princi-

pally by emotion, it is understandable that pure charisma will have to be harnessed if it is to have any lasting impact; and it is the harnessing of that charisma that Weber referred to as routinisation. One aspect of routinised charisma he called ‘charisma of office,’ which speaks to the fact that the disappearance of genuine charisma historically has led to such practices whereby charisma can be inherited or it can be invested in an office. In this instance, the belief in legitimacy is not expressly aimed at an individual and his personal charismatic endowment. Instead, following a series of ritual acts, the ‘character indelibilis thus ac-

quired means that the charismatic qualities and powers of the office are emancipated from the personal qualities of the leader’ (Eisenstadt 1968:57). Here the idea of the priest who is invested with charisma as a result of consecration or the laying on of hands, or the king whose inherited charisma is legitimised by his coronation, are cases in point. It is not so much a matter of the individual personalities of the priest or the monarch in question, as it is the office they come to hold. That office must be held in awe by the followers who are prepared to show it deference and respect, and which deference and respect in turn rubs off on the incumbent or the occupant of the office. According to Weber, this impersonal element does not negate the existence of charisma ‘because there always remains an extraordinary quality which is not accessible to everyone and which typically overshadows the charismatic subjects. It is for this reason that charisma can fulfill its social function’ (Weber Vol

Dre

7 S135)

Office Charisma and the Colonial Mentality This notion of ‘office charisma’ or that special importance accorded to one who holds high office, can shed some light on the charismatic appeal of Caribbean political leaders during the 1960s and 1970s. After securing formal political independence from Britain, the various Caribbean peoples went about the tasks of politically restructuring their countries. In essence, this saw the replacement of white colonials by black locals in such offices as prime minister, police chief, army head, chief justice and so on. The mere fact that those offices were formerly held by white colo-

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 11

nials gave them a certain esteem and elevated status in the minds of the locals, and their leaders, who were quick to occupy them, often appeared to carry on the work of the former occupants. After all, the protocol, the rules, and the laws, were all established by the colonials, and their erst-

while local replacements were slow and reluctant to change them. In other words, the former colonised still seemed habituated to the

departed masters and their ways in what amounted to a love-hate relationship, which saw the former colonised as developing a healthy respect for colonial organisation, efficiency, and overall order. After so many years of colonial domination, those institutions and offices, created, and

subsequently left behind by the departed colonisers, came to acquire deep significance and importance in the minds of the former colonised. ° So it is understandable that in the estimation of the ordinary people, those locals who came to replace the colonials were regarded as heros, liberators and even saviours. This produced a curious irony which saw the citizens of these newly independent countries behave as if they were still trying to impress the white master even though he was no longer looking. Thus, in Black Skin, White Masks, Frantz Fanon notes that ‘White men consider themselves

superior to black men . . . black men want to prove to white men, at all costs, the richness of their thought, the equal value of their intellect’ (1967:12). And although Fanon’s observations were based on the African (Algerian) case, they are equally applicable to the Caribbean in the period of the 1960s and 1970s, where the former colonised had instilled in

them a sense of total inferiority—social, racial, cultural—that has deep psychological roots. For Fanon, this psychological condition has two dimensions: the first is economic, but this leads subsequently to what he calls ‘the internalization—or, better, the epidermalization of this inferiority’ (1967:13),

which produces ‘mimic men’ (Naipaul 1967), who are given to emulating the ways of their despised former masters. This is why in The Wretched of the Earth, Fanon spoke of the nationalist or independentist parties which sought to ‘copy their methods from those of the Western political parties’ (1963:111), and described the native intellectual as having ‘thrown himself greedily upon Western culture’ in an attempt ‘to make European culture his own’ (Ibid:218). In sum, those who were entrusted with leading the colonies to independence ‘adopted unreservedly and with enthusiasm the ways of thinking characteristic of the mother country’ (Ibid:178). These are the ones

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that Edward Brathwaite derisively and critically referred to as AfroSaxons, a term as embarrassingly revealing as it is descriptively accurate: ‘The educated middle class, most finished product of unfinished creolization; influential, possessed of a shadow power; rootless (eschewing the folk) or Euro-oriented with a local gloss: Creo- or Afro-Saxons’ (Brathwaite 1971:311). Gordon Lewis terms this the ‘Englishness of the

West Indies,’ where one could find among the local West Indians a heavily pronounced ‘Victorian Anglophilism, an almost imperialist chauvinism, and an uncritical loyalty to the Crown long after those attitudes had waned in Britain itself’ (1968:71).

The inheritors of the reins of leadership of the newly independent Caribbean countries were a complex mix of progressive, centrist, and conservative forces. Thus, as was noted above, in the post-independence Caribbean, office charisma came to be associated with such posts as prime minister, president, governor general, commander of the navy,

head of the armed forces and so on. These are positions usually held by white males in the mother country, and where relevant, in the colony

too. In the context of the English-speaking countries, their legitimacy was derived from their connection with the king or queen, the Empire, and an inculcated fascination with European cultures and traditions. So, in the period under consideration, when the local leaders, who constitute

the focus of this book, rose to those positions, they inherited a certain measure of charisma associated with the very offices in question. Steeped in the love-hate relationship with the former colonisers, their followers came to admire and revere these leaders as special; as extraordinary, for they had accomplished what no local black person had ever done before. Once more, it must be pointed out that the legitimacy of charismatic leadership is in large part ‘an attribute of the belief of the followers’ (Bensman and Givant 1975:578), and that belief does not have to be rationally or empirically informed. In fact, in contemporary society, where the powerful and conservatively owned media play such a huge part in the political socialisation of the population at large, ideological distraction and political misinformation are common. Along with these, one can also identify an artificially created, ‘feel good’ atmosphere that thrives on the public’s indifference to, or ignorance of, national and international politics. In such a situation, ‘individual choices for national leadership might in many instances rest not on an individual’s interests or knowledge of the times but rather on more deep-rooted, highly personalized

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passions that are linked with the everyday psychological imagery that people harbor within themselves . . . ’ (Schiffer 1973:8).

Rationality, Irrationality and Charisma Given the foregoing, it is clear the charisma belongs squarely in that area of human behavioural response that is understood as ‘irrational.’ Weber says it best when he noted that: ‘Since it is “extra-ordinary,” charismatic authority is sharply opposed to rational, and particularly bureaucratic, authority, . . . charismatic authority is irrational in the sense of being foreign to all rules’ (Weber Vol 1, 1978:244). And although large numbers of people may protest that they are realistic and rational in much of their daily behaviour, they still appear to act irrationally on political matters often preferring to ‘select their public leaders predominantly on the basis of imagery’ (Schiffer 1973:10). This opens the door to the image makers or the ‘messengers of charisma’ (Ibid:18), represented by the media and an army ofslick-talking spin doctors. In political terms, modern charisma is staged charisma. It is part of the packaging and selling of individuals and images. Not unlike movie stars, in the case of politicians it is not unusual to hear that they have had voice training and coaches who choreograph their various hand and body movements. This is called ‘scientific politics’ and is conducted by public relations firms that measure public opinion via audience testing and pretesting of various issues, that use lighting, camera angles, make up and other cosmetic ploys in order to enhance the attractiveness of their product. Thus, Bensman and Givant write that: the modern ‘charismatic’ leader is given speech and dramatic lessons surrounded by elaborately planned ceremonies and rites . . . presented in settings that are likely to induce the sense of excitement or warmth, and emphasize personality . . . But the central characteristic of all of these techniques is that they are planned and thus represent formal rationality (1975:605—6).

To this extent, modern or manufactured charisma might be seen as the conscious and deliberate manipulation of the irrational (charisma) in pursuit of the rational (political gain). The main point, though, is that such charisma, even if manufactured, is charisma nonetheless, and car-

ries with it all the implications for leadership and authority as does pure charisma.

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Disenchantment and Modernity The debate over rationality and irrationality, was one of the most thoroughgoing features of the Enlightenment, which witnessed the simultaneous decline of religion and the rise of science. In other words, as humans emerged from the medieval period that was characterised as the Dark Ages, there occurred a shift in the locus of knowledge. Instead of looking to the Bible as a source of truth and knowledge, people came to demand proof for their beliefs and in the process embraced a scientific, as opposed to a theological conception and understanding of the universe and its workings. Positivism and modernity, thus, went hand-in-

hand and particularly in western societies, ordinary people became more intellectually curious and less tolerant of such things as magic, superstition, make-believe, and dogmatic faith. Some societies, mainly those in the East (China and India) were

slower to embrace the new scientific ethos at the level of the general populace and remained steeped in an other-worldly religious mode. Weber referred to that world as an enchanted garden. For in contrast to ascetic Protestantism in the West, the religiously-moulded world of the East ‘remained a great enchanted garden, in which the practical way to orient oneself, or to find security in this world or the next, was to revere or coerce the spirits and seek salvation through ritualistic, idolatrous, or sacramental procedures’ (Weber Vol 1, 1978:630). In the case of China, Irving Zeitlin tells us, in spite of its otherwise secular, rational and em-

pirical elements, it ‘remained enchanted—a magic garden’ and India too retained the mystique of ‘enchantment’ with all varieties of ‘fetishism, animistic and magical beliefs and practices—spirits in rivers, ponds and mountains, highly developed word formulas, finger-pointing magic, and the like’ (Zeitlin 1994:195; 199). In the West, disenchantment or rationalisation was reflected in its dif-

ferent religious teachings, particularly Protestantism. For Weber, one clear sign that the rationalisation of religion had begun, was the degree or extent to which it had rid itself of magic. And in the western world, this led to what he called the process of ‘intellectualization’ or ‘intellectualist rationalization,’ and coincided with the growth of a positivistic epistemology that subjected all hitherto mysterious puzzles to rational calculation and scientific verification. Thus, in Science as a Vocation,

Weber writes: “This means that the world is disenchanted. One need no longer have recourse to magical means in order to master or implore the

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 15

spirits, as did the savage, for whom such mysterious powers existed’ (Gerth and Mills 1958:138-39). What is curious, however, is the fact that in1 the modern world of science, where empiricism and rationality are supposed to govern all that is accepted as reality and truth, there still seems to be a need for the ‘irrational.’ Remember that for the positivist, the supreme expression of irrationality was religion, and according to the Philosophes of the French Enlightenment, the institution of religion was founded on superstition and the existence non-empirically observable, and unverifiable assumptions, and of these, fear, bigotry, and intolerance were born.

But the Enlightenment’s embrace of empiricism and rationality generated its own social malaise, leading ultimately to its own form of intol-— erance and repression of all that was not scientifically provable. This culminated in the Reign of Terror, which led to the eventual overthrow of the revolutionary order in France, and ushered in a period of reaction based on a romantic longing for the old order where concerns with religion, imagination, spirit, philosophy, superstition and community were reinstated. In other words, the disenchantment of the world, which wit-

nesses such things as alienation, rootlessness, and the loss of community, led to a new, or at least a renewed need for the irrational components of life. And among those irrational components, the search for charismatic leadership can easily be included. Making the link with the sense of dis-ease that characterises the contemporary mood is not difficult. Indeed, it is expressed in such areas as public calls for censorship of media excesses and a pervasive perception that, as a whole, life today is too fast-paced. As examples we might point to such things as the public debate over the blind embrace of science: abortion, cloning, gene therapy, and scientific racism and sexism. Add to

this, concerns over public expressions of sexuality, wanton violence, which sees life imitating Hollywood, crass materialism, and an aggressive consumerism, which measures success by one’s ability to purchase ‘stuff.’ In certain public circles too, the move to stem the spread of modern excesses and to revisit a time of supposedly more innocent pursuits, can be seen in a return to religion, calls for the restoration of family values, a renewed appreciation of traditional beliefs and practices, and an overall reaffirmation of community. Irrationality is not dead, and in the context of the present study, the type of public irrationality that informs the appearance of charismatically endowed leaders is also stillin evidence. The contradiction, however, lies in the technology of the modern

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media, along with the processes of modernisation, urbanisation, and secularisation, which make the appearance of pure charismatic leaders extremely difficult, if not impossible. Hence, the need to manufacture them and the resort to routinisation and ‘office charisma.’ Here, Weber

noted that ‘as permanent structures and traditions replace the belief in the revelation and heroism of charismatic personalities, charisma becomes part of an established social structure’ and under modern conditions such charisma ‘finds politically relevant expression in the attitudes of the subjects to the state’ (Weber Vol 11. 1978:1139-40).

Charisma and Populism From what has been said thus far, it is clear that charismatic leadership is very anti-democratic: it does not admit to multiple competing parties, to rational political debate, to elections or voting options. This is why, as noted earlier, charismatic leaders are often seen to be so revolutionary, if

not downright dangerous. Given the tendency toward ‘disenchantment’ in the more industrially-developed countries, however, one is more likely to find charismatic leaders in those countries that are less modern and where the belief in ‘magical things’ still obtains. According to Eisenstadt, then, it is in the developing world (for example, the Caribbean) that charismatic leaders are most likely to arise and thrive. These are countries in which situations of crisis or stress serve to generate a need for ‘charismatic saviors, symbols, and leaders as a panacea for the disturbed situations in which these countries’ are enmeshed (1968:xxiv). In

similar vein, Willner felt that ‘charisma cannot arise except perhaps in parts of Africa and Asia that still have a “magico-religious ambiance”’ (1984:13), where scientific and rational world views have not yet taken

deep root. But there is an intimately-related type of political leader—the populist—who is also more common in the countries of the so-called Third World, and who is potentially as dangerous as the charismatic leader, though somewhat more concerned with winning votes and popular support. In the words of ‘Torcuato Di Tella, ‘typically underdeveloped countries’ in Latin America that lack ‘middle sectors and which are dominated by a small upper class, provide the most fertile ground for various types of populism’ (Di Tella 1965:54). Following Di Tella, and commenting on the state of politics in Latin America in the 1930s and after, Fernando Henrique Cardoso noted that those who had control of

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 17

the state were able to use populist appeals to control the masses and exclude credible political aspirants in a manner that jeopardised or undermined the legitimacy of electoral politics. What he suggested is that a ‘downward alliance’ (1975:179) between the state and the masses was ce-

mented via the appeals of self-appointed spokespersons for the people. The elite or bourgeois interests of such spokespersons would be cleverly disguised with emotional invective and popular symbolisms, extolling their commitment to the betterment of the lot of the masses. In the process, groups and classes with genuine democratic leanings were cast as anti-democratic or ‘oligarchic,’ and in the fickle minds of the popular masses, this was sufficient to ‘single them out for electoral defeat before the steam roller of opportunistic paternalism allied with the impetuous © masses’ (Ibid:182).

Populist leaders who establish a rapport with the masses, and who can also use oratory and high rhetoric to mesmerise the latter, can easily come to be perceived as charismatic: ‘Charisma, though hard to define, was a crucial element in populism’ (Conniff 1999:5). For populist claims play on the peoples’ aspirations for democracy and economic leveling, and populist leaders are keen to present themselves as being above class, ethnic, regional and other sectoral divisions in the society. Part of their appeal is related to what some have termed ‘the revolution of rising expectations’ (Beverley 1983:143) or ‘the demonstration effect,’ and ‘the fascination effect’ (Di Tella 1965:47-50). For Di Tella, the media are

principally responsible for conveying to Third World populations images of a better life and whetting their appetites for social improvement, thus raising the levels of aspiration among the locals, particularly in the urban centres and among the better educated: “This is what has been aptly called the “revolution of rising expectations.” Social psychologists are discovering what tyrants have known since antiquity: give them an inch and they will take an ell’ (1965: 49).

Thus, focusing on the developing countries of the Caribbean, we argue that the euphoria that attended the period of decolonisation (1960s and 1970s) conditioned a political climate in which populist claims of equality, liberty, and even fraternity, could take root. And here too, in reference to the egalitarian claims of populist politics, Weber’s notion of bureaucracy could also be invoked: ‘Bureaucratic organization,’ he wrote, ‘has usually come into power on the basis of a leveling of economic and social differences . . . Bureaucracy inevitably accompanies mass democracy . . . ’ (Eisenstadt 1968:70). This speaks directly to the

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tradition in the Caribbean, which saw middle-class leaders and aspiring leaders, champion the cause of the downtrodden masses: ‘the “barefoot man” in Trinidadian parlance, the “sufferers”, in Jamaican parlance, the “little man” in Guyanese parlance’ (Lewis 1987:11). That tradition, however, was evident even in the 1930s and 1940s, the period prior to the one with which we are immediately concerned in the present volume, and represented a mix of rebelliousness born of slavery and colonialism, on the one hand, and of hope born of emancipation, on the other. The hope concerned the possibility of creating a more just and equal society, wherein the former downtrodden and dehumanised could come into their own as free men and women in charge of their own destinies. Thus, the stage was set for the appearance of charismatic-populist leaders. While populist leaders have no monopoly on virtue and morality, it is generally felt that they attempted to do the right thing and often they were able to deliver the goods to their followers. Further, as political opportunists, populists are not usually preoccupied with concerns over ideological or political consistency. They have been known to draw freely from socialist, liberal capitalist, fascist and corporatist ideas and ideals. Thus, they are best described as pragmatic, eclectic, even flexible, and

their pleas are ‘designed to appeal to the largest number of voters at any given time’ (Conniff 1999:5). This is evidenced by their folk acceptance or cultural approval in popular verses, songs or sayings. Of note, however, is the fact that, rhetoric aside, most populist leaders are more re-

formist than they are revolutionary. In the Latin American context, for example, during the period from the 1920s through to the early 1960s, populist leaders, whether progressive or right wing, never really envisaged an alternative to dependent capitalism and a form of self-serving clientilist politics. The same, however, might not be said of their Caribbean counter-

parts from the 1960s and 1970s, who appeared more diverse in their political aspirations. For even if some might question the seriousness of Forbes Burnham’s commitment to ‘corporative socialism’, or Michael Manley’s claims to constructing a ‘scientific socialism,’ there was no denying the resolve of Fidel Castro and Cheddi Jagan, and perhaps Maurice Bishop, when it came to their rejection of dependent capitalism in favour of socialism. In their separate calculations, a tropicallyadapted socialism was seen as the way to ending their peoples’ colonial mentality and their continued dependence on imperialist handouts. But

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 19

they were not all like-minded, for on the one hand, there were Eric

Williams and Errol Barrow, who had an intellectual appreciation and acceptance of socialism in a Fabianist sense, but who did not see it as a practical alternative for the Caribbean. Then there was Eric Matthew Gairy, a populist of the right, who used his charisma to woo the masses and promise them salvation, while at the same time heading a brutally repressive and fascistic regime. As Gordon Lewis tells us, right into the 1980s, Grenada remained a semifeudal economy in which the powerful few, with the full support of their patron (Gairy), ‘ruled the inarticulate peasant and worker with an iron hand. Social injustice, not social community, marked all relationships’ (1987:8). With the exception of Cuba’s Castro, and perhaps Grenada’s Bishop | in a qualified sense, none ‘advocated genuine revolution or the violent overthrow of the existing government followed by the radical restructuring of society’ (Conniff 1999:7). Instead, as was noted above, the

bulk of them opted for ballots over bullets, and in doing so supposedly reflected the will of the people. Nevertheless, in reference to the embrace of socialism by Caribbean politicians, one must be aware of the abuse of the term in the contemporary media and other fora of popular commentary. Indeed, just like the abuse of the term ‘charisma,’ which

the media uses synonymously with physical attractiveness or even sexiness, so too ‘socialist’ has been employed indiscriminately to discredit any political leader or system that opposes capitalist democracy. In this context of ideological distraction, Di Tella has observed that ‘the word “socialism” is now as malleable as the word “Christian” and it is well on its way to becoming as useful for ruling the masses as it once was for arousing opposition against them’ (Di Tella 1965:53).

Charisma, Populist Politics and Socialist Ideology Like their charismatic counterparts, populist leaders are seen by their followers to have unique personal qualities and talents, and on that basis they are empowered to defend the interests of the masses and of the nation. Among the special qualities they possess, Michael Conniff lists the following: ‘great intellect, empathy for the downtrodden, charity, clairvoyance, strength of character, moral rectitude, stamina and combativeness, the power to build, or saintliness’ (1999:5). As might be imagined, however, to unite a social movement made up of different classes, ethnic

groups, and genders, one that speaks to both urban and rural dwellers,

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and also to the young and the old, is not easy. It must of necessity, seek to simplify its message as much as possible and to rely on great rhetoric and emotional manipulation, while speaking simultaneously to a highly differentiated constituency. For while the ‘lower strata of the masses could be adequately served by a personalized, charismatic leadership.. . other groups, particularly the marginal or the under-occupied intellectuals, demand greater ideological sophistication’ (Di Tella 1965:53). This is where one would find leaders who opportunistically invoked the imagery of socialism and communalism, as was the case in those Caribbean countries indicated above. But given the traditional, deepseated political insecurity of the US and its violent anti-communism, such opportunism was easily unmasked. Also, as Franklin Knight and Colin Palmer remind us: ‘Local policies that do not coincide with the perceived interests of the United States can have serious political and economic consequences’ (1989:16). Thus, in a western, US-approved system of liberal democracy, social movements based on race and ethnicity (civil rights and black power, First nations autonomy, even the KKK),

along with those based on sex and gender (the various branches of the women’s movement), and even certain militant and nativist religious movements, are not threats to the system and its dominant interests. ‘They are, thus, not taken too seriously. In other words, movements based on racial, ethnic, sexual, and reli-

gious identities are at best reformist, in that they do not embodyacritique of capitalism and liberal democracy; hence, they are not really perceived as problematic by the so-called guardians of the public order. Consequently, such movements are not singled out by the authorities for elimination. Class-based movements like socialism, however, are serious

matters and the authorities are relentless in their efforts to discredit and destroy them. This is why the racial and nationalist imagery that characterised the process and period of decolonisation in the Caribbean did not occasion too much worry on the part of the US, and met with virtually no opposition from them. Of course, Guyana in 1953 and 1964 and Grenada in 1983 are exceptions, not to mention the Dominican Republic in 1965 and Cuba ever since 1959 to the present.

Charisma and Times of Crisis As Weber and several others who have written on the phenomenon of charisma have commented, exceptional or extraordinary leaders tend to

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 21

arise in times of deep social or national crisis. In the present study, we want to characterise the Caribbean on the eve of decolonisation as un-

dergoing precisely such acrisis, both regionally and in terms of the discrete countries. For at beth levels, in the early years of independence, the mood was marked by stagnant economic conditions, a conservatism born of status quo colonial politics, social and racial apartheid, plus a general sense of anomie. This conditioned the politics of decolonisation, which plunged the various countries into the type of crisis situation to which Weber and others alluded. It was also the sort of context in which populist appeals would resonate well with local interest groups and create a situation akin to Weber’s notion of crisis that is so fertile for generating charismatic individuals and leaders. In ex-colonial or recently-independent countries such as those of the Caribbean, populism involves an intra-bourgeois struggle. On the one hand, there is the local comprador, anti-national bourgeoisie allied with foreign capital, which favours free trade and has no real interest in the industrial development of the country. On the other, there is the truly national bourgeoisie, which favours protectionism for local industry, the growth of an internal market, and the freeing of entrepreneurial spirit locally. The latter is most likely to pursue populist politics and to pressure the state in the direction of protectionist policies (Allahar 1990). But this is not to say that populist parties and politics are necessarily liberationist in the economic and political sense, for what we are dealing with here is the promotion of dependent capitalism in the ex-colony. Thus, it is easy to agree fully with John Beverley who recognises ‘the class-specific character of populism as an ideology,’ and writes that ‘the transition to socialism requires a break with populism’ (Beverley 1983:141). But this is diametrically opposed to the position articulated by Ernesto Laclau who wrote that: ‘In socialism, therefore, coincide the

highest form of “populism” and the resolution of the ultimate and most radical of class conflicts . . . there is no socialism without populism, and the highest forms of populism can only be socialist’ (1977:196-97). As is well-known, in colonial countries, the rights of the colonised

were clearly circumscribed and class and race privileges were firmly demarcated. Once more Gordon Lewis seems to have hit the nail on the head when he wrote: The well-known West Indian multilayered ‘pigmentocracy’ generated a social structure in which class was closely tied to color, so that black, brown, and

22 / Caribbean Charisma

white were accurately reflected in corresponding social and racial echelons. That correlation, of course, was the heritage of slavery so that social re-

spectability depended, in large part, on each person’s racial ancestry’ (1987:5).

This is the context in which populist appeals and sentiments spoke to the promise of a better or more just social order: ‘It was frankly socialist in program and envisioned radical action to obtain an egalitarian society’ (Conniff 1982:5). As the following chapters will show, the various leaders differed in the extent to which their embrace of populism, whether as principle or practice, could be reconciled with socialism, whether as principle or practice. But what is certain is that each of those leaders possessed a charismatic appeal, which was certified by their respective followers, and which had decisive consequences for the populations and societies in question. However, because charisma has a definite shelf life, we will note that

attempts to institutionalise it have met with different degrees of success in various countries, and the legacies of these leaders continue to be hotly debated in the countries that gave birth to them, nurtured their aspirations, and celebrated their contributions. Irvine. Schiffer captures the essence of the phenomenon in a modern setting when he wrote that ‘the apparatus of stable government has not pushed into obsolescence all those irrational forces that promote charismatic leadership’ for such irrational forces ‘depend on the standards of education of people at large’ and also depend on the degree to which they ‘express the fluctuating moods and sensitivities of an inherently ambivalent humanity . . . Charisma, especially in the field of politics, is with us still’ (Schiffer 1973:7).

Charisma, Populism and Paternalism in the Caribbean In one sense, populist politics can be seen as the converse of class politics. The thrust of paternalistic or clientilistic politics, out of which populism grows, is precisely the work of a dominant class or fraction thereof, which seeks ideologically to downplay class issues or divisions in their appeals to the popular masses and their attempts to integrate them under the banner of their cause. In the words of John Beverley, ‘an alternative and often antagonistic mode of non-class integration is populism: [that is] the mobilization of masses by charismatic leaders . . . who break through the fragile clientilistic controls by building mass organizations controlled paternalistically from above’ (1983:143). While populism can be understood as both a social movement, or

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 23

what Gino Germani calls a ‘national popular movement’ (1962:157), and as an ideology (Laclau 1977:146-47), the separation is somewhat forced, since movements without ideologies are just as empty as ideologies that do not inform movements or practices. Nevertheless, as an ideology, populism evinces a certain ‘hostility to the status quo, mistrust of traditional politicians, appeal to the people and not to classes, anti-intellectualism, and so on’ (Laclau 1977:147). Thus, while it includes social

classes, and while opposing or conflicting class interests can be analytically teased out, such divisions are played down by populist leaders, who, for political reasons, would rather portray a more homogeneous and unified image or front (Germani

1962 157-58). These sentiments are

shared by Conniff, who notes that in both North America and South © America, whether urban or rural, ‘populist or people’s movements were multiclass, expansive electoral coalitions . . . that were led by charismatic figures who promised to redress popular grievances and to build social solidarity’ (1982:3). And in the process of redressing those grievances, a

definite sort of paternalistic politics came into play. This was clearly evident in the Caribbean context and could be seen in the titles freely given by the people to their leaders: Eric Williams is known in Trinidad as the ‘father of the nation,’ just as Cheddi Jagan was said to be the ‘father of the people’ in Guyana. In Grenada, Eric Gairy was popularly referred to as ‘Uncle Gairy,’ and Maurice Bishop was

fondly known as ‘Brother Bish.’ Barbados’ Errol Barrow was said to be ‘an aristocrat with a common touch,’ while Forbes Burnham’s followers

in Guyana saw him as the Kabaka (Big Chief). Further, in Cuba, the most beloved of national heros, José Marti, who has been dubbed the

‘apostle of the nation,’ has conditioned Fidel Castro’s popular baptism as the ‘saviour of the nation.’ And continuing the religious imagery, there is Michael Manley, who was popularly known among the sufferers of Jamaica as, Joshua’, with his ‘rod of correction.’ Finally, of course, the

term of paternalist affection, ‘Papa Doc,’ which was given to Haiti’s Francois Duvalier, cannot be omitted from this list, even if Duvalier is

not one of the subjects of our study. In many respects, the growth and spread of capitalism and capitalist relations of production in Europe led to the disruption of many traditional communities and ways of life, and to the displacement of many traditional peoples, particularly those in the countryside. The unleashing of market forces and the subjection of all social relations to the cash nexus, led to a marked degree of insecurity as communal existences

24 / Caribbean Charisma

swiftly gave way to the individualistic ethos of today. Understandably, new forms of social inequality based on individualism and achievement took hold, leading to the disenfranchisement and impoverishment of the

many and the enrichment and empowerment of a few: The organic ideal of society was abandoned for the elitist doctrines of positivism, Spencerianism, and social Darwinism. By exalting individual qualities and ambitions, these and other so-called popular philosophies induced the elite, and even some middle classes to abandon the poor, sick, illiterate, and

disabled to their own devices. To the extent that the masses were the object of public policy at all, it was only to prevent their slipping into delinquency and crime, not to uplift them (Conniff 1982:10).

The disruption of the rural way of life, where tradition and communalism provided an important measure of social security, resulted in the birth of populist movements that were seen as guarantees against the alienation and anomie of modern living. A concern with restoring the sense of social solidarity that existed in the previous society, referred to as ‘the social question,’ led those theorists who were concerned with answering that question to begin thinking of ways to curb the disorganising effects of urban industrial life on the working class. To this end, many ‘social theorists argued that the way to combat anomie was to reinforce social solidarity in urban industrial society, and they turned to theories of organicism’ (Conniff 1982:11). Unlike the situation in other countries, where populism was more of a rural movement rooted in a rural way of life, in the Caribbean it was principally an urban phenomenon. As noted above, the consequences of modernity, urbanisation and industrialisation conditioned a sense of rootlessness among the displaced common masses and made them highly susceptible to populist appeals that addressed the loss of community and so on. (Conniff 1999:8-9). And as this author noted some seventeen

years earlier, populist sentiments were based on ‘a repudiation of those forces hindering popular representation, social mobility, and rising standards of living for the masses’ (Conniff 1982:5).

‘Societal Crisis’ and the Creation of Caribbean Charismatic Leaders During the period under consideration in this volume (1960s and 1970s roughly), it is important to note that the association between ‘times of

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 25

crisis’ and the appearance of charismatic leadership is not lost. For in the two or three decades leading up to the period of independence, it could be said that the Caribbean region as a whole experienced a period of fairly acute social and economic crisis that resulted from (a) the region’s

prior status as a colonial appendage and (b) its overall pattern of dependent capitalist underdevelopment. In other words, many of the countries in question were characterised by monocrop economies as a direct carryover of colonial commercial practices, established when those countries were viewed mainly as markets to which metropolitan goods could be exported and as sources of abundant food supplies, cheap raw materials, and cheap labour. The outcome was what has been described as a ‘colonial mode of production’ (Allahar 1995a:131-37), which saw the economic subordination

of these countries to the metropolitan ones, and resulted in the ‘unequal international specialization’ of their respective economies (Amin 1977:127). The consequence of this was the entrenchment of their continuing underdevelopment. Hamza Alavi describes clearly the entire process as one of internal economic disarticulation: Segments of the colonial economies do not trade with each other; they are articulated only via their links with the metropolitan economies and they are subordinated thereby to the latter. The concept of internal disarticulation of the colonial economy is crucial for the understanding of the colonial mode of production (1975: 184).

What happens in this type of socioeconomic exchange is that metropolitan capital disarticulates the internal economy of the colony and reintegrates its segments externally into the metropolitan economy, thus perpetuating the fragmentation of the colony and its structural dependence on the imperial centre. In the Caribbean context, this all came to fruition in the plantation economy complex (Beckford 1972) and the subjection of the economies and the local workers to the vagaries of capitalist pricing and exchange. What this meant was depressed wages, labour unrest, economic dislocation, and a pervasive ambiance of social malaise that we are treating as akin to an acute ‘crisis’ in the society at large. Thus, by the late 1930s, almost every one of the English-speaking Caribbean countries experienced significant strikes, labour agitation, and previously unheard-of calls for union formation to protect workers. Jay Mandle (1989: 239-42)

26 / Caribbean Charisma

paints a grim picture of economic conditions during the decades leading up to World War II and after. As a matter of fact, he links the labour unrest of the period 1935-38 clearly to the wretched economic conditions obtaining in the islands. The latter, in turn, he ties to the region’s failure to industrialise and its consequent continued reliance on monocrop agriculture geared to export markets. Nowhere was the impact more noticeable than in the smaller countries. Thus, Ivar Oxaal tells us, by the late

1950s, ‘poverty was most acute among the 60,000 residents of the Leeward and Windward Islands’ and this led to a situation where by the end of 1960, ‘over 82,000 emigrants went by ship and airplane from the islands of the federation to the United Kingdom’ (1968:6).

During the difficult years of the 1930s and 1940s, on both the African continent and the Indian sub-continent, the cries for political independence began to be heard and their echoes resonated powerfully in the British Caribbean. Under the prevailing conditions, the so-called social, political and economic backdrop of the present study, a generation of strong, populist leaders was literally conjured out of the societies of the region. Specifically, there were Alexander Bustamante and Norman Manley of Jamaica; Uriah Butler and Albert Gomes of Trinidad; Robert Bradshaw of St Kitts; Ebenezer Joshua in St Vincent; Clement Payne

and Grantley Adams of Barbados; and Vere Bird Sr, from Antigua. In the words of one astute commentator: ‘all these leaders were thrown up almost overnight, by the “revolt of the masses” rooted in general social, political and economic grievances’ (Lewis 1987:11).

Following the outbreak of labour violence and widespread union activity, the colonial government appointed The West India Royal Commission (1938-39) to investigate the causes and sources. The recom-

mendations of the Commission, specifically the delegation headed by Lord Moyne,’ confirmed the devastating social and economic plight of the bulk of the working masses. As well, the recommendations revealed that while the colonial government was well aware of the nature and scope of the problems, it decided to do nothing about them. It was as if the colonial government preferred to ignore the situation, in hopes that the oppressive conditions would somehow magically disappear. But such was not to be the case, for the conditions were structurally engineered as part of the fallout of imperialism. As Mandle noted, in order that the colonies not compete economically with the mother country, the colonial authorities saw to it that “West Indian manufacturing industries must necessarily be small and weak’ (1989:239).

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 27

As a result, when the devastating conditions described by the Moyne Commission were brought to the attention of. the Colonial Office, the latter ‘withheld publication of the report itself in order to prevent its use against the British during-World War IT’ (Ibid). All of this was due, of course, to the fact that local industrial development was never part of the colonial design, and this fact figured greatly in the distorted or lop-sided economic development of the British West Indian colonies and seriously aggravated the employment situation (Allahar 1995a:111-15). The tradition of labour mobilisation and agitation is one that was set from the days of slavery and found its roots in many mutual aid and benevolent societies established by the various Afro-Caribbean populations. Although these were not favourably regarded by the colonial au- — thorities, local activists did what they had to do in the face of a major societal or regional crisis: declining wages in manufacturing and agriculture, rising food and housing costs, increasing unemployment, dreadful health standards, massive illiteracy, and crass government indifference. From the point of view of the local worker, the social, political and economic bankruptcy of the colonial system literally invited a local response. Franklin Knight and Colin Palmer tell us that since the middle of the nineteenth century, Cuban printers and tobacco workers were striking for the right to form unions, and later this found favourable echo in Marcus Garvey’s efforts at unionising the printers in Jamaica. But owing to the dismissive arrogance of the authorities, the labour leaders became more assertive. They used the backdrop of the 1903 Water Riots in Trinidad and the 1905 riots in British Guyana to press their claims, and beginning in St Kitts and St Vincent in 1935, spontaneous demonstrations broke out all over the region. These finally culminated in major disturbances in Jamaica and Guyana in 1938, proving decisively that: “To obtain political leverage the working and employed classes had only two recourses: the general strike and the riot’ (Knight and Palmer 1989:12). And it is out of these circumstances, which we label societal crisis condi-

tions, that are born charismatic leaders on whom the present volume is focused. The spontaneous and widespread political militancy, which brought together both the working masses and their middle class counterparts, is explained sociologically by several factors. First, was the matter of the growing strength of the British Labour Party, and most notably of its

Fabian wing, which gave certain legitimacy to the idea of unionisation,

28 / Caribbean Charisma

not only in Britain, but in the Caribbean as well. Given the mildly-socialist, non-radical orientation of that Party, members sought to guide the development of the Caribbean labour movement in the direction of ‘responsible reform,’ in an effort to avoid its embrace of too revolutionary a posture or its turn to ‘the communist domination that was manifest among some Cuban unions in the 1920s and strong in other parts of the British Empire, especially India’ (Knight and Palmer 1989:13). Second, was the fact that the war experiences of the West Indian soldiers served to politicise and empower the latter. Upon their return to the Caribbean, then, they sought to claim for themselves the same political rights as were extended to workers in Britain. A third factor in this consideration concerned the general spread of elementary education and literacy, which led the popular masses to begin taking a more active interest in politics and government. And finally, when the writing was on the wall, the British government extended the voting franchise to all adults over age twenty-one, and, thus, began to prepare the way for the ultimate granting of independence to the various Caribbean countries (Lewis 1968:88; Knight and Palmer 1989:13). This last achievement was a clear victory for labour (and their middle-class allies) and represented the fruit of many years of political activism, of political education, of political organisation, and, where necessary, of armed struggle. In other words, the

need for workers to organise, and therefore, to protect themselves politically, stemmed from the fact that the Colonial Office was in no way prepared to serve or to advance their interests: “There was underlying political tension between government and people because government, for the most part, was not on the side of the people’ (Lewis 1965:104). Crisis and Cuba In Cuba, social and economic conditions on the eve of the Castro Revo-

lution were also propitious for change and for the emergence of charismatic leadership. In the 1940s and 1950s, the urban-based, lower-class

family in Cuba resembled most others in Latin America or the Caribbean. Common law unions, and hence ‘illegitimacy’ were widespread. Money was scarce, literacy levels were quite low, and children often went through life on the streets with a minimum of parental supervision. The characteristic picture was one in which single parent, femaleheaded families lived in solares that were located in certain sections of well-to-do neighbourhoods. The solares were crowded, one-room,

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 29

squalid barracks that lined narrow alleys, and served as a ready pool of cheap labour (maids, cooks, gardeners, chauffeurs, shoe-shine boys and the like) for the members of the aristocratic households.

The solar was a world unto itself. Vice, violence and corruption were typical of situations where otherwise decent people were reduced to living in human scrap heaps. One survey of 50 Havana solares in 1945, found 1,434 rooms, each inhabited by at least one family. In one case,

twelve adults and four children occupied a room of approximately 10 by16 feet (Chailloux Cardona 1945). This author also reported on a solar in the elite Vedado residential district, where the starkness of life could

be measured by the sanitary conditions under which people were forced to live: 187 persons shared two toilets and paid an average rent of US$12 per month, per room, at a time when the minimum wage was US$45 per month. These were some of the social circumstances that would prove so fertile for the appeals of the Castro-led revolution, which had among its priorities (a) the reduction of entrenched class inequalities, (b) the elim-

ination of illiteracy among the poor, (c) the removal of unscrupulous landlords and usurious rents, and ultimately (d) the granting of ownership rights to the occupants of the ‘apartments’ and assorted dwellings, to which the old order had consigned them. But these changes were not confined to the urban areas alone. For, in the countryside, social condi-

tions were equally harsh for the peasants and rural poor who stood to benefit from proposed revolutionary measures. Land distribution and type of tenure in the rural sector were accurate indicators of family means. Thus, family structure varied among those who owned land, those who rented it, squatters, sharecroppers, and ordinary agricultural labourers. Among these various class fractions and occupational categories, the situation of women affords an accurate insight into the wider crisis in the society at large.

Women Before the Revolution* The situation of Cuban women in the decades prior to 1959 is hardly paradoxical. In a society made by men with the interests of men in mind,

women were grossly underrepresented in the work force. They belonged to the casa (house), while men were of the calle (street). Nevertheless, ac-

cording to the census of 1953, women had a higher literacy rate than men: 78.8 per cent versus 74.1 per cent, respectively, and they also

30 / Caribbean Charisma

tended to receive more formal schooling. In terms of paid employment, however, the figures are revealing. According to the Cuban Economic Research Project’s, A Study on Cuba, of the total urban population that was economically active in 1953, 22.5 per cent were female and 84.1 per cent were male; while in the rural sector, the figure for women was a low

12.5 per cent and a healthy 90.8 per cent for men (1965:427-28). These data are even more compelling when we consider that women tended to be concentrated in low-prestige and consequently low-paying jobs, such as primary school teachers (81.1 per cent) and domestic servants (89.2 per cent). Margaret Randall reports that in the latter category, some 70,000 women who lived and worked in the homes of the wealthy earned between US$8 and US$25 per month, to which must be added the estimated figure of over 100,000 women who earned their living as prostitutes (1974:9 and 1981:125). This latter reality is graphically described by Inge Holt-Seeland: ‘. . . prostitution was organized, and thousands of people lived off it.’ And in Havana alone, “Iwenty city blocks! Two million, one hundred and fifty two thousand, seven hundred and eighty two square feet of houses dedicated to corruption’ (1981:92). Thus, when the revolution triumphed on January 1, 1959, women in

Cuba were seriously marginalised in economic terms. And even in those areas where they were most economically active, little appeared to have changed since the turn of the century. For example, Randall tells us that in 1903, 70 per cent of all women who worked were employed in the ‘low-paying, wretched category of domestic servant, while the bulk of the remaining 30 per cent were devoted to ‘long hours of hard manual labour and the sub-human conditions in the tobacco industry’ (1975:5). In 1919, she continues, over 50 per cent of working women were maids

and 33 per cent found employment in tobacco and other light industries. Minuscule numbers were to be found in agriculture, commerce and transportation (Ibid). And by 1943, as José Moreno affirms, although women comprised 48 per cent of the total population, they only accounted for 10 per cent of the labour force (1971:479), and were concentrated in areas that carried low prestige and low remuneration. Further, on the eve of the revolution (1956-57), when women’s labour

force participation had grown to 14 per cent, 70 per cent of that number were still in domestic service (Murray 1979:61).

Of some relevance here, is the fact that women’s higher literacy rates meant that they were well represented in such professions as teaching and nursing (46 per cent), but quite underrepresented in traditional

Reflections on Leadership and Legitimacy / 31

white collar office jobs (15-20 per cent), and blue collar jobs (two and 10 per cent). Between 1943 and 1957, women comprised 41-48 per cent of those employed in such service jobs as retail sales, cooks, waitresses and cashiers, but only accounted for 15-19 per cent of those employed in industry, six and nine per cent of commerce, and less than three percent in agriculture, fishing, mining, construction and transportation (Moreno 1971:479). Conclusion

At the beginning of this chapter, it was observed that this is not a book about charisma per se. Now it may be added that it is neither a book about the Caribbean per se. Rather, it is about a select group of Caribbean political leaders who are deemed by their constituents to be charismatic. Further, in all but two of the cases examined (Castro and

Bishop), the leaders in question came to power by electoral means. In other words, they were first rationally and legally put into power, and later their charismatic qualities were grafted on to them and their ‘offices’ to provide an added legitimacy to their exercise of rule. In the case of Castro, while no one disputes his extraordinary leadership strengths and talents, during the phase of armed struggle in the Sierra Maestra, his charisma too was born after the revolutionary triumph, and linked to a specific event early in the post-revolutionary consolidation of victory (see chapter eight). Then there is Bishop: a brilliant, tall, physically attractive, and gentle man. In the early days following the Grenadian revolution, his personal charm and charisma could not be denied; but it could be overplayed. For not unlike former US President John F Kennedy, much of Bishop’s charisma could be seen as residing in the tragic circumstances of his death. Nevertheless, he did possess charismatic appeal, and that appeal grew as his identification with the revolution grew. In the pages that follow, then, we will attempt to lay bare some of the charismatic qualities and features of this most fascinating set of Caribbean leaders, who lived through, and helped to shape, a most fascinating period of Caribbean history.

32 / Caribbean Charisma

ENDNOTES 1 This is particularly evident in the case of Cuba’s Fidel Castro, and is brilliantly

treated by Nelson Valdés in chapter eight.

‘

23 Once more this is brought home by Valdés (chapter 8) in his discussion of Cuban Santeria and its link with charisma. ‘ orientation, and this was Fabian a of clearly was Commission the of thinking . The populations. local the of reflected in a certain sympathy for the situation . For a fuller treatment and comparison of the situation of women and the family in Cuba before and after the Revolution, see Anton L Allahar (1994; 1995b).

2

HILBOURNE

A WATSON

Errol Barrow (1920-87) The Social Construction of Colonial and

Post-colonial Charismatic Political Leadership in Barbados

Introduction

The political career of the late Errol Walton Barrow (1920-87) of Barbados, spanned the period from 1951 to 1987. This chapters deals with his political leadership mainly during that span of 36 years.! Barrow grew up ina family where his father and uncle adopted progressive positions on issues of politics, economics, women, religion and justice. Their radicalism was of the sentimental and moral type that stressed uplifting the poor within a context of delayed ‘subversiveness’ that characterises Fabian Socialism. Barrow joined the Barbados Labour Party (BLP) in 1951, following his return from military service in the Royal Air Force (RAF) in England, and academic study at the London School of Economics (LSE). He broke with the BLP in 1955, and helped to create the Democratic Labour Party (DLP) in 1956; he led the DLP to its first vic-

tory in 1961. From 1961-66, he served as Premier of Barbados and became the country’s first independence prime minister in 1966. The DLP won three consecutive victories under Barrow, in 1961, 1966, and 1971,

but lost the government in 1976 and 1981 to the BLP. Barrow and the DLP won in 1986; Barrow retained his parliamentary seat from 1957 to 1987. He died of heart failure in June 1987 at age 67, approximately one year after leading the DLP to its fourth five-year term in 25 years. The people hailed Barrow as a war hero for his military service in World War II. They came to view him as leader of the nation, father of independence, a national hero, and a man ‘of the people.’ Some called him a patrician and an aristocrat with ‘a common touch.’ Others claimed he understood the insecurities, needs, and aspirations of the masses, and

34 / Caribbean Charisma

knew how to translate popular expectations into viable public policies. The popular view in Barbados is that Errol Barrow arrived on the political scene at the right moment and was destined to lead the nation into independence, and produce stable, progressive, and pragmatic governments. Part of his charismatic appeal hinged on this belief. This chapter begins with Max Weber's discussion of charismatic leadership, to show the importance of locating political leadership within the social relations of production, and to provide a context for situating Barrow’s charismatic authority. Then, it is argued that the British Empire played a key role in shaping the political leadership that emerged among the British West Indian (BWI) colonial intelligentsia. Finally, the implications for the ideological consciousness of the colonial and postcolonial intelligentsia is analysed, as well as the vision the intelligentsia held of the British Empire and Commonwealth, as the epitome of the ‘moral idea of freedom.’ The belief in the British Empire as the moral idea of freedom became part of the political ideology and culture in which Barrow’s charismatic political leadership took shape. The moral idea of freedom arises like Hegel’s light in the origin of Western civilisation, having been there all along without origin, but having an end point that glows in the West. It has to be taken to the rest of the world by Europeans. It is a belief and a set of ontological assumptions that cannot be proven. The discussion of the institutionalisation of Barrow’s charismatic leadership, unfolds around an analysis of how he used the ‘independence debate’ in the early 1960s to invent a tradition of political and economic stability in Barbados. He embraced a pragmatic version of respectable liberal radicalism that was acceptable to postwar Anglo-American imperialism, under the aegis of the Liberal Hour and the Western Cold War project. Barrow argued that Barbados’ tradition of political and economic stability was a natural extension of the stability of the British con- | stitutional and political order. His strategy proved contradictory, as it helped to weaken the radicalism of the working class movement, even when he seemed to celebrate that history. His charisma was critical in shaping the commonsensical and pragmatic way he and the public came to view change. Among other issues, there were the related questions of patriarchy and gender. The question, ‘what do women really want?’ preoccupied the DLP leadership. It was a classic patriarchal response to attempts by women to gain visibility and leadership in decision making. Also dealt with are the challenges to Barrow’s leadership and the crisis of succession

Errol Barrow

/ 35

strategy, to which he contributed. Despite important contributions to the development of Barbados and its people, Barrow also bears responsibility for contributing to the crisis in which the DLP found itself for most of the period since his death.

Max Weber and Charisma: Why Social Relations of Production Matter Political leadership, including charismatic political leadership, is produced and reproduced as part of the social relations of production in society. The emergence of charismatic political leadership, may, or may not, signal a distinct challenge to the dominant system of power and rule © in a society. Charismatic leadership tends to reveal its contradictoriness when it challenges the status quo, from any point, to redress popular grievances associated with oppression, exploitation, and exclusion. Normally, oppressed, exploited, and excluded people look to a certain individual and/or political movement or political party, to capture the imagination of the people, channel their hopes and aspirations, and deliver them from their predicament. Charismatic political leadership is not peculiar to societies with a colonial history; charismatic political leaders are as rational as political leaders in the so-called rational-legal system that modernisation ideology fetishises. This paper’s claim, that political leadership is produced and reproduced in social relations of production, appreciates that the organisation of state power, private property, property rights, property relations and the juridical right to property income are historically given and institutionally configured. Those who dominate the means of production in society are never indifferent to the reproduction of the modes of political power and forms of leadership that privilege their position. The liberal tenets of philosophical and methodological individualism, treat the exploited and oppressed people as incomplete or ‘fragmentary beings, incapable of whole

individuality,’

(Lawrence,

1982:105;

see Bartra,

1992:178). Such an approach masks the fact that inequality, oppression, exploitation, and alienation are among the necessary ingredients of systems that rely on force to inform their concepts of justice. Weber appreciated that ‘domination becomes an indispensable part of democratic administration’ and ‘domination transforms amorphous and intermittent social action into persistent association’ (see Roth 1978:xci; lxxxix). Domination and inequality are already embedded in the social rela-

36 / Caribbean Charisma

tions of production under capitalist democracy, which explains why such democracy must define domination as legitimate compulsion. In order to sustain capitalism, the passion for profit making and capital accumulation have to be separated from domination and-elevated to the highest form of personal virtue (Weber, Vol 2, 1978:1191). Charisma, bureau-

cratic legitimacy and capitalist democracy are linked with surplus extraction (exploitation), private appropriation and capital accumulation, and populism and clientelism, and related notions, embellish charisma and

charismatic appeal in relation to the protest against oppression and the quest for deliverance. Where bourgeois economic and political class interests are concerned, the modern proletariat poses challenges that must be addressed, and charismatic leadership has come in handy in this respect. According to Weber, hierocracy endeavors to transform the capitalist dependency of the working class into a personal authoritarian subordination amenable to caritas; in particular, the hierocracy recommends those “welfare institutions” which restrict the workers anti-authoritarian freedom of mobility; it also furthers as much as possible the home industry, which favors family bonds and patriarchal work relations, as against the concentration in factories, which promotes antiauthoritarian class consciousness. With deep distrust the hierocracy views an anti-authoritarian weapon such as the strike and all organisations which facilitate it; it opposes most when they threaten to result in interdenominational solidarity (Weber, Vol 2, 1978:1195).

Weber, in showing that hierocracy is devoted to the repression of the insubordination of the working class, also stressed the centrality of ‘the relative importance of the economic factor and of social changes in the — lower strata’ (see Roth, 19978:xlviii).

Weber wanted to protect capitalism from worker insubordination, such as might result in state economic regulation, supervision and the broader bureaucratisation of society and ‘subdue capitalism’ (quoted in Roth, 1978:lviii). Weber looked to the rational-legal system to provide the ‘revolutionary force of reason’ that could alter ‘the situations of life and hence its problems, in this way changing men’s attitudes toward them’ (Weber Vol I, 1978:245). He noted that it is ‘recognition on the part of those subject to authority, which is decisive for the validity of charisma,’ and he questioned the notion that miracles, hero worship and absolute trust in a leader are the legitimate marks of genuine charisma.

Errol Barrow / 37

Those who are subject to charismatic authority must recognise its genuineness and act accordingly on the basis of ‘complete personal devotion arising out of enthusiasm, or of despair and hope’ (Weber, Vol I, ; 1978:242). Charisma is not a residual category that bleeds into bureaucratic rational-legal forms of leadership from the outside (see Roth 1978:xcvi).

Weber argued that ‘it is the charismatically qualified leader who is obeyed by virtue of personal trust in his revelation, his heroism or his exemplary qualities so far as they fall within the scope of the individual’s belief in his charisma’ (Vol I, 1978:216). In other words, heroes do not

merely invent their political persona. Weber claims that charismatic types possess ‘supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers and qualities’ that are considered to be of ‘divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as a “leader” (Vol I, 1978:241). He appreciated that domination does not freely ‘limit itself to the appeal to material or affectual or ideal motives as a basis for its continuance,’ and that a system of domination will attempt ‘to establish and to cultivate the belief in its legitimacy’ (Vol P7815): Danns questions Weber’s ‘ideal type,’ reformulates the charismatic type, and distinguishes between the charismatic personality and the charismatic leader, and he contends that possessing a charismatic personality is a prerequisite for becoming a charismatic leader (1982:69). As will be demonstrated in the case of Errol Barrow, Danns’ contemporary charismatic leader is ‘oriented to economic and utilitarian considerations and makes use of rational and institutionalised means to attain his ends.’ Such leaders employ means like ‘demagoguery, expounding of new ideas, achievements in rational endeavors, and/or personal magnetism’ to gain the unconditional support of society. They reach across the economic, political and social spheres of society to gain effective control over the conditions of existence of the masses who trust them, to the point of engendering some of the conditions through which their own ‘domination or rule’ (Danns, 1982:69) is reproduced.

Danns’ argument has a plausible ring, but he tends to make the charismatic leader an adjunct of the social relations of production. ‘The charismatic leader does not bring domination with him/her intoa relationship as political leader, because domination comes already embedded in the social relations of production (Watson, 2000b; Weber, Vol I,

1978:254). Charismatic leaders often speak to the nation through

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appeals to nationalist and populist cultural sensibilities, routinely drowning out the discourse on class in rhetoric that stresses compensatory accounting. Or, as Tom Bottomore put it in thé context of Weber’s notion of charisma, ‘the charismatic leader is the politician who can most effectively arouse nationalist fervor and set, or keep, the nation on its path to glory’ (Bottomore, 1984:129-30). Weber’s charismatic nationalist leaders

are rational when their nationalism converges with capitalism and irrational when they embrace modernisation strategies that eschew capitalism.

The Social Context and Formation of Errol Barrow’s Ideological Consciousness Sir Peter Morgan? said Barrow ‘was an old-fashioned benevolent aristocrat. He came from a plantation-owning, black, middle class family when there were not very many of them. He had good family training, the finest education and a wide experience for a young man. He was often imperious and demanding.’ Morgan also saw him as courteous, hardworking, and ‘at home and totally comfortable in the lowest echelons of society in whichever village or city back street he found himself’ (1994:76, 77). Barrow’s gregariousness fed the impression that he was a man of the people. Sir Courtney Blackman saw Barrow as a man for the people, rather than as a man of the people (Interview with Sir Courtney Blackman). From the 1950s, when Barrow helped to create the DLP, the ten-

dency has been to frame the debates on the political issues that separated the DLP from the BLP in stark terms. The mainstream in the BLP and in the Barbados Workers Union felt Barrow’s split ‘did not augur well for the labour movement in Barbados,’ and the self-appointed guardians of workers’ interests ‘wanted to crush the new party in its infancy’ (Hunte, 1987:12a). Barrow had set out to modify the most entrenched

forms of white class power and racial privilege in Barbados (see Mack, 1967:140-64; Lamming, 1987; Speeches by Errol Barrow>: p 182). For this, he felt the time had come to begin to reconstruct the borders of the state in line with the Keynesian initiatives of the Liberal Hour. Barrow appreciated that the social relations of production were pivotal in any analysis

of social change. He knew that those who owned the leading business establishments also dominated parliamentary politics and institutions in Barbados. The small white planter and merchant class derived its ‘eco-

Errol Barrow / 39

nomic and political power from ownership of virtually all of the most fertile land and from control of all imports and exports of this agricultural community. It monopolised the seats in the House of Assembly and provided the bulk of the Legislative Council, nominated by the governor. It also controlled the vestries, the church, the law courts, the press

and the academic institutions.’ In contrast, the mainly propertyless black majority relied on ‘plantation owners and managers for employment and for the privilege of renting a small portion of estate-owned land in order to grow ground provisions for themselves and their families. They subsisted on very low wages and without the benefit of any kind of welfare system. Only the most destitute among them could find refuge in the parochial almshouses that had gradually sprung up in the postemancipation age’ (Blackman, 1995:6). Barrow’s progressive outlook reflected an admixture of liberal and Fabian ideas. Liberalism embraces elements of aristocratic elitism from Conservatism and Barrow carried elitist tendencies to his grave. Liberalism reduces workers as social beings to ‘private individuals with certain rights and responsibilities, rather than as members of a subordinate social class engaged in ongoing collective struggle against the power of capital in the workplace and against the privileging of private property entailed in liberalism’s core conception of social reality’ (Rupert, 1996:167). Fabianism may see workers as social beings, but is also guilty of subjecting their aspirations to the logic of delayed subversiveness. By the time Barrow had risen to political prominence, the social relations of production had been modified by the abolishment of the property qualification that determined eligibility to vote. Property ownership and income had been the legal bedrock for restricting the franchise to the propertied interests. Between 1880-1918, the number of registered voters increased from 1,300 to less than 2,000 (Beckles, 1990:65, 120,

126, 157). Following the electoral reforms of 1943-44, the voting list expanded and the BLP and the Congress Party each won eight seats and changed the composition of the so-called ‘old representative’ House of Assembly, but on a very restrictive franchise. When the ‘property or income requirements for both voting and House membership’ were abolished, the electorate increased from 30,000 in 1948, to 100,000 in 1950 (Beckles, 1990:182-84, 186; Morgan 1994:6-7), revealing how the en-

trenchment of the power of capital in the state, law and society had sustained class exploitation, racial oppression, and inequality in colonial

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Barbados. In 1951, the BLP won 16 of the 24 seats in the House of Assembly (Sealy, 1991:27).

Barrow left for England via Canada in 1940. By that time, certain members of his family had already made important contributions to the propagation of progressive ideas in the local political culture. His father, the Reverend Reginald Barrow, studied Classics at Codrington College, and served as a Curate at St Lucy Parish Church, where he used the pulpit to preach progressive sermons in defense of the rights of the economically exploited and racially oppressed masses. His uncle, Charles Duncan O’Neal, who studied medicine at Edinburgh University, and who became a Fabian Socialist while in Scotland, also influenced Bar-

row. When Duncan O’Neal returned to Barbados from Edinburgh, he became a founding member of the Barbados Democratic League, which

was also the precursor of the BLP, the Barbados Workers Union (BWV), and ultimately the DLP (Morgan, 1994:12-13; Mack, 1967:155; Lam-

ming, 1987). Lamming argues that Barrow’s military service gave him an insight into the complex social class order of British society, and as a ‘product of empire, he caught a glimpse of those who had made the rules by which his own childhood had been indoctrinated.’* It was at the London School of Economics (LSE) 5, that Barrow got first-hand exposure to the

Fabian Socialism of Harold Laski and the British Labour Party (Lamming, 1987:18b; Springer, 1987:31c). When he returned to Barbados, the work of the Democratic League, the BLP and the BWU was paying off in a measure of social, political and constitutional reform. Specifically, universal adult suffrage was in place (Beckles, 1990:185-89); the

social democratic influence of the Democratic League had begun to take root in the popular imagination; the BWU initiated a progressive course to improve workers rights via social reform legislation, and the selfconsciousness of the masses began to be awakened. It is noteworthy that progressive elements in Barbados, like certain members of Barrow’s family, drew on radical themes from British politics and set them in motion on behalf of the Barbadian working class. Barrow returned to Barbados with credentials that helped to forge his charismatic political image (Interview with Dr George Belle; see Morgan, 1994:19-20). As a war hero, he seemed immortal, and the masses felt that God had protected him from harm to return to lead them®— even though as a pilot, he was in the company of very few Barbadians. His training in law and economics also put him in the enviable position

Errol Barrow

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of a person with knowledge about constitutional, legal and economic matters. These factors helped him, as a new parliamentarian, to translate complex economic issues into simple terms on the floor of the House of Assembly. This he was ablé to do in ways that were readily accessible to an urban or rural working class person. As a lawyer, his considerable oratorical skills enhanced his charismatic and populist appeal. He could go into the law courts and simplify the complexities of colonial law and practice in his defense of the accused. His understanding of the workings of the colonial judicial system led him to comment that the law courts of Barbados were not set up to assign any priority to the legal problems of the masses. He put law and economics to work for the ends of self-government and independence. In the process, he came across as a learned and authoritative person. Barrow’s middle strata origins, the impact of the progressive legacy of his father and uncle, and his military record and academic achievements, put him in an unusual position among Barbadians from all social strata. Barrow had learnt much in his youthful days from his uncle, Charles Duncan O’Neal. When he entered politics he was ready to apply the lessons he learnt to the social democratic project of adjusting the workers interests to the imperatives of delayed subversiveness. He would exploit that knowledge to steer the anti-colonial struggle within the path of Western liberal values, away from class and in the direction of populist mass politics. Barrow hadarather static view of Western culture and values, which he saw as finished products. When his time came, he endorsed Keynesian social democratic strategies to inform the public policies of the Democratic Labor Party. His own elitist orientation indicated that he held strong class prejudices, but he believed that public policy could be put to work to benefit all segments of society. Bourgeois values and class prejudices had permeated all of Barbadian society to such an extent, that the strikers, hunger marchers and other protestors of the anti-colonial revolt and broader class struggles’ in the late 1930s,

viewed the struggle as one for inclusion in the system rather than for its destruction or replacement. To a degree, Barrow’s personality as a hero was invented before he got into politics (Interview with Dr George Belle). Barrow the military hero, pilot, navigator, yachtsman, lawyer, economist, and intellectual, was also

a man of reputed culinary skills,? which served an important political function, as they brought him into close contact with the working class mass from across the political spectrum. He did his own shopping in the

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local markets for the ingredients he used for cooking. This put him in direct contact with vendors, small farmers, and butchers. His weekly

shopping in the markets allowed him to mix with the common folk, and gain insights about the living conditions, and the hopes and aspirations of an important cross-section of the mass public (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:23c). In political terms, this form of contact with the masses and his culinary skills worked to his advantage more than it compromised or subverted his masculinity, in spite of the clear demarcation of gender roles in Barbadian patriarchal society.” Of course, Barrow’s charismatic impact influenced the degree to which people saw him as bigger than life, such that issues about his personal life seldom got a negative public airing. Barrow was also a regular at DLP social events, like picnics, where he routinely helped to cook, share meals and mingle with the party faithful. He often entertained ordinary people in his house. As prime minister, Barrow was entitled to an official chauffeur, but normally drove his personal automobile, confident that he was safe among the people. The fact that Barrow did not rely on police security for personal protection was not peculiar to him. The same could be said for almost all Barbadian political leaders to this day. Barbadian political culture does not show a record of assassination, personal battery or assault as preferred ways of dealing with political problems. In this sense, Barrow’s charismatic appeal did not provide him with a unique comfort level among the people. In large measure, the programs that Barrow and the DLP implemented from 1961-76, were adapted from the social democratic proposals of the Democratic League that his uncle, Duncan O’Neal, had advanced in the 1920s—30s (see Lamming, 1987; Interview with Freundel Stuart). Barrow’s skill at reading the sentiments and desires of the ordinary people!® helped him to translate those aspirations into pragmatic public policy in terms that benefited the DLP, the corporate capitalist sector, and groups in the broad social strata (Interview with Freundel Stuart; Mack, 1967; Best, 1987:32b). Those policies were also instru-

mental in helping to forge new and modest black business strata in Barbados. Barrow felt it was necessary to connect ‘the toiling masses of workers who are the motor force of any society’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p 6b) and their existential consciousness, to the broader processes of material, political, cultural and intellectual life. The com-

mon people!! developed a strong sense of affection for him. He could

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speak for the grass roots, but many of the DLP leaders around him were not as comfortable at close quarters with the masses. (see Clarke, 1978:179). Oliver Jackman described him as the ‘best sort of aristocrat,’ who ‘wore Bally shoes and Pierre Cardin shirts, drove a Mercedes, drank

mature rums and scotches and bitterly despised the second rate and the pretentious. Unlike the classic aristocrat . . . he was convinced that everybody else, if given the chance, could be an aristocrat like Errol Barrow’ (1987, p 31b). But Charisma did not necessarily make political life easy for Errol Barrow. He came to political life and electoral politics in Barbados in the 1950s, fighting for his place in the sun. When he formed the DLP, the BLP tried to malign him by using the McCarthy-like cold war tactic of _ labeling the DLP a Communist cell (see Beacon Newspaper, May 28, 1955; see Morgan, 1994:28-29, Beckles, 1989). His charismatic qualities did

not make it easy to win a seat in parliament (Interview with Dr George Belle; see Hunte, 1987:12a). He lost an election in a black constituency

in St George Parish to a conservative white planter, Colonel Herbert Dowding, who ran on the ticket of the Conservative Party (CP). Dowding and the Conservative Party had the power to control the access of the black agro-proletariat to employment and general livelihood. Barrow and the DLP weathered the ‘communist cell’ label, suggesting that the masses did not endorse the red-baiting tactic from the establishment (see Morgan, 1994:32). The masses appreciated the contributions of working class radicalism of the 1930s to the reforms of the 1940s—50s. Yet, Barrow did not appeal to the working class in class terms, but rather in nationalist-populist terms. He was adept at grasping and interpreting the people’s aspirations, and helping them to meet their broad expecta-

tions in seemingly non-ideological ways!? (Interview with Freundel Stuart; see Lamming, 1987).

Largely, working class adults saw him as the role model they wanted for their own children. Barrow rode the crest of popularity in this respect, considering that his regimes made social reform, including free secondary education, free textbooks, free school lunches, universal health care and national insurance!, key planks of the nation-building and independence project (see Hunte, 1987:12a—13a). Barrow had made inclusion of the masses a central plank in his party’s modernisation strategy, a move that made him both ‘role model and agent of transformation.’ If Errol Barrow came across as a Weberian ‘supernatural, superhuman’ person, with ‘exceptional powers and qualities’ that are

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considered to be ‘exemplary, and on the basis of them’ was ‘treated as a leader’ (Weber, Vol I, 1978:241), the reasons were not hard to find.

His political tenure is also associated with other structures and institutions that help to shape a national imaginary..He was the first prime

minister, under which the national anthem became a symbol of pride,

patriotism and unity. The public got a chance to participate in a national competition for the creation of the national anthem and the national flag, and felt a sense of involvement in the construction of important symbols of the national imaginary. Barbados became a member of the Commonwealth with Her Majesty, the Queen, as head of state. Barrow accepted the compromise whereby the last colonial governor of Barbados, Sir John Stow, was made the first governor general—Her Majesty's representative—the institutional symbol of colonial stability and continuity. The national currency was introduced under Barrow’s tenure. Barrow opposed the construction of the central bank building on the grounds that it was an unnecessary cost (Speeches, p 147). The Barbados Institute of Management and Productivity (BIMAP), and the Barbados National Standards Institute (BNSI), ate symbolic in relation to raising

productivity and strengthening international standards and competitiveness. All these things bolstered Barrow’s persona, his charismatic personality and strong political image.

The British Empire and Commonwealth as a Moral Idea of Freedom: The Logical Imperative of Errol Barrow’s Charisma In 1939, Grantley Adams, one of Barbados’ outstanding leaders in the pre-independence period, recommended to the Moyne Commission that Britain should turn Barbados into a Crown Colony to avoid developments like the 1937 workers revolt. In 1945, he advocated the creation of a Socialist Commonwealth of the British West Indies (BWI) as the only

way to solve the many economic and social contradictions of colonialism and imperialism. In 1948, Adams went before the United Nations General Assembly as part of a British Delegation, and defended the British Empire, colonialism, and Anglo-American cold war geopolitics. He contributed to the transformation of Barbados into ‘an agent of cold war globalisation’ (Watson, 1998; Beckles, 1989:108; Sealy, 1991:23).

The British Empire cultivated a supportive ethic among BWI An-

glophiles, and reinforced the foundation of colonial loyalty through civic

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organisations like Freemasonry, Lions International and Kiwanis, as well as in leading British universities like Oxford and Cambridge, through the prestigious Rhodes Scholarship, and via the Queen’s Birthday Celebration Awards. These factors were instrumental in strengthening the ideological consciousness of ‘the British establishment in the minds of a few carefully chosen youngsters.’ Errol Barrow’s decision to join the RAF and fight in World War II, rather than pursue Classics at Codrington, and his decision to study economics and law at the LSE, conformed to the hegemonic strategy for the ‘grooming process of leaders for the Commonwealth’

(Yotanka, 1998:18; see Van der Pijl, 1997; Rupert

1995). Colonial socialisation emphasised core Western values, like the normalisation of capitalist inequality, domination, and state-sanctioned violence. The British created a meritocracy of bright and enterprising members from among the white-collar and blue-collar strata to moderate opposition to colonial rule. Mafy a colonial and postcolonial politician, academic and technocrat have done a great deal to reproduce Western values of Christianity, freedom, democracy, justice, progress, world order and the end of politics in human society. Britain did an exceptional job of controlling and molding the minds of the colonial and postcolonial leaders like Barrow. It has been through the myth of the Empire as a ‘moral idea of freedom’, that institutions like Freemasonry helped to integrate elements of the capitalist business strata, the state bureaucratic elite, and persons from other social forces, into a transnational historical bloc to reproduce imperialist hegemony (Van der Pijl, 1997:125).!4 Fabianism, as expressed through the intellectual and ideological project of the LSE, was incorporated into the imperial moral idea of freedom. Fabianism stressed delayed subversiveness as a respectable vocation. Fabian Socialists like Barrow!5 have never been motivated by any urge to abolish private property in the means of production, an economic reality which underscores the exploitation of ‘man by man.’ Fabians embrace modified versions of the bourgeois state and freedom. Fabianism converged with Keynesianism to help shape the contours of the post-war Liberal Hour. Gordon Lewis described Barrow as ‘an Anglo-West Indian person at its best’ (Lewis, 1987, p 17b). Indeed, Barrow was an Anglophile, who joined the

RAF because he felt it was his duty to rise to Britain’s ‘call for volunteers’ (Alleyne, 1987:18a); he also had a great deal of respect for persons who

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had seen military service!6 (Morgan, 1994:16; Sealy, 1991:24; Alleyne, 1987:18a). Barrow was safe fighting for racial justice and decolonisation because these were lofty goals within the post-war liberal imaginary. His modernisation strategy was good for capital accumulation, as it helped the ruling class to preserve ‘its wealth and tradition over and above the rest

of society’ (Yotanka, 1998:19, see Beckles, 1989), while also raising up

the mass. Cold war ideology also penetrated all the civil institutions in Barbados with their pragmatic strong defense of capitalism and the colonial state apparatuses. Barrow wanted the workers to share as owners and managers of capital (Speeches, pp 186-88), but he never clarified that the social justice on which capitalism is based presupposed the normalisation of coercion and force, derived from ‘might’, that is legislated into law as ‘right’. Barrow had a way of raising issues without ever getting to the underlying complexity; but, because of his charismatic and populist appeal, he could get away with it. For example, he discussed the problem of unemployment in Barbados in line with his vision of social justice. He said nobody really knew how to create jobs for all, but he did not make any connection between the nature of capitalist production for profit, and the requirement of labor to reproduce capital as the precondition of its own reproduction. He failed to account for the fact that, employment, under capitalism, is a function, not of the social justice needs of workers, but rather of the profit motive of capitalists, however, because charismatic leaders are afforded large margins of flexibility by their followers, he was never called to explain why. In other words, to answer the question of why there is unemployment under capitalism, it would be necessary to understand why capitalist production exists, and why the bureaucracy, the legal system, and force and justice must be connected and normalised in ways that make unemployment seem both moral and natural, even if regrettable. As a master of symbolic manipulation, he used anti-imperialist rhetoric to good purpose, by routinely criticising imperialism, while upholding bourgeois norms. He knew how to embed a pro-Barbados or pro-Caribbean logic in an anti-imperialist mode, as the preferred way to legitimate his nationalist credentials. He often spoke of close ties between the American people and the people of Barbados, while being openly critical of certain aspects of American foreign policy, and simulta-

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neously wooing American investors with the promise that the government ‘is committed to fostering the most healthy and positive climate for private sector investment, both domestic and foreign, in Barbados’ (Speeches, p 182). Barrow was fully aware that the US had eclipsed Britain in the Caribbean, and he found ways to fashion his foreign policy to meet the new challenges.!7 Charisma and the Invention of Tradition:

the Independence Debate Barrow routinely stressed the contradictions of colonialism and imperialism, but in the spirit of respectable radicalism. He chose the floor of — the House of Assembly to attack the BLP Opposition for vacillating on the question of independence for Barbados. There, he accused Grantley Adams, a British-trained lawyer, of having exhibited poor judgement in 1939, following the “1937 Disturbances,’ when he recommended to the West Indian Royal Commission (Moyne Commission) that Barbados ‘should revert to Crown Colony status.’ Barrow stressed that Barbados had enjoyed an unbroken record of a ‘representative’ parliamentary system since the seventeenth century, in the process he equated his own pro-independence stance with continuity and stability, to which he linked ideas about democracy, freedom, nationhood, citizenship, and sovereignty (see Morgan, 1994:57). The hidden point was, and is, that the colonial and post-colonial state in the Commonwealth Caribbean was and is constructed foremost on private property and parliamentary sovereignty. In his attempt to emphasise the long tradition of stability in colonial Barbados, he ended up smothering the significance of the historical struggles of resistance that also shaped the history of Barbados (Beckles, 1989). He bolstered his case for independence by arguing that Barbados had made a unilateral declaration of independence in the seventeenth century during the English Civil War. He had to ignore the fact that the slaves in Barbados had no say in that process. He could not have stressed that Barbados’ political and constitutional stability had been built on a foundation of racial oppression, economic exploitation and exclusion. The logic of his argument was that stability had engendered the basis of democracy, and independence would inaugurate a new chapter in freedom, by modifying what had worked. Pragmatism obviated any need to reconstruct, from the bottom up, the institutions that carried the traces

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of oppression. Barrow’s version of the truth ‘silenced the past’ in important ways (see Trouillot, 1995). In producing such a truth, he was also creating a particular representation of power that was essential to engendering the forms of stability that would be necessary to shore up capitalism in the independence period. The fortunes of charismatic political leadership vary with the rhythm of capital accumulation, as Barrow came to discover in the 1970s.

Contradictions of Charismatic Leadership: Democracy, Nationalism, Class, and the Public Order Act of 1970 Political legitimacy in a system of exploitation does not arise from an imposition of the wiles and deceptions of the ruling class (Roger Bartra 1992:57). The world economic crisis of the early 1970s displayed symptoms like the exhaustion of Keynesianism, the oil crisis, oil price hikes, inflation, the falling standard of living, the growing external debt problem, and the crisis of liberal democracy. In less than two year’s after Barrow won the 1971 general election, his government faced world oil prices that had risen by 400 per cent. Inflation soared; there were business closures and unemployment exceeded 25 per cent. Barrow included a five per cent sales tax in his budgetary proposal to parliament on the back of the inflationary impact of the oil-related crisis, but did not disclose the sales tax proposal to his ministers and other DLP parliamentarians. Such secrecy was not unusual in the majoritarian system based on parliamentary Cabinet government. The very unpopular tax weakened Barrow’s parliamentary position and eroded the strength and popularity of the DLP (Morgan, 1994:137-39; see Clarke, 1978:21). The late Sir Frank Walcott, former MP and close ally of Barrow, said that Barrow was a very re-

sourceful man, but ‘. . . he did not know what it was to run a government against difficulties and did not think that he was forced to build up a corps of advisers,’ (quoted in Sealy, 1991:28). Other contradictions in-

cluded the impact of the rise of sex tourism via the beach boy phenomenon (see Phillips, 1999:183-200; Clarke, 1978:75-77), and the rise of

grassroots nationalism around black power radicalism.!® The impact of the oil crisis undercut Barrow’s hopes for improving the lot of the masses.

Errol Barrow / 49

From the outset the cold war and Keynesianism had launched an attack on the insubordination of the working classes worldwide. State development (indicative) planning was a popular component of the post-war modernisation paradigm, and institutions like the World Bank expected states to engage in development planning. Barrow’s drive to modernise Barbados has to be placed in the post-war context of the cold war and Keynesianism. Barrow’s modernisation strategy was in line with the prescriptions of the Liberal Hour (see Malik, 1996:13-25). Yet, he

never sought to undermine the core values or institutions of Western civilisation. He favored the modernisation of the agricultural sector to stabilise the transition of Barbadian society away from dependence on sugar. He knew that agro-commercial interests dominated plantation agriculture, and international forces, via preferential agreements, controlled sugar and its market and export price. Barrow wanted to weaken the power of agro-commercial capital over the material conditions and existential consciousness of the Barbadian

agricultural workers. Barrow was aware that the technical backwardness of the postwar working class was not the result of working class indolence, but rather the lack of technical progress by the capitalist sector. He ‘chastised the Civil Service’ for being an ‘army of occupation,’ but he did not attempt to dominate or corrupt the public service, nor did he lose the respect or confidence of senior civil servants or the rank and file (Morgan, 1994:78; Jackman, 1987:31b). Barrow gained popularity with the masses by restructuring white racial privilege, but he systematically cultivated and maintained close links with certain elements of the white agro-commercial interests, and used those links very effectively to keep at bay the hostile sections of the white business strata who disliked him (Interviews with Sir Courtney Blackman, Leroy Brathwaite). Barrow expanded the social and economic borders of the state in education, health and other social arenas, and promoted the growth of domestic capital and foreign capital in light manufacturing and tourism (see Morgan, 1994:34-36). His policies benefited groups in all the social strata, and cemented his populist credentials. He could use race and class at once around the sugar question, as well as other issues that pertained to contradictions between black workers and largely white corporate power in Barbados. He defined democracy as a developing, living organism, and he applied that view of democracy to his strategy for meeting the needs of the people (Interview with Leroy Brathwaite). The idea of democracy as a living organism makes sense, provided we illuminate the

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contradictions that are inherent in any democratic ‘model,’ for as the contradictions within democracy deepen, the state becomes more actively involved in the civil economy (welfare) via the legislative and judicial systems, and via the military and security (repression) (see Bartra, 1992:84). Enter the Public Order Act of 1970, which was swiftly enacted around the time of the black power disturbances in North America and the Caribbean. Barrow used the new law to provide a comprehensive strategy for combating challenges to his regime and the state. His target was the black power movement in Barbados, for he understood that the capital accumulation strategy on which he had built broad black support, white corporate business cooperation, foreign investor confidence, and American tolerance, if not indulgence, could not tolerate a black radical

upsurge. In fact, he was ideologically and politically opposed to any such upsurge. The bulk of the black population, especially the black middle strata, has been very skeptical about any ‘Africacentric’ ideological . thrust. Barrow knew the majority of the black masses were suspicious about the appropriateness of a black racial identity to guide national politics and foreign policy. The majority of black Barbadians have never been interested in taking on a black identity. The black majority seems satisfied with accepting that there is a black presence in Barbados. That sentiment seemed to have resonated well with Errol Barrow, who did not

make any special effort to stress blackness, his African roots or any panAfrican perspective. Morgan notes that after Barrow learnt on an official visit to Israel in 1972, that the ‘name Barrow was . . . a version of the

Jewish name Baruch’ he thereafter ‘claimed Jewish blood among his Caribbean-wide ancestors’ (Morgan, 1994:115). He did not stop to ask

the key question, whether Jews named Baruch—Barrow—owned slaves in Barbados and might have passed on the family name to the slaves on their plantation. Barrow was aware that any state that had put its development eggs in the tourism basket had few open prospects of making radical or revolutionary political waves on any black power ideological frequency. Ostensibly, the Public Order Act of 1970 made it illegal to preach racial hatred or violence. It required anyone who wanted to convene a public meeting to notify the appropriate public authorities of the nature and purpose of such a meeting, provide the names of speakers and indicate the duration of the meeting. The populists felt the Public Order Act

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was good for democracy. Critics claimed it was ‘unnecessarily restrictive and a threat to civil liberties’ (Morgan, 1994:97-98). Substantively, the

Act was an expression of democracy as a contradictory way of organising power and mediating class 4nd race contradictions within a fragile political economy already grounded in inequality. The Public Order Act also signaled the waning of the Liberal Hour, and the hollowing of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UNUDHR), which was coming under strong attack from many leading capitalist democracies (Malik, 1996). The Act was at one with similar measures other Commonwealth Caribbean states implemented during the 1960s and 1970s to curb the rights of the working classes in areas like strike activity and freedom of expression, areas that were deemed injurious to the modernisation project (see Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:2c). Notable examples include Trinidad and Tobago’s Industrial Stabilisation Act of 1965, St Vincent’s Public Service (Conditions of Employment) Act of1971, and comparable legislation in Jamaica. The rise of the National Joint Action Committee (NJAC) and the United Labour Front (ULF) in Trinidad, the New JEWEL Movement (NJM) in Grenada, the Working People’s Alliance (WPA) in Guyana, the People’s Pressure Movement (PPM) in Barbados, the Workers’ Liberation League/Workers Party of Jamaica (WPJ), and the Antigua

Caribbean Liberation Movement (ACLM) posed race-class questions which the state and other interests deemed threatening. A number of Caribbean states viewed any attempt by grassroots organisations to forge race/class alliances at the mass level as totally unacceptable. Barrow held a rather unusual position vis-a-vis Caribbean radical intellectuals, especially during the period of the black power movement. He allowed Caribbean radicals like the late Rosie Douglas and the late Kwame ‘Touré (Stokely Carmichael), to enter Barbados. He permitted Kwame Touré to enter Barbados after Eric Williams had banned him from his native Trinidad. Also Barrow allowed the late Patrick Emmanuel to work at the University of the West Indies at Cave Hill after Eric Williams had banned him from Trinidad for radical activity. Barrow felt less insecure about stability in Barbados than Williams had felt about Trinidad, where the black power rebellion had posed a fundamental challenge to his government. Yet, Barrow used the Public Order Act to silence the grassroots opposition, which he saw as a potential threat to himself, the DLP government and political stability. He also used the

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Public Order Act to separate the grassroots movement from the wider Caribbean black power movement. Of course, Barrow was aware of the divide between the pragmatic acceptance of what seemed feasible and his own sense of what was possible. The late Michael Manley, former prime minister of Jamaica and student colleague of Barrow at the LSE, said Barrow was not circumscribed by any narrow interpretation ‘of what was possible. Barrow made all his calculations of short-term political advantage subject to his deeper principles and the causes which they led him to uphold.’!? Three relevant instances come to mind. The first dealt with Barrow’s call for the sugar workers and the government to have a direct say in the management of the sugar estates, and for the workers to share in the profits of the estates, especially if labor and the state were going to subsidise sugar. Barrow lamented that there was no popular support from the sugar workers for such an idea. The second dealt with the working conditions for the women he called the ‘beasts of burden in the cane fields.’ He expressed his frustration at the lack of enthusiasm from sugar workers for his call for the provision of a ‘guaranteed week for agricultural workers’, and for amenities like shelter and toilets in the cane fields. He noted that at the hearings, which he had organised to discuss such matters, not one of the field workers took a stand in support of his proposals. The third point was the problem of political corruption and bribery, as defined by the Corrupt Practices Act. Barrow observed that he and two other DLP lawyers, Philip Greaves and Asquith Philips, sat down ‘to get people to bring affidavits, so that we could lock up some of the persons’ who, ‘even on polling day, give people envelopes with $100 bills in them.’ It frustrated Barrow that ‘registered Democratic Labour Party people, said they were not prepared to go into court and swear’ (see Speeches, pp 145, 148-49, 188). For Bartra, the ‘mediating networks of imagination are present in the actual constitution of exploitation relationships, not merely in terms of a deceptive fetish concealing contradictions but as an illusory element essential to the actual development of contradiction, exploitation and antagonism’ (1992:224). The mediating networks of imagination are the

stage where class conflicts seem to cancel each other out, without serving as a ‘real substitute for social struggles’ (1992:2). Lamming correctly traces Barrow’s strong socialist strand to his ‘political ancestry’ (Lamming, 1987, p 18b), but there are important questions about the content of the democratic socialism which Barrow routinely associated with the

Errol Barrow

/ 53

principles and practice of the DLP (Interview with Freundel Stuart, Beckles, 1989:107-8). At issue is a much broader problem of the ideological and political consciousness of the masses. One would tend to assume that the suffering and insecurity that are born of exploitation and distance from political power would engender the development of the political consciousness of the exploited and oppressed. In the three cases that Barrow addressed, there was no evidence of any breach in the existential consciousness of the agricultural workers. Perhaps Barrow sensed that gradualism had taken deep roots in the existential consciousness of the working class body politic, for he had worked hard to instill delayed subversiveness in the popular imagination. In addition to the Public Order Act, Barrow, ‘in 1974 introduced a se-

ries of constitutional amendments that gave the executive a greater say in judicial appointments’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:1a). According to Oliver Jackman, ‘the man who appeared determined to arrogate unto himself near-dictatorial powers over both the judicial service and the public service lost an election largely because of it,’ but used ‘those powers to help create a judicial Bench that must be one of the most respected and independent in the entire Third World’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:31b). Sir Courtney Blackman locates the problem in the wider institutional context, arguing that Barrow did not ascribe unto himself any tyrannical powers that the Westminster model of parliamentary democracy does not afford to any overeager elected official. As such, if Barrow seemed interested in concentrating power around himself, via the constitutional amendments of 1974, he did not have to violate any law in that respect, nor did he actually violate the law, though be became intolerant of criticism (Interview with Sir Courtney Blackman). Political leaders should not be entitled to special rights or privileges. Even if a politician is beyond reproach in his or her personal or political conduct, it reflects on him or her when they protect colleagues who bring dishonor to the political order. The fact that Barrow often reminded the public of its moral obligation to expose and combat forms of malfeasance by political leaders, suggests that he too should have been resolute in exposing the misdeeds of his political party associates. Did party survival take precedence over ethico-political probity with Barrow? Still, there were consequences for Barrow’s charismatic political leadership. The DLP lost two by-elections to the BLP in the city of Bridgetown and in the St Philip North constituency, on the way to

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losing the 1976 general election. But the constitutional amendment issue was symptomatic of a much bigger problem, namely the impact on Barbados of the world economic crisis of the 1970s. Barrow seemed at a loss about how to control the spillover effects of the contradictions that resulted from the ‘decade of reconstruction’ (1961-71). He said the reconstruction decade reflected many of the ‘so-

cial and economic contradictions which material advantages such as we have secured cannot alone eradicate. Some of us will have to mark time to allow those who have been kept back to catch up with us. That is why we redistribute the wealth of the country on the principle of the maximum social advantage.’20 The statement expressed the core of Barrow’s democratic socialist theme and mirrored his idea of what was possible. Yet, he was not speaking of the redistribution of wealth, but rather of the Keynesian practice of shifting a portion of revenue from taxes to social spending. His policy of ‘redistribution’ created a healthy environment for private capital accumulation by the dominant capitalist forces in Barbados. Barrow had moved agro-commercial capital and the monocrop economy into greener pastures between 1961-76, and the DLP felt it had every reason to win the general elections of 1976 and 1981. The DLP lost both elections and Barrow took the two losses very hard; he thought the people had a moral obligation to re-elect the DLP, based on the achievements of the previous decades (Interview with Erskine Sandiford). In reality, the fragmentation of the social is always immanent in a system where its reproduction is grounded in necessity and inequality, a reality which conditions how bourgeois hegemony mediates exploitation by means of individualism.

Moral and Ethical Dilemmas of Charismatic Leadership in Barbadian Society Political parties, trade unions and many other civil society agencies have been instrumental in the achievement of ‘universal adult suffrage, selfgovernment, racial desegregation, free primary and secondary education, and state welfare’ in Barbados. But there persists ‘an absence of one basic and fundamental right.’ Tatanka Yotanka discusses the Barbados Official Secrets Act, with reference to ‘how the rule of law functions to protect high officials, and why the society has no guarantee of knowledge about the actions of men who rule, and no right to open enquiry into the secret

Errol Barrow / 55

affairs of the state and the party’ (Yotanka, 1998:1, see Clarke, 1978:42).

Yotanka is not alone in her claim that a culture of silencing is endemic in the Barbadian political culture and that Barbadians impose silence on themselves partly out of fear. She insists that the law instills fear, and the absence of an open, critical, investigative journalism culture, reinforces

fear and silence. She concludes that such an admixture of factors conditions the reproduction of a public that is neither knowledgeable of the facts nor seems to care to know.

The imaginary country in Austin Clarke’s novel, The Prime Minister,?} is Barbados:‘a country where the printed newspaper word was glorified as truth.’ Clarke found a ‘shell of mystery which seemed to lock these people in self-assuring arrogance, from the superficial inquiring glance. Or it might be, quite simply, their inability to be candid’ (1978:124; 18-19). The political culture of press freedom does not assume that the people have a right to know; only that the public might know what it should know, and the public determines not even that. Yotanka asserts that Barrow covered up a conspiracy, and secured constitutional amendments in 1974 to ‘ensure pliant judges and compliant senior heads of the Civil Service,’ and permit prominent men to secure ‘wide ranging power which resulted in the corruption of the civil establishment.’ Yotanka stresses that the ‘moral and ethical responsibility of the Press cannot be met in Barbados, for the stories that the public needs to know cannot be written’ (1998:2). Barrow was trying to strengthen the apparatus of the executive arm of the state, to correct what he saw as an imbalance that

was characteristic of all constitutions that Westminster handed down to all of Britain’s colonies. In Barrow’s interpretation of the ‘mirror image’ that Barbadians held of themselves, he told the public that ‘if there are corrupt ministers in Barbados, you have made them corrupt’ (Speeches, pp 145, 173). A central theme in Barrow’s 1986 ‘mirror image’ speech was that the general public had a moral duty and an ethical responsibility to stamp out corruption, bribery, abuse of power or public office, and other irregularities. George Belle suggests that the serious charismatic political leader must understand the culture of the nation, and must know how to energise the symbols of the national imaginary to get people to do more than they might otherwise do on a voluntary basis. Belle and Thompson feel Barrow should have been able to inculcate a more positive mirror image in the Barbadian public (Interviews with George Belle/Antoinette Thompson).

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Barrow’s argument might be summarised thus: silencing aids and a abets corruption and fear; fear reinforces silencing; self-silencing is the inform of self-abuse; and silencing, fear and corruption undermine

stitutions of the state and civil society2? (Speeches, pp 145, 148, Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p la). George Belle pointed out that Barrow’s strategy made him seem above making mistakes. He made people overly dependent on his leadership and he routinely externalised those contradictions within the DLP that should have landed squarely at his feet23 (Interview with George Belle).

Clarke observed that an American magazine asserted that the country was ‘voted the freest country in the whole world,’ but people were not prepared to talk freely about any number of problems, including the hardships the common man was experiencing (Clarke, 1978:24, 59-61, 156). Then again, popular perceptions and appropriations of freedom might say something about how the contradictions of the justice system undermine people’s confidence in the civil and political institutions. Lamming speaks of a lack of ‘social confidence’ and the ‘pervasive inferiority complex which cripples the mind and imagination of most black men and women of the middle class’ in Barbados. Gordon Lewis refers

to ‘an atmosphere of private secretiveness’ (1987:17b) that pervades the Barbadian cultural milieu. Linden Lewis’ concept of a ‘suppressed discourse’ (Lewis 2000a) converges with Gordon Lewis’ notion of ‘private

-secretiveness’ in relation to broader issues like race, class, rights, and

power. Barrow’s idea of what characterises an independent nation, raises questions about the solidity and self-confidence of the so-called ‘middle class’ society. Moral and ethical issues are embedded in politics. In the 1986 general election, Barrow said the DLP would welcome only those candidates who were ready to make ‘sacrifices’ to serve the people of the nation as a duty? (Speeches, p 139; see Hunte, 1987:12a; Interviews with Tennyson Beckles, Sir Courtney Blackman, Leroy Brathwaite). Barrow’s position as ‘first among equals’ in the Westminster-style parliamentary system also bolstered his charismatic appeal; populism did not hurt in this respect (Interviews with George Belle, David Commissiong). Populism was also a boost to his charismatic appeal, especially in his ties to corporate capital (Interviews with Sir Courtney Blackman, Yvonne Walkes). The media tended to paint him as a left-wing radical whom the business strata feared and distrusted, but never stressed

his connections to corporate capital in Barbados. His charismatic appeal and populist strategy also sheltered his supposed democratic socialist

Errol Barrow / 57

ideology from appropriate criticism. Barrow was eager to talk about democratic socialism at meetings of the DLP’s general body and party organs, but he could never be accused of attempting to inculcate or articulate a revolutionary working class ideological consciousness in any of the DLP’s bodies. Barrow knew how to take the pulse of popular sentiment and how to demobilise it, even when he seemed most unambiguous in expressing outrage about abuses, problems and crises from which he routinely distanced himself (Interview with Dr George Belle). He knew when to im-

pose the burden of the past upon the present, when to parade his middle strata social origins before certain colleagues and the masses alike, and when to take on the Church? (Clarke, 1978:183), or disarm the criti-

cism of all and sundry. By the time the DLP lost the 1976 elections, the postwar strategy of world capitalist accumulation had run its course. Money and finance capital were gaining in dominance to the point of shifting key areas of national decision making to the world level. On this very point, Holloway argues that an important change in the ‘forms of global capitalist domination’ has resulted from ‘the shift in the relation between national state and global capital.’ He adds that national political decision making has become ‘more directly integrated into the global movement of capital... ,’ a development that ‘makes more difficult the national decomposition of society . . .’ (1995:134, 135). Holloway’s analysis suggests that we cannot expect to understand how charismatic political leaders may fare at the hands of the working class at election time, simply by concentrating on shifts in voting behavior. The matter turns on worker insecurity and the wage labor-capital relation, and charismatic leadership can become a casualty of that insecurity, even where a charismatic leader may retain some of his popularity. No doubt, the DLP’s modernisation strategy from 1961-76 raised Barrow’s charismatic profile significantly, but Barrow moderated political mobilisation to protect charisma from too much exposure. The question of labor is rooted in the capital-wage labor relation, and the politics of labor had to be negotiated very carefully. Lamming says Barrow had that ‘pragmatic, liberal conviction that ideology should never be a precondition for arriving at an agreement in specific areas which affect the human development of the Caribbean people’ (1987, p 18b). Barrow chose to mobilise on the basis of nationalism, rather than along working class lines. The period of 1961-76 was good for the business interests, as

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the DLP’s strategy proved effective in raising the quality of education, health, living standards, and other areas that are vital to raising productivity, increasing the rate of exploitation of labor power and strengthening the basis of capital accumulation. When the DLP was defeated in the 1976 elections, Barrow took a leave of absence to lecture at American

universities. This was part of his way of standing apart from excesses by government ministers, corruption in high places, secrecy, police brutality, judicial corruption, labour-management conflicts, and so forth. (In-

terview with Dr George Belle).

Patriarchy, Charisma, Women and Gender in

the Barbados Democratic Labor Party Or ‘What more do Women really want?’

Barrow’s family had strong middle strata credentials by way of property ownership,’ professional development and lifestyle (Blackman, 1995, chapter one). Sir James Cameron Tudor said that Barrow’s mother and maternal grandmother were instrumental in ‘the moulding of his character and in shaping the outlines of his career.’ (quoted in Sealy, 1991:29). Errol Barrow said his father was among his first role models (Sealy, 1991:24). His brother, Graham felt that Duncan O’Neal was the major influence in Errol’s life, as ‘Errol was Uncle Duncan’s favorite’ (see Nation Keepsake Wednesday, June 10, 1987:6a, Lamming, 1987:18b). Bar-

row was committed to the project of helping masses of women and their families to achieve progress and social mobility.2” He felt a moral and political need to facilitate the advancement of women, for he knew his political fortunes would hinge on strong female support. These and other points are important to consider in any analysis of how women, including DLP women, defined the fight for progress and their advancement in the party and society. Contextually, Weber’s analysis provides insights into the basis for the exclusion of women from charismatic political leadership. Women are not covered under the mantle of the ‘gift of grace’ that envelops Weber’s charismatic men. Weber says charisma ‘can only be awakened and tested; it cannot be learnt or taught,’ and only those with the proof can ‘exercise authority.’ The proven successor is “illustrated by the magical and a warrior asceticism of the “men’s house” with initiation ceremonies and age groups. An individual who has not successfully gone through the initia-

Errol Barrow / 59

tion, remains a “woman”; that is, he is excluded from the charismatic

group’ (Weber Vol I, 1978:249-50 and Vol II, 1978:1144). Linden Lewis notes that in the Caribbean context ‘the concept has not been used to refer to woman. In fact, the traditional areas conducive

to the manifestation of charismatic leadership in the region, viz trade union mobilisation and political party formation, have not always been welcoming for women.’ In effect, the ‘concept of charisma is inadequate in capturing this dynamic of unequal power in the region and we should be mindful of this limitation’ (see chapter 4, p 97). In Barbados’ context, DLP President, Astor B Watts, revealed the DLP’s gender perspective on Barrow’s leadership, with reference to the relationship of women to the DLP. Watts said that Barrow and the DLP did not favor building a gender-conscious political party. He said ‘we were not and are not a gender party, but Mr Barrow was committed to equal opportunity for male and female Barbadians alike.’ Watts stressed that Barrow used public policy to help women rise to levels comparable with men on the basis of equal opportunities for social mobility (Interview with Astor Watts). Former prime minister Erskine Sandiford corroborates Watts’ assertion (Interview with Erskine Sandiford).

George Belle and Tennyson Beckles stressed that the DLP has had difficulty attracting and integrating intellectually independent and assertive women into the party and advancing them to key leadership positions. Tennyson Beckles said the DLP prefers to work with ‘feminine women,’ who push men forward and follow their leadership and direction from the private sphere of the home, to the broader public arena of party politics (Interviews with George Belle and Tennyson Beckles). Certain concerns follow from the assertions by Watts and Beckles. First of all, women comprise three majorities in relation to the general society and the DLP: they are the majority of the population, the majority of the electorate and the majority of the DLP’s membership. Second, femaleheaded households preponderate in Barbados and women are the majority of homeowners. Mazie Barker Welch, member of the DLP and former MP, noted that while women are gaining visibility in politics, education and other areas, the majority of the poor are women (Interviews with Leroy Brathwaite, Erskine Sandiford, Mazie Barker Welch). In spite of the fact that no political party can afford to ignore the female vote and hope to win an election in Barbados, many women continue to endorse patriarchal ideology. Watts and Beckles seem to imply that compensatory reforms are

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sufficient to adjust the gender deficit. Watts and Brathwaite claimed that Barrow did not feel that the limited role and active involvement of women in Barbadian politics was the result of female oppression or gender inequality, but was due to the fact that women had not demonstrated initiative and leadership in politics?’ (Interviews Watts, Beckles and Brathwaite). Sandiford claims that Barbadian women were not assertive

in politics because they viewed politics as a rough field and were not willing to assert themselves to create a female political force.2? All of these men ignore the fact that women were denied certain access and that Barrow must have had a pretty deterministic gender-biased notion of women’s nature. Barrow’s strategy was to find the ‘right’ mix of bureaucracy, law and technocracy to alleviate the gender contradictions of patriarchal capitalism (Interview with Freundel Stuart). Barrow highlighted women’s concerns but assigned women’s issues to secondary departments of government, like social services and community affairs, with the effect of keeping women’s issues unfocused and diluted (Interviews with Antionette Thompson, Yvonne Walkes, Mazie Barker Welch). Still, Barbadian women; in large measure have had a very positive impression of Errol Barrow, regardless of his behavior toward women or his outlook on gender. Women were instrumental in embellishing Barrow’s charismatic appeal, and many rank and file women seemed satisfied with the quality of the leadership he provided. DLP members like Marjorie Lashley, Yvonne Walkes, and Antionette Thompson point toa crisis of leadership, philosophy and vision in the DLP. Marjorie Lashley and Norma Jackman pointed out in interviews that when women tried to assert themselves from the early days, or fought for greater visibility in DLP party politics and in political life, it was customary for DLP male leaders to ask, ‘what more do women really want?’ Norma Jackman and Marjorie Lashley pointed out in an interview that men did not respect women like themselves who took a keen interest in politics and/or became involved in the activities of political parties in the early days. Many men and women asserted that politically active women wanted to get close to political parties to promote their sexual interest in male leaders, reinforcing the common patriarchal prejudice that politics was the preserve of men. Marjorie Lashley noted that while it is important for women to make a priority of fighting for gender equality, women are divided along lines of class, ethnicity, and other areas that undermine women’s solidarity. Whenever Barrow was confronted with the ‘woman question’, he

Errol Barrow / 61

would equivocate by stressing how much he had done for women, often mentioning the equalisation of pay for women in the public service, paid maternity leave for women, and how he had reduced the overall burden of women by making free and equal educational opportunities available to all children. Barrow knew that people associated progressive post-war change in Barbados with his leadership. He was comfortable with the achievements of his modernisation drive. He felt that what was needed was a stronger dose of progressive social democratic politics to help women overcome certain hardships in difficult areas like agriculture (Interviews with Freundel Stuart and Leroy Brathwaite). Barrow knew that the female majority played a key role in building and boosting his charismatic appeal, and he felt confident that his commitment to a gradualist approach to change was also consistent with many of their own expectations. He knew that most women were not removed from holding aloft the banner of patriarchy.

Leadership Succession and the Grammar of Life and Death I hope when I am called to my reckoning, since I do not require or need any outpouring of hypocrisy or glass-enclosed shrine, that they will omit to even mention my name except to demand, if anyone tries to place me outside the laws of Barbados, a Coroner’s inquest with full disclosure of the reasons for my withdrawal from this mortal scene. My mortal remains after incineration, may be scattered from an aircraft in the Caribbean Sea without any ghoulish and undignified caterwauling that passes for services in one of our main places of political public entertainment (Speeches, pp 135-6; see Morgan 1994:78).

Barrow fought consistently against all attempts to promote the cult of the personality, and he wanted the society to honor his wish when he died.3° There was no public controversy about his wish for his remains to be cremated and scattered in the Caribbean Sea, but there was a sense of popular moral outrage and betrayal when it was announced that ‘the body would not be at the Stadium for the State Funeral Service’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:29a). The people demanded a State Fu-

neral Service and got one. Barrow did not encourage hero worship, but became a prime beneficiary of it (Interview with Antoinette Thompson). His DLP colleagues respected him but there were some that wanted to wrest control of the party from him. Challenges to his leadership started in the 1960s, when the late Wynter Crawford, a founder of the Congress Party, which merged into the DLP, challenged him for party

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leadership. In later years there were minor internal challenges for the presidency of the DLP. Barrow made a public statement during the 1986 election campaign to the effect that Erskine Sandiford was next in line to succeed him. (Interviews with Dr George Belle, Leroy Brathwaite, Norma Jackman).

Why did Barrow choose a political platform during a campaign to announce his immediate successor? Barrow was very concerned about the scope of his control over the DLP and about loyalty to himself: He used the term ‘loyal servant’ to mean one who made duty and service to the nation and party their priority, and he defined challengers as those bent on advancing their personal agendas (Interviews with Tennyson Beckles, George Belle, Marjorie Lashley, Erskine Sandiford). Rank and file supporters viewed Barrow as the person who had brought real progress to their lives, and they felt that loyalty to him was imperative (Interviews with George Belle, Leroy Brathwaite, Antoinette Thompson, Yvonne Walkes). Barrow did not build strong and visible leadership cadres in the DLP for another reason: he felt that circumstances would throw up leaders at the appropriate moment, just as he had-emerged in the 1950s (Interviews with Tennyson Beckles, George Belle, Freundel Stuart, see Speeches, p 101, Sealy, 1991:28). In many respects, he was the glue that held the DLP together. David Commissiong argues that by the late 1980s, Barrow had lost much of the robust or energetic appeal that he had customarily exhibited in the 1970s. By 1986, defeat had tempered him, though he still commanded respect and seemed less preoccupied about challenges to his leadership. Barrow and the DLP had contributed much to the economic and social transformation of Barbados, but the masses had

no clear idea of what Barrow expected of the new society. In many ways, his policies and programs contributed to the crass pragmatism and individualism that pervade the society today (Interview with Antoinette Thompson). Freundel Stuart argues that Barrow left the DLP without a clear philosophy, point of reference, or strategy for the future. Stuart is

right to link the crisis of the DLP to Barrow’s leadership, but the broader issue is that the DLP’s modernisation project could not withstand the crisis that erupted from the collapse of national determination that had characterised Keynesianism. The general public reacted to Barrow’s death in ways that secured his charismatic legacy. His sister, Dame Nita, said his death was more of a continuum than it was a ‘final arrival.’ Clearly, ‘the grammar of language’ informs how we talk about death more so than does the ‘grammar

Errol Barrow / 63

of life.’3! Barrow has been made a national hero, but his national hero

status does not project him as the celebrated airman of the RAF In fact, the war hero and national hero have been carefully dissociated, with only the well-groomed political ‘figure of the ‘man of the people’ remaining. His personal role models, including his father, uncle, and military heroes,3? have been respectable mainstream reformers rather than men with militant working class demeanors. He contributed to the creation of a national ethos that is grounded in a middle strata arrogant assurance that seldom compromises with any form of radical grassroots challenge. When Barrow died there was an outpouring of praise from several quarters. The religious community, including the Caribbean Conference of Churches, the Sons of God Apostolic Spiritual Baptist Church, the Pentecostal Assemblies of the West Indies, and the Barbados Christian

Council remembered him for his contributions to ‘peace, justice and human rights,’ his ‘clean politics’ and for having been a ‘wise and fearless leader’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:21c; 8c). He had

forged a lasting, though not conflict-free, relationship with organised labor via the Barbados Workers Union (BWU), the Barbados Union of Teachers (BUT), and the National Union of Public Workers (NUPW).

The trade union movement recalled his achievements and contributions to the progress of the workers, their families, and the nation. The BUT

praised him for democratising education in the 1960s, and making free education the norm from primary school to university (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:29c). The NUPW emphasised ‘his strength of character, vision and aspiration, humility and compassion, humanity and decency, . . . and vast experience.’ The BWU remembered him as ‘patriot, friend of labour, father of independence,’and a ‘... man... who

cared for the oppressed.’ The Barbados Association of Journalists said, ‘We hope his ideology will be actively pursued by his party’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:29c; 30c). Barrow’s humility in dealing with the masses contrasted with the arrogance and disdain that characterised the disposition of many black middle strata politicians. The Leader of the Opposition BLP, Henry Forde, said Barrow loved Barbados and Barbados loved him (Nation keepsake, Wednesday, June 10,

1987:8c). The terms most frequently used to describe Barrow included colossus, hero, father of the nation, father of independence, aristocrat,

man with the common touch, defender of the oppressed and underprivileged, and a man of honesty, integrity, and simplicity (Morgan,

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1994:153). His honesty and sincerity, and the trust and respect people had for him helped to lodge his charismatic appeal. He lived a rather modest life, and never tired of reminding the masses about their right to a voice in national affairs beyond the ballot box, The people were convinced that he was the most accessible and honest political leader Barbados had yet seen. They reveled in the ambience his presence generated in all contexts; he was their idea of a humanistic role model. Still, though his gregariousness definitely accentuated his charismatic appeal, nothing could obliterate the real social difference that separated the man for the people from the man of the people. Conclusion

In locating charisma within the historical social relations of production, this paper sought to delineate the ontological condition of charisma that brings us back to capital, labor, oppression and the struggle from below for relief if not deliverance. Charisma and populism normally bleed into each other, and successful populists tend to have strong charismatic appeal. Populism and charisma can be used effectively to displace certain contradictions of inequality. Investment in inequality becomes tolerable because people assume that constitutional rights are given, guaranteed and located prior to and above inequality. Yet, those very rights are built into systems of property relations that are themselves grounded in in‘equality, which means that those very rights are malleable, often with the complicity of the exploited and oppressed. The liberal idealist method of separating economics from politics produces the effect of folding abstract political equality and concrete economic inequality into a unity that comprises bourgeois democracy. Even the most radical or revolutionary of charismatic leaders must be careful about overstepping the bounds of appropriate political behaviour in fighting for justice. The fact that bourgeois socialisation predisposes many people to believe that economic arrangements are somehow prefigured in the ‘natural rights’ of the propertied interests, suggests that progressive charismatic leaders tend to be pragmatic about inequality. Not surprisingly, a Fabian like Barrow wanted to fill in the spaces in bourgeois rights with a social democratic content, while letting the fundamentals of capitalism remain in place. For this, he had to be adept at mobilising, demobilising and dissembling at once. Working class consciousness is hard pressed to develop in such shallow soil.

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The effect of Barrow’s strategy was to reinforce class inequality and the social prejudices of the middle strata. Barrow might have taken the masses from the villages but he never articulated a strategy for where he wanted to take the society. His frequent criticism of the insecure middle strata could not inspire a nation, for the production of all of Barbados’ social strata was largely a function of the fundamental capitalist process, the infrastructures of which he had done so much to restructure and strengthen, and through which those very strata emerged. His criticism of forms of distribution and consumption could do nothing to undermine the pillars of production for exchange and surplus extraction. His politics of distribution left the mass in relative insecurity and the mass never transcended the existential consciousness of social democratic distributive justice. His economic and social policies made broad economic and social change possible within a context of structural inequality. He helped to set in motion a cultural revolution, but nothing comparable to a social or economic revolution. When the bottom fell out of Keynesianism, things began to fall apart, with the full effect being visited on his successors Erskine Sandiford and David Thompson. Barrow arrived on the political scene in the 1950s as the post-war Liberal Hour was unfolding, under pressure from the anti-colonial and antiimperialist movements. The masses were still dissatisfied with the slow pace of colonial reform. Barrow took advantage of that situation without having to take great political risks to mediate contradictions of a protracted crisis. His charismatic appeal worked well under social democratic Keynesian reformism. The charisma was the product of a given period and it began to erode as the Keynesian revolution lost its steam. By the time of his death, Keynesianism had already run its course. But Barrow still had a certain appeal. He epitomised the intellectual in the eyes of the party faithful and the masses, and any person who questioned that fact had to be speaking and acting irresponsibly. Barrow defined nationalism, radicalism, and socialism in ways that

helped to set the limits of appropriate political discourse and behavior in the ‘freest country in the whole world.’ One of Austin Clarke’s characters objected to grassroots radical rhetoric, on the pragmatic grounds that the country ‘is a better place for having three percentage white people living here, with ninety-three percentage power, controlling the Prime Minister 0’ this country. And that situation is better than any grassroots government’ (Clarke, 1978:127). The great ambiguity in the ‘ninety-three percentage power’ is that it could refer to the at least

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ninety per cent black numerical and electoral majority, or the high concentration of the essential means of production and wealth in the hands of the ‘three percentage white.’ Most Barbadians are still ambivalent about the relationship between race and inequality; few show any appreciation of the fact that it is the liberal ideology, which anchors capitalist inequality, that uses race to mask the real causal basis of that inequality (Malik, 1996). Barrow too was guilty of this offense! Barrow’s charismatic appeal helped to undermine black working class solidarity, for he used his charisma for the populist end of appealing to the mass over class, and by treating black working class grassroots nationalism as something at odds with democracy. As a populist, he located democracy above class and race, although democracy is a class project that presupposes economic and social inequality. Barrow made black power nationalism look like a threat to the seemingly settled issue of the stable democratic civic culture. He equated grassroots nationalism with black power radicalism and rallied masses of blue collar and white-collar working class forces around him, for the explicit purpose of allaying the concerns of the foreign investors, the tourists, the black middle strata,

: and the local whites. Barrow did not have a systematic plan for promoting or creating new leadership among the youth. Freundel Stuart argues that Barrow opposed cadre formation. David Commissiong said that Barrow appointed him to the Barbados Senate in 1986, without so much as telling him why he was appointed or what was to be expected of him as a senator. Young members of the DLP like Commissiong, Stuart, and David Thompson joined The Young Democrats without any specific training or direction for future leadership. The deep-seated crisis that grips the DLP today is to a degree, reflective of the contradictions of Barrow’s leadership. None of his charismatic appeal rubbed off on either of his successors. His individualism and arrogance reinforced his predisposition to concentrate power and act unilaterally on important issues. This reflected the disdain he held for some of his colleagues and his sense that the DLP revolved around him in a fundamental sense. There is little doubt that many of his colleagues tolerated his conduct, as it shifted important responsibility for key decisions away from themselves. His behavior conditioned the effectiveness of his charismatic appeal. Still, Barrow should not be shouldered with too much responsibility for the weaknesses or failures of his successors. Sandiford suggests that each new leader must choose to work with or against the legacies of a

Errol Barrow / 67

powerful charismatic leader. Sandiford thinks it would be difficult for any successor to a charismatic national hero like Barrow to operate free from the weight of the hero’s legacy, for successors must keep intact the legacy of the charismatic leader, as they forge their own path. Sandiford and ‘Thompson, among other DLP leaders, readily embraced the routinisation of Barrow’s charisma to the point that they found it very difficult to walk out of his shadow, but acquired no charisma of their own. Charismatic political leadership does not create inequality, as inequality is historically configured and reconfigured. Under capitalism, inequality is a function of the fundamental capitalist process. Charismatic leaders normally pursue public policies that exacerbate inequality, by operating from the flawed premise that inequality is timeless. Barbados is already a society grounded in capitalist inequality. Barrow felt social democracy could bring effective power to a majority that cannot actualise that power beyond the logic of the abstract universality, because that majority is not rooted in capital. He relied on rhetoric to constrain the middle strata that were committed to acquiring power in excess of their entitlements. He had no interest in placing any effective limits on the already massive economic power of the dominant ‘three percent minority’ that should not have such power but does. Bourgeois freedom and justice always bear the trace of force because the version of justice that prevails in societies like Barbados is already anchored and maintained through force as legitimate authority. Charisma never rises above contradictions of class, gender, or ethnicity because its purpose is to mediate those contradictions. In conjunction with populism, the best charisma can do is to displace the most fundamental of those contradictions. Since displacement is also a form of preservation, it has the effect of preserving contradictions that erode charisma. Political society, including civil society, with its complex array of institutions, plays roles in how meaning and values are produced, and how the various classes of society and their strata legitimate or undermine the status quo through their spontaneous consent or rejection through time.

ENDNOTES 1. The author would like to thank Linden Lewis, Carey Fraser, Don Marshall, and

Hilary Beckles for the insightful comments they provided on an earlier draft of this chapter.

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. Sir Peter Morgan was a member of the DLP, MP, and Chairman of the Tourist

Band. He ‘has been President or Chairman of every tourist-oriented organisa-

tion in Barbados and the Caribbean’ (Morgan 1994). as Speeches. Ww . Herein after cited in text and notes

4. For background information on Errol Barrow’s family see Blackman (1995:1-19) and Morgan (1994). Barrow said: ‘My father got very involved in the Trade Union Movement. He was a militant trade unionist and he was one of the first

men I grew to admire’ (quoted in Sealy 1991:24). . Michael Manley and G Arthur Browne (Jamaica), Forbes Burnham (Guyana), Pierre Trudeau (Canada), Lee Kwan Yew (Singapore), and Rawle Farley, Sir

William ‘Rannie’ Douglas, and Oliver Browne (Barbados) were among Barrow’s contemporaries at the LSE (Morgan 1994:22; Sealy 1991:26). . Tony Vanterpool mentioned that Barrow had suffered ‘six air crashes and two bullet wounds in the shoulder.’ Barrow said, ‘After that nothing daunts me’

(1987:16a). World War II claimed 72,000 RAF personnel. (see Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:17a).

_ Barrow said the term ‘riots’ did not reflect the significance of the 1937 revolts, which he called the ‘spontaneous outburst of indignation’ that could not be claimed by any ‘middle class politician or professional person.’ He said the leaderless workers were responding to conditions engendered by the oppression from the ‘militaristic cossacks, who help the thin red line of unenlightened British colonialism and imperialism.’ (see Speeches, pp 185, 186). . Barrow wrote a cookbook he entitled Privilege, to mean a ‘one-pot dish’ that was common in many rural agricultural parts of Barbadgs. The subtitle of the book is ‘Cooking in the Caribbean for men only (and for women who care).’ Barrow had plans to write a book about birds (see Morgan 1994:151). Compare Barrow’s preoccupation with such pedestrian concerns with Eric Williams’ and Michael Manley’s serious intellectual and scholarly interests and productivity during the same period. . I wish to thank Linden Lewis for this and other important insights that have helped me to improve the quality of this chapter. 10. Morgan (1994:105-9) provides a useful description of the close contacts that existed between Barrow and ordinary Barbadians from across the island. People from various constituencies would turn up at the prime minister’s official residence at Culloden Farm as early as 6 a m on a given week day to ask for advice or help. Barrow would telephone DLP parliamentarians to have them address the concerns of their constituents (Morgan 1994:108, Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:21a). me Asquith Phillips, general secretary of the Democratic Labour Party in the early 1960s, said of Barrow, ‘His whole life, career at the Bar, in politics and every-

thing else was nurtured and sustained by his love of humanity. That is why he could be the genial host, the generous friend and the grim uncompromising defender of the oppressed and underprivileged’, (see Love and a friend, Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p 34b). We: Ermie Springer, former admirer and supporter of Errol Barrow said she felt he

had completed the job he had come to do. It was his job and no other person could have done it better, Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:23a.

Harold Hoyte, editor of the Nation said: ‘Barrow took us to the top . . . He was the single person whom we felt could keep us there . . .” Hoyte added ‘he was

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such a gentleperson outside of the cut-and-thrust of politics that he could easily be in childcare’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p 15b).

a3. And laid the basis for the Social Security Scheme. In 1968 the Minimum Wages and Guaranteed Employment Act became law. In 1969, the Barbados Community College came into existénce. The Samuel Jackman Prescod Polytechnic was inaugurated in 1970. 14, Barrow was a member of the Independent United Order of Loyal Mechanics of Barbados and the World, see Friends not shocked at Barrow’s death, (Nation

Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p 3c). 15. Barrow delivered the Address to the 30 Annual Conference of the DLP at the George Street Auditorium on 25 August 1985. He declared that persons seeking to associate with the DLP ‘with a view to seeking public office must subscribe to our philosophy of Democratic Socialism; convince the Executive Council that they are not merely office seekers or opportunists but share our genuine concerns’ (Speeches, p 138). 16. Barrow’s paternal grandfather saw ‘service in the Boer War and in the Ashanti War, and in the West Indies as an active soldier and he was a church warden’ (Sealy 1991:24). European fascism also affected the colonial project in the West Indies. Mussolini’s invasion of Ethiopia had an impact on how West Indians responded to Britain’s war effort as well-as her position on the race question (see

Firedi 1998). 17. Barrow routinely adopted contradictory positions on foreign policy issues. He opened diplomatic relations with Cuba in defiance of the US position on Cuba

and allowed Cuban aircraft with soldiers and equipment bound for Angola to refuel in Barbados. He sided with Israel against the Palestinians. Barrow saw himself as an anti-imperialist who supported nonalignment, decolonisation, and anti-Apartheid. Hence his position on the sovereign right to have diplomatic relations with another Caribbean country and his willingness to allow Cuban planes to refuel in Barbados. His position on Israel had less to do with his claim that he had Jewish blood and more to do with his pragmatism on foreign investment and tourism. He took progressive stands during the 1970s, when the wider world, including the UN, was challenging aspects of American hegemony. 18. See Austin Clarke’s concept of ‘racial democracy,’ in relation to tourism, (1978:80). The middle strata resented this ‘rough-hewn principle of fair play and racial democracy’ and the minister of tourism in Clarke’s novel expressed concern about ‘the phenomenal number of visitors to our country who miscegenate

with a certain class of native men,’ namely the poor black beach boys. 19; See Michael Manley, ‘Errol Walton Barrow—patriot, friend of working people and outstanding politician.’ A tribute by Michael Manley, in (Speeches, op cit). 20. Taken from the Democratic Labour Party’s Manifesto 1971. (An extract of a speech in the House of Assembly on July 27, 1971), quoted in ‘Messages from the PM,’ (Nation Keepsake Wednesday, June 10, 1987 p 3b). 21: Austin Clarke was appointed as general manager of Caribbean Broadcasting Corporation (CBC), the government-owned television station in Barbados during the Barrow administration. He was fired after a few months. Some have read Clarke’s novel as an attempt to make political points against the administration that fired him. 22. Barrow became skeptical of how the Royal Barbados Police Force was being run. He said what we ‘have here in this country is that people high up in the police

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force, when information is given to them, they say, “Oh, we have to leave out

this person’s name”. I do not know how we can get law enforcement to function in this country if you have to leave out certain people’s names. I have a certain amount of responsibility with the Attorney General for the enforcement of law and order particularly when it comes to drug trafficking and I have tried to put a certain amount of pressure on the law enforcement agency to eliminate this scourge in our society’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:2c). 23. See Morgan (1994:145) for a discussion of the Duffus Commission issue. Sir

Courtney Blackman indicated that Sir Herbert Duffus had great respect for Mr Barrow and that Tom Adams came to regret that he had set up the Duffus Com-

mission (Interview).

24. Barrow quoted Cuban patriot and nationalist Jose Marti on the relation of truth

to dreams: ‘A true man does not seek the path where advantage lies, but rather the path where duty lies; and that is the only practical man, whose dream of Today will be the Law of Tomorrow; because he knows that without a single exception, the Future lies on the side of Duty’ (quoted in Speeches, pp 166, 174). See also ‘Caribbean Integration: The Reality and the Goal’ Address to the Caribbean Community

Heads of Governments

Conference,

3 July 1986,

Georgetown, Guyana. Barrow’s address at the Guyana Conference ‘moved many to tears in a hall filled to capacity’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p

6b). 24 Barrow did not have good working relationship with the Anglican Church. Had open conflicts with the Dean of St Michael’s Cathedral. Barrow relied on leading DLP politicians who were strong Anglicans to handle the religious aspects of DLP political interests. 26. In the May Day Address to the Barbados Workers Union May Day Rally at Queen’s Park, Bridgetown, May 1, 1987, Barrow declared: ‘I am not ashamed, as

one of the former ministers told me, that I come from the plantocracy. I told him, yes, I come from the plantocracy’ (Speeches, p 189).

pie Barrow graduated from Harrison College in the sixth form in 1939. He won a Scholarship to Codrington College in 1940, to study Classics, but decided to join the RAF instead. (see Morgan 1994:15-16, Sealy 1991:25, Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987:4a). 28. On the DLP side, leading female political figures included Gertrude Eastmond, Odessa Gittens, Mazie Barker Welch and Sybil Leacock. Gertrude Eastmond did not have good working relationship with Barrow. Mrs Eastmond was appointed as parliamentary secretary and was subsequently elected to Parliament in 1971. She resigned from the DLP in 1974 and formed the short-lived United People’s Party (UPP). Odessa Gittens and Carmeta Fraser were appointed to the Barbados Senate. Odessa Gittens served as parliamentary secretary in the ministry of education (Interview with Freundel Stuart). Mazie Barker Welch, who was elected to Parliament in 1986, also served as parliamentary secretary in the ministry of education. Sybil Leacock won a seat in the House of Assembly in a by-election in the parish of St Peter and sat in Parliament for a few days, until her election was overturned after a recount and the seat taken by Owen Arthur

(1994:82).

29; Antoinette Thompson informed the author in an interview that Mrs Carolyn Barrow, Errol Barrow’s American-born wife, informed her that she had hoped to

become involved in her husband’s political life, and was looking forward to doing

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so after the 1961 DLP victory. Errol took her to meet people in his St John constituency sometime after the 1961 election. She was an instant hit with the crowds who already knew of her as a popular radio personality. She said that on returning home that day Errol accused her of almost taking over his constituency. He never took her to his constituency after that and she was cut off from developing an active public interest in Barbadian politics. 30. Barrow refused to let the DLP Auditorium be named after himself, arguing that ‘it was for everyone to use’ (see Morgan 4:147). aL Quoted in eulogy by Dame Nita Barrow, who was Barbados’ Ambassador to the United Nations for her brother, the late prime minister, Errol Barrow during the State Funeral Service at the national stadium on Tuesday, June 9, 1987.

Dame Nita said ‘For those of us who knew Errol there is no past tense. I commend him to the youth of Barbados, the youth of the Caribbean’ (Nation Keepsake, Wednesday, June 10, 1987, p 31a). ozs Barrow served under the late Sir Sholto Douglas in the RAF. According to Sir Courtney Blackman in an interview, Sir Sholto made Barrow the legal guardian of his daughter in his will.

3

PEDRO

NOGUERA

The Limits of Charisma Grenada’s Eric Gairy (1922-97) and Maurice Bishop (1944-83)

Introduction

In the post-colonial period, the governments of the English-speaking Caribbean have been distinguished from other less developed nations by their maintenance of democratic political systems, and by the presence of charismatic leaders. The confluence of these two phenomena have generated perplexing contradictions within these societies. These include: political processes commonly characterised by intense conflict and acrimony among political parties and factions, despite continued political stability (Stone 1977); a relatively high degree of political participation as measured both by voter turn out and party membership, despite autocratic leadership practices and a lack of democracy within political parties (Ryan 1999); and a continued willingness on the part of the electorate to pursue change through electoral channels, despite the severe economic hardships endured by the majority of their populations (Thomas 1991).

One explanation for the unique character of Caribbean politics has been put forward by Caribbean historian Gordon K Lewis, who has suggested that at the time of independence there was a popular belief that ‘... politics held the key to all problems and the panacea to every social ill’ (1968:399). He goes on to add that ‘. . . this delusion was naturally encouraged by the new class of political office holders who thereby at one and the same time diverted mass energy into a safe outlet and obtained a veneer of legitimacy for their new status within the West Indian power structure’ (Ibid). To a large extent, the presence of charismatic leaders has made this diversion of energies possible and has enabled

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 73

these states, with a few notable exceptions, to withstand the pressures generated by the contradictions cited above. This chapter will examine one of the exceptions to that pattern, the island of Grenada, where despite the presence of charismatic leaders,

break downs in the political process have resulted in considerable political upheaval, instability and significant departures from the established forms of governance present elsewhere in the region. The argument presented here posits that in Grenada, two charismatic leaders—Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop—each with substantially different styles of leadership and ideological orientations, have been largely responsible for Grenada’s exceptionalism. Moreover, it will also be shown that popular responses to these charismatic leaders have been rooted in rational and pragmatic evaluations ofa leader’s ability to satisfy collective needs and expectations, rather than an irrational form of hero worship as has been suggested in much of the literature on this topic (Mills 1962). As is true in many other parts of the world, charismatic leaders in Grenada have emerged during periods of rapid and dramatic political change. Riding the crest of movements for social and political change, Eric Gairy, and later Maurice Bishop, personified the possibility of a radically different future, presenting a vision of a fundamentally different society which captured the imagination of those they led. As has been discussed in chapter one, however, it will be shown through an analysis of the Grenadian case that by raising popular expectations with respect to improvements in living conditions!, charismatic leaders also sow the seeds for their own undoing. Moreover, by dominating the political landscape through the strength of their personalities, charismatic leaders ultimately compel their opponents to use force against them as they come to the realisation that traditional forms of resistance are futile. It will also be demonstrated that charismatic leaders in Grenada have generated a perplexing contradiction: they are instrumental in the acquisition of state power, yet ultimately detrimental to the maintenance of it. They have the unique capacity to challenge entrenched forms of power in society and to disrupt the institutions which serve as instruments of domination, yet when it comes to serving as architects of a new social order and carrying out the work such an endeavor requires, these leaders have largely failed. Yet, despite these limits and constraints, leaders such as Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop, like charismatic leaders elsewhere, leave an indelible imprint upon history because at critical junctures they

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emerged to give voice to the aspirations of their people, and on occasion appear to be masters of their own and their nation’s destiny. This analysis is based in part upon data collected during seven months of field research in Grenada, from July of 1987.to March of 1988. Dur-

ing that period, 120 interviews were conducted with Grenadian citizens regarding their attitudes and perceptions of the political changes that had occurred on the island.” In addition, thirty in-depth interviews with politicians, labor and community leaders, clergyman, businessmen and

journalists were carried out to obtain an insiders’ perspective on the political changes that have taken place on the island. The data collected from these interviews and surveys, combined with historical research, as

well as the author’s own firsthand observations of politics on the island over the last eighteen years, provides the empirical basis for this analysis. In the following pages, the leadership styles of Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop will be contrasted in order to illuminate similarities and differences between these two charismatic leaders. Though both leaders were charismatic and can be described broadly as populist, the style of leadership they pursued differed significantly, as did the ideological orientation of the regime’s they led. Such a contrast makes it possible to understand how and why different styles of leadership appeal to different constituencies within the Grenadian populace. Moreover, a comparison of the two leaders reveals the importance of charismatic leadership in challenging an entrenched power structure through mobilisation of the lower and working classes. In this regard, Gairy’s role in the struggle against the Grenadian plantocracy and the colonial authorities in the 1950s and 1960s, and Bishop’s role in leading the opposition to the Gairy regime in the 1970s, will be the historical periods that will be examined most closely. This chapter will not, however, provide an analysis or explanation for why either regime fell from power. In the case of the People’s Revolutionary Government (PRG), while it could be argued that too much reliance on Maurice Bishop’s charisma played arole in the regimes demise, it should by no means be taken as an explanation for the regime’s collapse. Many factors contributed to the collapse of the PRG, and readers interested in a more thorough understanding of these can refer to several scholarly works on the topic.3 Similarly, there are several studies that provide detailed analyses of the Gairy regime and the factors that led to the takeover by the New JEWEL (Joint Endeavour for Welfare Education and Liberation) Movement (NJM) on March 13, 1979.4

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 75

This study seeks to cover new ground by analysing how two leaders, who have typically been viewed as ideologically and stylistically dissimilar, could both garner the affection and loyalty of substantial portions of the Grenadian populace. Hopefully such an inquiry will add to an understanding of the role of charismatic leadership in Caribbean politics more generally. Building upon the foundation laid by Archie Singham’s important study The Hero and The Crowd (1968), which examined the

role of charismatic leadership in colonial Grenada, this paper intends to contribute to further understanding of this unique feature of modern Caribbean politics.

Strengths and Weaknesses of Charismatic Leadership In its purest sense, Weber has defined charismatic leadership as: ...a certain quality of an individual by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with‘supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These are not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as divine in origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as a leader (Weber quoted in Eisenstadt 1968:358-59).

In more common parlance, and as was discussed in chapter one, the term has been applied to leaders who are regarded as gifted or exceptional by virtue of some combination of heroic deeds, visionary leadership during times of crisis, extraordinary oratory skills and/or talents in mass communication. Perhaps the most essential ingredient of charismatic leadership is the widely shared perception that an individual leader is in fact special and uniquely endowed with qualities that qualify him or her for leadership. These qualities and the perceptions of them are not, however, fixed, nor are they necessarily seen as permanent features or characteristics of a particular leader. Rather, because of its extraordinary dimension, charismatic leadership must constantly prove itself through actions that demonstrate a leaders’ ability to deliver tangible benefits to his or her constituents. Concerning this point Samuel Eisenstadt writes: The charismatic leader gains and maintains authority solely by proving his strength in life. If he wants to be a prophet, he must perform miracles; if he wants to be a war lord, he must perform heroic deeds. Above all, however, his

divine mission must prove itself in that those who faithfully surrender to him

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must fare well. If they do not fare well, he is obviously not the master sent by the gods (Eisenstadt 1968:23-24).

For this reason, regimes that rely solely upon charismatic leadership are generally regarded as inherently unstable (Eisenstadt 1968:248). The burden of proof borne by such a leader often exacts too great a cost over an extended period of time. Particularly in developing societies, where national economies are characteristically at the mercy of international markets and foreign investors, charismatic leaders are often unable to withstand the pressures that arise from economic uncertainty and the high expectations that accompany faith in a charismatic leader (Wriggins 1977). To avoid the instability that accompanies charismatic authority most regimes gradually make efforts to routinise and institutionalise charisma, and thereby lessen the degree of uncertainty. Generally this involves insulating the leader from actions and policies that may be attributed to him and buttressing the regime through organisations such as political parties, unions or even the military, which over time take on greater importance than the leader in maintaining primary contacts with the masses. Such strategies enable the party, or organisations associated with the charismatic leader, to derive authority and enhanced stature from their association with the charismatic leader. Most importantly, when things do not go well, it is the organisation rather than the leader who receives the blame. Routinisation, however, may result in a lessening of the powers held by the charismatic leader because it often leads to the creation of structures of accountability. In some cases, as power shifts from the leader to second tier functionaries within the state bureaucracy and other organisations, (that is, unions, political parties, the military, and so on) routini-

sation may also render a charismatic leader as little more than a figure head. Such attempts to decentralise power are often resisted by the leader and his allies. For example, after initially agreeing, Maurice Bishop rejected the proposal for joint leadership with his deputy prime minister, Bernard Coard, an action which furthered a split within the leadership of the central committee of the NJM, and ultimately resulted in his execution by the opposing faction (O’Shaunessy 1984). Eric Gairy fiercely opposed attempts at routinisation, and consistently undermined or eliminated aspiring subordinates whom he perceived as posing a challenge to his authority (Jacobs and Jacobs 1980; Brizan 1984). Despite

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 77

the threat, routinisation may pose to a charismatic leader, such efforts are inevitable because routinisation enables the regime to contend with the most troubling aspect of charismatic leadership: the problem of succession (Gerth and Mills 1974:248—49).

Contrasting Styles of Charismatic Leadership Though there are important differences in the leadership styles exhibited by Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop, both men have generally been regarded as charismatic figures, who were able successfully to use populist appeals to cement the loyalty of their mass followings. This was possible due both to the personal attributes they possessed (for example, an ability to communicate easily with ordinary Grenadians, outstanding oratory skills, and a physical appearance and personality that were considered attractive by many), as well as the historic roles they assumed as champions of the rights of working people in fighting against the oppressive material conditions experienced by the majority of the population. In both cases timing was important to their emergence as political leaders. Gairy rose from the ranks of the peasantry to provide leadership during the labor uprising of 1951, while Bishop served as the spokesman and principal head of the revolution to overthrow Gairy in 1979. The charismatic qualities of the two leaders were instrumental to the parties they led when challenging the entrenched power of their opponents. Coming on the heels of the widespread labour unrest and the general social and economic crisis that characterised the English-speaking Caribbean in the late 1930s, Gairy was able to seize the political moment. Thus, his charisma and talents as a labor organiser proved to be the decisive ingredient in the victorious struggle of agricultural workers against the estate owners and colonial authorities during the 1950s. Similarly, Bishop’s charisma was instrumental in galvanising the opposition to the Gairy government in the NJM’s bid for power during the 1970s. This is not to suggest that organisation—the GULP (Grenada United Labor Party) for Gairy, and the NJM for Bishop, did not play an important role in the ascension of either leader; however, given that both lead-

ers came to personify the organisations and later the governments that they led, the nature of their charismatic appeal took on a life of its own that was separate from and larger than the organisations they led. The emergence of these two charismatic figures at particular

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moments in Grenada’s history, also helps to explain Grenada’s exceptionalism from the patterns of political development manifest elsewhere in the anglophone Caribbean. That ‘exceptionalism’ includes some of the following distinguishing features: (a) Grenada-is the only British West Indian colony to experience a social revolution in the 1950s; (b) Grenada is the only Caricom nation to experience an armed socialist revolution; and (c) Grenada is the only Caricom nation to have been subjected to direct military intervention by the US. Each of these events was influenced, at least in part, by the actions and leadership of Eric Gairy, Maurice Bishop, or both. The labor uprising of 1951 was significant because, as indicated earlier, it occurred several years after similar labor unrest had rocked the region in the 1930s. The Moyne Commission, appointed by the British government to investigate the causes of the unrest, noted with some surprise that the peasantry in Grenada remained relatively docile during this period, despite the deplorable conditions present on the island.* In 1951, Gairy emerged as the most significant black political leader on the island, supplanting the middle class’ brown-skinned professionals so heavily favoured by the British. He subsequently organised the first major labor union on the island and directed the penned up rage of the peasantry in a concerted struggle against the plantocracy. That he managed to do so with relatively few resources, no powerful allies, and de_ spite the fierce and concerted opposition of the British, is further evidence of his strength as a leader, and effectiveness of populist politics, especially on the eve of decolonisation. Similarly, though many of the nations in the region have had significant leftist leaders and movements, Bishop was the first to take power through armed revolution. Despite this substantial deviation from the political norms of the region (Michael Manley, Cheddi Jagan and Forbes Burnham have all identified themselves with socialism, but all three were

elected into office), Bishop gained popularity as a leader not only in Grenada but internationally as well. As further evidence of his popularity, many observers have argued that the US’s invasion of Grenada in 1983 was only made possible by the execution of Bishop, since this act completely undermined the credibility of the rogue regime that attempted to succeed him (O’Shaunessy 1984; Heine 1987; Ambursley and Cohen 1984). As will be argued in the pages ahead, the unique events that transpired in Grenada, were made possible to a large degree by the charismatic personalities possessed by these two leaders.

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 79

Eric Gairy: A Man of the People The return of Eric Gairy from Aruba to Grenada in December of 1949, coincided with the enactment of constitutional changes that substantially altered the political and social order of Grenadian society. These reforms, which were instituted in response to the Moyne Commission Report, included the enactment of adult suffrage in 1951 and increased power for the locally elected Legislative Council (Singham 1968:237-45). As a result of these changes, a new political opening was created in Grenada; one which constituted the most substantial change in political conditions on the island in the post-emancipation period. Prior to 1951, the Legislative Council, which was composed primarily of large planters with a small number of representatives from the urban middle class, was for the most part irrelevant to the lives of the peasantry.® Since the abolition of slavery in 1834, little had been done to improve conditions for the black majority, which continued to serve as a source of cheap labor in the agricultural sector. With the reforms of 1951 the opportunity for including the peasantry in the political affairs of the island was created for the first time. In order for the Grenadian peasantry to become an independent force within the politics of the island, however, there was a need for au-

tonomous organisation. Gairy’s return from the oil fields of Aruba in 1949, where he learned about labor organising, came at an opportune moment. Largely due to the absence of an organised labor movement, Grenada had been one of few islands in the British West Indies that did not experience social unrest in the late 1930s, though as the Moyne Commission pointed out, conditions were as bad in Grenada as they were elsewhere in the region (Noguera 1997:87). Gairy built his labor union and political party as a vehicle that could channel these penned up frustrations and serve as an outlet through which their demands could be articulated. The success of his organising efforts quickly led to his emergence as the champion and preeminent leader of the masses. The social peace and stability that had prevailed in Grenada prior to 1950, came to a dramatic end with the uprising of 1951. At the time of this upheaval, the traditional patron-client ties that had characterised relations between peasants and estate owners on the larger estates were beginning to break down. Rising nutmeg and cocoa prices in the 1940s prompted foreign agricultural entrepreneurs to purchase abandoned and idle estates throughout Grenada (Brizan, 1984:256-70). This newly

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created group of planters was unfamiliar with the expectations of the estate workers who had grown accustomed to the semi-feudal relations on the estates and the roles and obligations that had become associated with agricultural production.’ Instead of maintaining time honored commitments that would have allowed estate workers to continue to live on the estates, producing food for themselves and their families as part of their compensation for working the land, the new owners sought to formalise the worker-employer relationship by paying set hourly wages. In his first action as a labor leader, at the La Sagesse Estate in St David’s, Gairy mobilised estate workers who were threatened with eviction from their homes by new proprietors. The massive labor unrest that resulted during the months that followed was fueled by this break down in the social relations of production in agriculture, and the progressive proletarianisation of the workforce. The disruption of tradition created a sense of unease among the dislocated workers, who were perhaps as confused about developments as they were angry. While labor protests were occurring on several islands in the British West Indies during the 1930s, political activity among the Grenadian peasantry was minimal. On many of the islands, middle-class leaders had been able to use appeals to nationalism to channel the inertia of the labor movement toward political independence.’ Years later, Gairy used the uprising of 1951 in a similar way. Challenging the colour caste social hierarchy in Grenada, he ‘presented himself as the popular champion against the white oligarchy’ and encouraged his peasant followers to ‘destroy their ingrained deference to their betters’ (Jacobs and Jacobs

1980:83). Gairy not only served as the spokesman for the demands of the peasantry, he also established himself as the sole authority with the ability to quell the protest. Though they deeply resented him, the colonial authorities and planters were forced to acknowledge Gairy as the only credible leader on the island capable of representing the interests of the peasant majority.

Although Gairy never considered himself a socialist, he was definitely a populist and his demands for change did include a vision for altering the power structure in Grenadian society. While many writers on Grenada have suggested that he was far more interested in obtaining power and wealth for himself than leveling the differences among social classes in Grenadian society?, the manner in which he carried out his protest had the effect of completely disrupting the status-quo in

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 81

Grenada. The island’s elites and the colonial authorities had never been confronted with organised demands from the peasantry. Both parties fully expected the establishment of representative local government in Grenada to follow the pattern of political succession evident elsewhere in the Caribbean and to lead to the empowerment of more compliant middle-class leaders. The inability however, of the Grenadian middle class to develop a base among the lower class, combined with the emergence of Gairy, resulted in an unanticipated political development for the British. The peasantry, which had previously been largely marginal to political affairs of the island, had now mobilised under the leadership of the more radical and unpredictable Eric Gairy. Gairy was instrumental in bringing about a temporary end to the marginalisation of the peasantry through the movement of 1951. It is for this reason that some writers on Grenada have described the rebellion of 1951 as a social revolution, a reference not used to describe the protests that occurred elsewhere in the British West Indies. Grenadian historian,

George Brizan, writes: The 1951 unrest was a belated attempt by the Grenadian working class to catch up with the developments of similar movements in the rest of the Caribbean. It provided a leap forward in the consciousness of the worker, and one hundred years of docility and subservience seemed to have evaporated over night. A social revolution had occurred that marked the apotheosis of the estate laborers post-emancipation struggle (Brizan 1984:256).

Commenting further on the impact of the 1951 disturbances on the consciousness of Grenadian peasants, Richard Jacobs and Ian Jacobs write: That victory by the agro-proletariat released them from the bondage of superstition that had previously tied them to the belief that only white and off-white people were capable of providing national leadership . . . Every strike, every confrontation that developed at the work place, instilled in the workers a consciousness of themselves as a class and contributed to the development of antagonistic relationships between themselves and their employers (1980:86).

The significance of the events of 1951 for Grenadian society should not be underestimated. As Gairy consolidated political power on the island in the 1960s, and as the role of the colonial authorities gradually receded, Gairy was able to institute a number of radical reforms designed to punish his enemies and provide tangible rewards to his supporters.

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Land reform, along with the government takeover of the banana, nutmeg and cocoa boards, were just some of the more controversial actions taken by his government (Brizan 1984:123-56). His rise to power prevented parties such as the Grenada National Party (GNP), headed by middle-class leader Herbert Blaise!°, from assuming leadership on the island, thus breaking the pattern established on most of the other islands in the British West Indies. Moreover, his leadership also served as a powerful cultural and political challenge to the hegemony exerted by the local elites and the British over the society; hegemony that provided the basis for the cultural and psychological domination of the Black majority.!! Gairy’s own philosophy of social change has been described by Gordon Lewis as ‘a curious mixture of God, Marx and the British Empire’ (1987:26), thus hinting at the link between charismatic endowment and divine blessing described by Gerth and Mills, who note that the charismatic leader ‘is responsible for one thing, that he personally and actually be the God-willed master’ (1958:249). His motives for fomenting the rebellion have been called into question by most observers, many of whom have regarded his own intentions as a personal lust for power, wealth and acceptance among the social circles of the elites (Lewis 1987; Jacobs and Jacobs 1980; DaBreo,

1980; Brizan 1984). Regardless of what

Gairy’s motives might have been, few dispute the fact that it was his leadership that made the uprising of 1951 possible. With his impressive oratorical skills, Gairy was able to capture the imagination of the peasantry and lead them in a confrontation against the local elites and colonial authorities. Once in elected office, Gairy cultivated a personal style of leadership that relied heavily upon his charismatic appeal and enabled him to withstand several attempts by the colonial authorities to remove him from public office (Singham 1968). This style of leadership also resulted, however, in the neglect of other aspects of the strategy which brought him to power. This was particularly true with regard to the development of both his union, the Grenada Manual

and Mental Workers

Union

(GMMWU), and his party, the Grenada United Labor Party (GULP). Both organisations declined substantially in importance during the periods when Gairy was in government. Explaining Gairy’s ambivalence towards organisation, Singham writes that ‘the hero (Gairy) does not have a genuine mass party; he has supporters who are personally committed to following him but who are not controlled by him’ (1968:218).

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 83

His unwillingness to develop mass organisations which would have enabled him to buffer his regime with layers of functionaries, was related in part to his fear that his followers might eventually attempt to challenge him through these organisations. Rather than an organised base, Gairy sought in traditional caudillo style to consolidate his base through a vast patronage network based upon personal loyalty and indebtedness to him. With the civil service, several large parastatal organisations and an array of governmental contracts at his disposal, Gairy could effectively control the jobs and lives of thousands of Grenadians. With such power at his fingertips, direct appeals to the masses and the organising that made his rise to leadership possible, were increasingly unnecessary. Following his landslide victory in the election of 1972, direct contact with his peasant constituents in the rural areas declined further. With the new powers he obtained from the gradual receding of British rule, Gairy began to take his support among the peasantry for granted. Whereas in earlier times, Uncle Gairy, as he was affectionately called,

would make speeches in Market Square castigating the upper brackets for their mistreatment of the ‘little man,’ as his control over government became more secure and his confidence grew, he became increasingly aloof and isolated from his followers. By the late 1970s, Gairy had finally become a wealthy man, having purchased several hotels and nightclubs on the island. Though never accepted among the local elites, he increasingly became estranged from his lower class base, and began spending most of his time socialising with foreign businessmen, some of whom were alleged to have been involved in organised crime (Sunshine 1982:99-102). With grassroots organising no longer seen as necessary to his political fortunes, Gairy relied less upon the appeal of his charismatic personality, and his ability to mesmerise a crowd was reserved for special ceremonies, or during those moments when the opposition to his regime was perceived as most threatening. As Maurice Bishop and the NJM began to mount a serious challenge to him in the 1970s, based on allegations that Gairy himself was corrupt, authoritarian and indifferent to the plight of the poor, Gairy relied almost exclusively upon repression by his police and special security agents (that is, the Mongoose Gang), rather than meeting the NJM challenge by rallying his supporters among the rural lower classes. In the years leading up to the NJM takeover of 1979, Gairy utilised mass mobilisations and direct appeals to the masses only when it suited

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his needs. This tended to be the case during electoral campaigns or at official ceremonies. Moreover, Gairy consciously sought to transform his image from that of rabble rouser to that of the distinguished statesman. In so doing, he effectively undermined his most potent political weapon—his charismatic appeal as a ‘man of the people.’ By the time his regime collapsed, he had become a part of what he had once fervently opposed—a member of Grenada’s ruling elites. His ties to the peasant and working class majority were now reduced to a distant memory. For this reason, even after his return to Grenada in 1983 following the US invasion, Gairy was not able to recover his base of support among the masses. With the exception of a small cadre of past followers, who by this time were quite elderly, few Grenadians recalled Gairy’s reputation as the hero of the working class, and his attempts at re-establishing his base proved to be largely unsuccessful.!2

The Popular Appeal of Maurice Bishop The charismatic qualities of Maurice Bishop played a similar role in the development of NJM, and enabled the organisation to become an effective source of opposition to Gairy during the 1970s. After years of competing with Herbert Blaise and the GNP for political leadership during the 1950s and 1960s, Gairy attained a position of nearly unchallenged authority on the island once the British, Blaise’s primary sponsors, granted Grenada independence in 1974 and were finally out of the picture in domestic politics. The GNP’s historic dependence upon the backing of the colonial authorities, combined with its inability to appeal to the lower strata, severely restricted its potential to serve as an effective political opposition to Gairy’s GULP. The NJM, however, which was formed shortly after the election of 1972, quickly filled the void, and the young barrister, Maurice Bishop, assumed the primary role of leading the opposition to Gairy. Unlike Gairy, Bishop appreciated and understood the need for planning and formal organisation, and never operated on an individual basis.

When MAP (Movement for Assemblies with the People) was establ ished in 1972, Bishop and his law partner Kenrick Raddix, served as co-

chairs.!3 The following year when the NJM was established, Bishop and Unison Whiteman served as joint leaders. Even as Bishop’s popularity grew during the 1970s following his election to the Grenadian parlia ment in 1976 and his elevation to the position of Leader of the

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 85

Opposition!*, he remained part of the collective leadership of his party and was effectively accountable to the NJM. After the revolution, Bishop and the NJM continued to rely upon mass organisations for support among the populace. Commenting on the role of mass organisations after the revolution in March of 1979, Bishop stated that: ‘Today in Grenada it is the State which actively stimulates and creates the conditions for the healthy growth of mass organisation, a process initiated by the NJM in opposition and culminating today in the setting up of a Ministry of National Mobilisation.’!5 Bishop’s rise in stature can partially be explained by the personal talents he possessed as an orator and an organiser, and by the courage he displayed in opposing the Gairy regime. Bishop, however, had an advantage not shared by Gairy; he could also successfully appeal to the island’s middle class. Though they were distrustful of his leftist rhetoric, his middle-class origins made business leaders on the island more open to his leadership than they ever were to Eric Gairy. Moreover, because Bishop, unlike Blaise, also made a concerted effort to appeal to and organise the peasantry, the NJM was gradually able to make inroads into Gairy’s primary constituency, a strategy that ultimately enabled them to become formidable opponents of the Gairy regime. These efforts, combined with his following among the urban working class and the youth, enabled Bishop and the NJM to undermine Gairy’s popular base of support and ultimately, to work toward the demise of the regime. Though viewed as more of a gentleman than a rogue, like Gairy, Bishop was also seen as the populist champion of the lower classes. His early work as a lawyer representing those who had been victimised in one way or another by the Gairy regime, helped to earn him a reputation as an advocate for the oppressed. His defense of striking nurses in 1972, and of numerous clients who had been victims of police brutality and other abuses of the Gairy regime, enhanced his populist appeal and led to him becoming well-known throughout Grenada and the Caribbean as a capable ‘people’s lawyer’. The beating he experienced at the hands of Gairy’s Mongoose Gang and police in 1973 further enhanced his image.!6 The infamous Bloody Sunday beating, combined with the murder of his father who was killed while protecting school children during an anti-Gairy demonstration in St George’s in 1974, boosted in a major way Bishop’s charismatic standing in the eyes of the Grenadian people and helped to create an image of him as a leader who had made

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tremendous sacrifices for the people, and for his cause—the overthrow of Eric Gairy. After attaining power through the takeover in March 1979, Bishop’s charismatic appeal became one of the primary assets of the newly formed PRG. Bishop was a powerful orator and his public appearances went a long way in furthering support for the revolution both domestically and internationally. In interviews conducted by this author in 1987, it was found that even many of those who were opposed to the socialist orientation of the regime and its ties to nations such as Cuba, developed a personal and intense fondness for Bishop (Noguera 1997:182-97). Bishop became the personification of the Grenada revolution, and for as long as he was its leader, substantial popular support seemed to be guaranteed. Here his charismatic and populist qualities became fused in much the same way that Hans Gerth and C Wright Mills spoke of the leveling aspects of charismatic movements, fueled by popular enthusiasms: ‘in such extraordinary enthusiasms class and status barriers sometimes give way to fraternization and exuberant community sentiments’ (1958:52). :

Contrasting Styles of Leadership Though the differences in the ideological orientations of Gairy and Bishop were significant (Gairy was a conservative populist, Bishop was a radical populist), such distinctions were less important than the ways in which their charismatic personalities appealed to different segments of the population. Raised in the rural villages of St Andrews, Gairy rose to political prominence from the ranks of the peasantry. Growing up with such a background, he was entirely familiar with the values, beliefs, cus-

toms and sensibilities of the rural lower classes. His approach to organising relied heavily upon religious and spiritual appeals because he understood the value of such symbols to the peasantry. Throughout his political career he claimed to be on a mission from God, and on numer-

ous occasions he asserted that God selected him to lead Grenada.!7 He was well acquainted with Obeah, (a non-formal religion rooted in West African spiritual traditions, practiced widely in Grenada and other parts of the Caribbean) and the practices associated with it, and incorporated some of its beliefs and symbols into his unique leadership style. Moreover, he understood common Grenadian sensibilities and attitudes: the fact that Grenadians respect what they call a bad jobn—someone who is

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 87

audacious and bold and refuses to back down from anyone; a streethardened tough guy. Gairy projected this trait through his courageous challenges to the colonial authorities and the large estate owners, and he did so with bravado and flair. Conversely, Bishop’s image was that of a more modest leader and he generally appeared to be far less self-aggrandising than Gairy. Partially because of his privileged background, Bishop went out of his way to demonstrate that he felt comfortable among common folk (Heine 1987).

During the 1970s, and even during the first few years of PRG rule, Bishop made an effort to develop personal ties with poor people on the _ island, particularly those in the rural areas. When in public, he took on no airs and made easy conversation with shopkeepers, young people and ordinary Grenadians. He earned a reputation as a leader with humility, as one who always displayed courtesy toward others regardless of their class position. In his assessment of Bishop, author Jorge Heine points out that ‘.. . being a London-educated lawyer from a well known and respected light-skinned St George’s family, he made his own the demands and aspirations of the black rural folk’ (Heine 1990). Whereas Gairy wanted to be addressed as the Honorable Doctor Sir Eric Matthew Gairy, having obtained several honorary titles during his tenure in public office,!8 Bishop was referred to as Brother Bish, or simply, Maurice. Yet, these differences in leadership style are less significant when one examines how the charismatic personalities of the two leaders were used by the regimes. As the chief spokesmen of their governments, both Gairy and Bishop utilised their talents as orators and the appeal of their personalities to persuade the populace to support their policies and programs. Such direct appeals by the two men were particularly useful to their regimes when it became necessary to justify repressive measures against opponents, or to rationalise and attempt to explain the causes of economic hardships on the island. Certainly not all were appeased by the charm of either leader, but for their core constituencies, the personal touch of the popular leader went a long way. This is a clear advantage that charismatic leaders have over non-charismatic ones. Yet, neither leader relied on charisma alone to maintain popular support. Having come to power promising to improve the lot of the masses, both leaders understood the importance of delivering tangible benefits to the masses. In survey research done for this paper, the majority of respondents who expressed support for Bishop or Gairy (92 per cent of all

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respondents identified either Bishop or Gairy as Grenada’s best leader) explained their support by describing the material benefits that either they personally received, or that benefited the nation generally (Noguera 1997:185-210). Most respondents spoke at length about the personalities of the two leaders, about actions taken by them that either evoked admiration or hatred, but when asked to explain why they supported a particular leader, the vast majority explained their support by describing the material benefits that they or the nation had received. The Limits of Charisma In her book, States and Social Revolutions (1979) Theda Skocpol asks

whether revolutions are made by the conscious and deliberate actions of individuals, or if greater weight should be given to structural conditions beyond the control of human actors? In the case of Grenada, history would suggest that certain individuals, most especially Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop, have mattered in some very significant ways. Yet, if we credit these leaders with profoundly influencing the course of events that have transpired on the island, we must also recognise their profound limitations. For all their charisma and strength*of personality, neither could ultimately control how long they would stay in power or under what circumstances they would be forced out. Charisma may have been a tremendous asset, but it was by no means a foolproof shield. For by its very nature, charisma has a shelf life, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. Grenada’s history shows that despite its usefulness as a means of mobilising popular support and obtaining political power, charismatic leadership is insufficient as a base upon which to build a government. While it was an important component of the strategies employed by both the Gairy and Bishop regimes to maintain popular support, neither regime could afford to rely exclusively upon the charisma of their leaders to maintain power.

Both regimes understood quite clearly that in order to hold on to power they had to deliver concrete benefits to the peasant majority, for if it is true that miracles and heroic feats of valour are the ‘stuff’of charismatic leadership, failure to deliver the goods in the source of their undoing (Gerth and Mills 1974:52). In other words, support for their regimes would be based upon the degree to which these leaders could satisfy expectations, which they themselves had raised. For Gairy, this meant

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 89

relying increasingly on patronage to extract and retain the loyalty of key constituents. For Bishop and the PRG, it meant becoming heavily dependent on foreign aid to finance a greatly expanded welfare state, since this was the only means available to increase the ‘social wage’of the average Grenadian (Pryor 1986:87-97). Ultimately, it was the need to meet popular expectations they had raised and deliver the goods, which created crisis situations and set the stage for the demise of both regimes (Di Tella 1965:47-50; Beverley 1983:143). Both regimes found themselves in a bind created by the scarcity of resources; a condition that is a constant feature of the society’s underdeveloped state. To this day, Grenada remains a society whose . economy is shaped by forces beyond the control of political leaders. With the deepening of globalisation in trade and finance, nations like Grenada that remain dependent on agricultural exports and tourism as their primary source of foreign exchange are likely to experience economic instability as a regular occurrence. Charismatic leaders can only withstand the pressures created by the vagaries of the economy for so long; in the case of the Gairy and Bishop regimes, only for as long they are not challenged either by another charismatic leader or by emboldened enemies from within their own parties. The experience of Grenada suggest that charismatic leadership is a powerful asset when aparty is challenging an entrenched authority or during the period when a new regime is attempting to consolidate its power and legitimacy. Once a regime has been consolidated, it must, however, find ways to satisfy the expectations that it has raised during its bid for power. As the masses begin to look for tangible signs that conditions are improving they are likely to grow impatient with a regime that cannot deliver tangible material benefits. In fact, the inability of a charismatic leader to satisfy expectations may eventually serve as proof that the leader who once was perceived as charismatic or extraordinary is really not so special after all.

ENDNOTES 1. Several writers including Stone (1983), Henry (1983) and Hintzen (1989) have

described the political pressures that are created by the inability of several Caribbean states to satisfy the basic needs and expectations of their respective populations. Political leaders typically contribute to this problem by raising

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expectations during the course of political campaigns which they later find impossible to adequately address once they have attained political power. . The interview sample was obtained through random selection of individuals from the 1984 voter registration rolls, obtained through the Parliamentary Office of Elections. Ten open-ended questions were used to solicit opinions on political leaders and various political issues. (see Appendix for a list of the survey questions). . Some examples of studies that have been written on the collapse of the PRG include Mandel (1985); Thorndike (1985); Heine (1990); Meeks (1988); Noguera

(1997).

. See Brizan (1984); Jacobs and Jacobs (1981); Dabreo (1980).

. The Moyne Commission was dispatched by the British government to the Caribbean in the aftermath of the labor uprisings of the 1930s. As one of the few islands that had not experienced social unrest, the Commission’s report issued a warning that conditions in Grenada were ripe for a similar outburst. (see West Indian Royal Commission Report on the Economic Conditions of the Grenada Peasantry, £939). . The term peasantry will be used in reference to small farmers and agricultural workers. The term lower classes will be used to include the peasantry (farmers and workers and in the agricultural sector) and urban workers. Specific reference will be made to estate workers or the agro-proletariat when describing labor activity among these groups, even though many of these workers are also small farmers and therefore can be considered part of the peasantry. (see Brizan 1984:45—68 for discussion of the Grenadian peasantry). . For a discussion of the semi-feudal relations in Grenadian agriculture( see Smith, MG, 1965) . For a discussion of middle-class domination in Caribbean politics (see Hintzen

1992:34-45)

Brizan contends that Gairy was so embittered from the hardships he endured during the period when he was banned from serving in office by the colonial authorities, as a result of a campaign violation (1957-61), that he became consumed with obtaining power again so that he could seek revenge against his enemies and enhance his personal wealth. 10. Herbert Blaise served as Premier from 1957-67, as leader of the opposition in Parliament from 1967-74, and as prime minister from 1984-89. ine For a discussion of the social psychological underpinnings of class domination in

Grenada, (see M G Smith, 1968:142 and Gordon K Lewis, 1968:123). |e For a discussion of the internal party dynamics within the GULP (see Dabreo,

1980:39-47),

133 MAP was established at approximately the same time as the JEWEL (Joint En-

deavour for Welfare, Education and Liberation) which was led by Unison Whiteman and based in St David’s parish. Both organisations were created in response to Gairy’s effort to obtain independence from Britain; a prospect which they feared would lead to dictatorship. (see Sunshine, 1982:45)

14. In the election of 1976, the NJM formed a coalition with the GNP and the United People’s Party headed by Winston Whyte. The People’s Alliance, as the

new coalition was called, won 48.2 per cent of the votes cast to Gairy’s 51.8 per cent, capturing only six out of the fifteen seats in the parliament. Though the parliament had relatively little power, the election further elevated Bishop’s sta-

Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop / 91 tus on the island and in the region. (see Report of the Legislative Council Elections for 1976). 15. This quote is taken from a speech delivered by Maurice Bishop on August 24,

1979, a copy of which appears in Is Freedom We Makin (1981:21) 16. The Bloody Sunday beating greatly discredited the Gairy regime. Gairy was forced

to accede to demands for the creation of a Commission of Inquiry, which was headed by Jamaican jurist, Sir Herbert Duffus. The Commission’s investigation was widened to include an examination of the entire judicial system and law enforcement agencies. Following several weeks of testimony, the Commission issued a report detailing the improprieties that had been carried out by agents of Gairy’s government. (see the Duffus Commission of Inquiry into the Breakdown of Law and Order and Police Brutality in Grenada, 1975). ie: In my interview with Eric Gairy in 1987, he informed me of his spiritual conviction that God had destined that he would lead Grenada again. He claimed ‘It is _

all part of the master plan.’ Throughout his tenure in Grenadian politics, Gairy made use of religious symbols including Obeah. (see Signham, 1968:134—42) and Jacobs and Jacobs (1980:67—73) for discussions of Gairy’s use of religious sym-

bols. 18. Most of the honorary degrees received by Gairy came through political favours

such as the honorary doctorate he was awarded from South Korea following his support for their admission to the United Nations.

4

LINDEN

LEWIS

Forbes Burnham (1923-85) Unravelling the Paradox of Postcolonial Charismatic Leadership in Guyana!

Introduction Behind that jest, that charm, that easy oratory, is a certain dark strain of cruelty which only surfaces when one of his vital interests is threatened. There are two Burnhams: the charming and the cruel. I say BEWARE of both (Jessie Burnham, Beware My Brother Forbes, pamphlet, n d, circa 1962).

Linden Forbes Sampson Burnham (1923-85) was Premier, first prime minister, and executive president of the Co-Operative Republic of Guyana. He died while still in office on August 6, 1985, of apparent heart failure, while undergoing throat surgery. By the time of his death, Forbes Burnham had amassed a total of 21 years as head of state of Guyana and leader of the People’s National Congress (PNC). He had in effect become the longest serving political leader in the Caribbean Community and Common Market (CARICOM).

Forbes Burnham was an outstanding and brilliant individual, whose intellectual capacity and ambition were recognised from early. He was educated at Central High School and later at Queen’s College, the premier boys’ school in Guyana at the time. It was there that he won an internal scholarship, which provided the financial resources that were needed to facilitate successful completion of his education at this level. Burnham won the prestigious Guyana Scholarship, awarded annually to the brightest high school student in the country. This award provided the recipient with a scholarship to pursue a program of study leading to a degree at a British university. Burnham migrated to England in 1945 to attend London University.

Forbes Burnham

/ 93

It was a departure which was delayed as a result of the World War II. Burnham studied law at London University, graduating with an honours degree and was called to the Bar at Gray’s Inn the following year. It was at London University that’he distinguished himself as an orator and student leader, winning the coveted Best Speaker’s Cup of the Law Faculty, ‘beating the whole English and international body of contestants,’ according to a contemporary of his (see Allsopp, 1985:12). He also became the first president of the West Indian Students’ Union in 1947 and appeared to be a very active member of the League of Coloured Peoples, during his time in England. The young, energetic and politically driven Burnham returned to Guyana in 1949, establishing a successful law prac- | tice, and becoming actively involved in political and trade union affairs.

The Nature of the Project This chapter will examine the emergence of Linden Forbes Sampson Burnham as a major twentieth-century Guyanese and Caribbean political figure. Burnham was no ordinary politician; he was by all accounts a charismatic political leader. Using Max Weber’s concept of charisma as a point of departure, the paper will attempt to comprehend the nature of Burnham’s popular appeal and leadership. Burnham’s rule raises many vexing questions about the concept of charisma in general and its relation to patriarchal domination in the Caribbean. This aspect of the paper will, therefore, serve to re-evaluate the role of charisma in the Caribbean postcolonial context. Part of the objective of this work is to examine Forbes Burnham’s growing prominence in the struggle against colonialism, his emergence as a charismatic political leader, and the ways in which he consolidated and reproduced himself in power. In the course of the political development of the country, Forbes Burnham skillfully transformed himself from a popular postcolonial political leader to the maximum leader, who despite his authoritarianism, continued to enjoy a certain level of popu-

lar support. Generally, the paper seeks to focus on the contradictions of charismatic leadership and explore its implications. One of the main arguments of this chapter, is that, in examining the contradictions of charisma, one is able to discern the connection be-

tween this phenomenon and that of authoritarianism and dictatorship. In general, leadership is at the core a political process; but as might be expected, some forms of leadership can be less politically charged than

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others. In this regard, the present chapter does not claim that all forms of charismatic leadership inevitably lead to authoritarianism and dictatorship. It is argued, however, that charismatic political leadership, given its social relationship to the state, and the latter’s necessity for control over the relations of production, predisposes such leadership to authoritarianism and dictatorship. Forbes Burnham’s leadership in Guyana was certainly consistent with the foregoing assessment of political charisma. This work will look at Forbes Burnham’s rhetorical flare, his penchant for style, his grassroots appeal, and his cult of the personality. Most important, as shall be demonstrated, is the process of reproduction and institutionalisation of this phenomenon of charisma, and the ways in which Forbes Burnham was able to achieve these objectives. The priority, then, becomes one of interrogating this Weberian notion of charisma, with a view to ascertaining its usefulness for helping us understand the nature of rule and the behavior of one of the Caribbean’s most prominent leaders.

Interrogating Charisma For many, the concept of charisma is both settled and unproblematic. Certainly within popular discourses, everyone seems to have some basic sense of understanding that a person with charisma is one who is dynamic, engaging and persuasive at one level or another. Guenther Roth was correct when he observed that charisma has been used indiscriminately to label almost all non-bureaucratic forms of leadership (Weber Vol 1, 1978:xcvi). What did Weber have in mind when he employed this concept of charisma to describe a particular form of influence of the individual? First, Weber was concerned with developing a typology of domination and legitimacy. He defined domination ‘. . . as the probability that certain specific commands (or all commands) will be obeyed by a given group of people’ (Vol 1, 1978:212). Domination for Weber may be rooted in various forms of compliance. Weber’s concern with domination, was in turn intended to establish the validity claims of legitimacy. He argued that there were three pure types of legitimate domination: traditional, charismatic and rational-legal. Charismatic authority was therefore defined as ‘. . . resting on devotion to the exceptional sanctity, heroism or exemplary character of an individual person, and of the normative patterns or order revealed or ordained by him’ (Vol 1,

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1978:215). Thus, according to Weber, the concept of charisma is used to refer to: an individual personality by, virtue of which he is considered extraordinary and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These are such as are not accessible to the ordinary person, but regarded as of divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as a leader (Vol 1, 1978:241).

Building on the formulation of the concept from Rudolf Sohm, Weber expanded the meaning of charisma beyond its religious moorings, partly in response to increasing bureaucratic domination taking place in Ger- . many at the time. This concern over the growth of bureaucracy also featured prominently in Weber’s objection to the idea of socialism. For him, socialism, like capitalism, relied on an extensive bureaucracy (Bot-

tomore 1984:126). Weber had some reservations about democracy conceived as a vehicle for direct rule’ of the people. It is this reservation which leads him, in part, to propose as an alternative, leadership by exceptional individuals (Bottomore 1984:128), and in this context it is rather revealing to read what Weber thought about the prospects of extending the notion of democracy. In a letter to Robert Michels he reflected: . any idea which proposes to eliminate the domination of man by man through an extension of democracy is utopian. Such concepts as will to the people, authentic will of the people, have long since ceased to exist for me, they are fictions (cited in Bottomore, 1984:133; footnote 9).

In addition, we should keep in mind the fact that Max Weber was the organic intellectual of the German bourgeoisie in a time of rapid economic prosperity (see Bottomore, 1984:124). He is on record as saying in his 1895 inaugural lecture: ‘I am a member of the bourgeois class, regard myself as a member, and have been educated in its view and ideals’ (Bottomore 1984:132-33). He was, in effect, committed to the repro-

duction of this class. In short, Weber was particularly interested in countering the tendency of increasing bureaucratisation at the level of political parties, in the state and in the economy. He regarded this growing tendency to be ultimately debilitating for dynamic capitalism. Moreover, Weber held the view that Germany needed strong political leaders, who would advance the interests of the nation state (Bottomore

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1984:129). Bottomore captures Weber’s preoccupation with a certain type of leadership quite accurately when he notes: “The charismatic leader is the politician who can most effectively arouse nationalist fervour and set, or keep, the nation on its path to glory’ (1984:129-30). What is most striking about Weber’s use of the concept of charisma, is that he never seemed to have intended this concept to refer to women. There is clearly an association here between men and leadership—men in Weber’s view, possess the requisite skills, vision and place of power in society to lead and direct the state to a position of strength and authority. Since there is no mention here of women possessing similar qualities, one would have to conclude that Weber did not view this position of leadership as one appropriate for women. Indeed, even in popular discourse, the term is hardly ever used in reference to women. It is not simply that Weber was a product of his times and that he used the ever-popular masculine pronouns, he and his generically to refer to both men and women. In commenting on the problem of ensuring succession of charismatic leadership, Weber argued that with routinisation, followers or disciples might establish rules or tests of eligibility of this quality. In a remarkably quaint illustration, Weber analogised such steps to ensure adequate succession, with a particular ritual practice. He noted: This type is illustrated by the magical and warrior asceticism of the men’s house with initiation ceremonies and age groups. An individual who has not successfully gone through the initiation, remains a woman; that is, he is excluded from the charismatic group (1978:249-50).

Carried to its logical conclusion, Weber seems to be implying in the above comment, that women appear somehow to stand outside of reason and rationality. He was not alone in this thinking, for Jean-Jacques Rousseau and other intellectuals of the Enlightenment period, while proclaiming the universality of reason, stopped short of conferring such a quality on women (Outram 1995:82). The concept of charisma, there-

fore, is very gender specific in its conception and its usage. Thus, it is not surprising that the concept has not been used generally to refer to women in the Caribbean, since the traditional areas conducive to the

manifestation of charismatic leadership in the region, viz trade union mobilising and political party formation, have not always been as welcoming for women. As in Weber’s time, so too in the present era, the

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public sphere of deals, power, influence and critical decision-making, is still very much subject to patriarchal domination. Consequently, the concept of charisma is inadequate for capturing this dynamic of unequal power in the region and we should be mindful of this limitation when we invoke its use. Weber emphasised the personal and individual character of the charismatic individual, but in order to claim legitimacy for the action of the charismatic leader, Weber however, had to concede that those sub-

ject to charismatic authority must recognise this quality in their leader. In short, there must be some type of reciprocity between the leader and the led. It would, however, seem as though one has to go beyond the re- _ lationship between the charismatic leader and his followers. The emphasis on the personal quality of the charismatic individual, in many ways diverts attention from the fact that the charismatic leader is not an autonomous being. He is a product of his society, its socialisation and of the society’s specific historical conditions. Emile Durkheim (1958), and later Cornelius Castoriadis (1991), both emphasised that what appears to be acts of individuation, are already acts constituted by strong institutional and normative practices in society. This latter point is important for understanding the behavior of the charismatic individual in the Caribbean. It allows us to avoid the trap of seeing the behavior of one or another charismatic leader in the region as an aberration and a personal flaw. Understanding the charismatic individual as a product of his society, forces us to look more closely for an explanation at the specific material contexts which produce a Burnham in Guyana, a Gairy in Grenada, a Patrick John in Dominica, the Duva-

liers in Haiti, and their concomitant authoritarianism and dictatorship. We therefore have to examine more critically, the relation between the individual and society in a way that goes beyond the focus of Weber. For we are interested in applying some of his concepts and theoretical insights to an understanding of specific social and political phenomena that do not necessarily correspond with his empirical realities. A related point to the foregoing concerns the specific political limitations of Weber’s conception of charisma. The concept appears to be disemboweled. A major problem with the concept of charisma is that it ignores the class affiliation and class interests of the charismatic leader, and that of his followers. The charismatic leader has to have his appeal constantly renewed. Since, the charismatic leader does not stand outside of social class categories, it is imperative that he adequately rewards his

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key followers for their support. To secure such reproduction, the charismatic leader is bound by considerations of his own preservation, and that of the social class he represents. To treat the charismatic leader in purely individualistic terms, obscures his class location and the interests he

must advance. In using the concept of charisma in the Caribbean, we cannot afford to ignore the social class and more specifically, political implications of the concept, even where a given leader may pursue populist agendas that appear to transcend class divisions. In summary, there are ways in which Weber’s concept of charisma may help us to understand certain dimensions of leadership and legitimacy in the Caribbean. There are, however, inherent limitations to

using the concept as suggested above. These limitations become more glaring when one considers the narrow nationalist agenda which underscores Weber’s bourgeois preoccupation. In applying this concept to an understanding of any Caribbean political leader, one must clearly proceed with a degree of caution.

Unpacking Burnham’s Charisma The above caveat notwithstanding, was there something about Forbes Burnham’s personality, his style, his political longevity, that marked him as a charismatic leader of his people? Certainly his biggest allies would agree, but even perhaps some of his fiercest opponents would concur that Forbes Burnham was a charismatic individual. There was nothing ordinary about Burnham; he was an imposing figure at six-foot two inches, whose presence was felt upon entering a room. He possessed considerable charm, was demonstrably brilliant, debonair, and in the

context of a rich oral tradition of speechifying, he was generally regarded as one of, if not the very best, public speakers in the Caribbean (regardless of whether the speech was scripted or delivered extemporaneously). The well-known Caribbean scholar, Richard Allsopp, a contemporary of Forbes Burnham, remarked: ‘His real gift was fluency in the language of the people. He could cover the whole range from obscenity to high literary reference’ (interview conducted with the author, June 6, 2000). All-

sopp also described the public speaking ability of Forbes Burnham in terms which he characterised as platform power and oratorical acumen (interview with author, 2000). Burnham was also an outstanding lawyer. Those who knew him as a barrister, remarked on how meticulously he

prepared his legal briefs. In 1959, he was elected president of the British

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Guyana Bar Association. In 1960, he was appointed a Queen’s Counsel. Burnham was a convincing and ultimately persuasive personality. In addition, there was the Burnham penchant for style. He was always decked out in the finest clothing—his shoes for example, were often bought at Harrods in London and shipped to Guyana. His suits were made in Guyana but the material was often imported from foreign countries. There is a memorable, if also embarrassing, picture which appeared in the newspaper at the time, and which was re-issued in a collage when he died, of Burnham attending the funeral of Sir Winston Churchill? in London, dressed in a top hat—a signifier of colonial chic.3 This style was by no means inconsequential. It was entirely wrapped up in what can only be described as part of the cultural contradictions of colonial socialisation. Despite a popular rhetoric which excoriated colonialism and colonial rule, Burnham, like some other Caribbean political

leaders, relished his colonial upbringing, university training, facility with the English language, and his ability to read and appreciate the great English literary classics. As Paget Henry (2000) notes recently, this is the predicament Caliban faces. It was a reflection upon such a contradiction which prompted the respected former journalist of Guyana, Hubert Williams, to conclude that Burnham was a member of the English gentry. This was part of his love for the finer things in life (interview with the author, June 11, 2000). Indeed, as noted in chapter one, it was Frantz

Fanon, who in the early sixties warned of the dangers of such behavior when he assessed the pitfalls of national consciousness. In this regard Burnham, and the class he represented, did not follow the dictum of

Fanon ‘to consider as its bounden duty to betray the calling fate has marked out for it . . .’ (1963:150). Moreover, Burnham’s emphasis on

style and his passion for imported materials and food, made him the quintessential embodiment of ‘the Cadillac mentality in a bicycle economy’—an attitude which he eschewed with the foregoing colorful turn of phrase. Beyond the personal qualities, Burnham represented for many AfroGuyanese in the early 1950s, a symbol of success embodied in an individual of humble beginnings. His lived experience no doubt inspired working class people to think that they too could achieve great things through brainpower and dint of hard work. Hubert Williams notes in

addition, that the black middle class followed him because they figured whatever he achieved, they too would benefit (interview with the author,

2000). Burnham was viewed by many as one of the early sons of the soil

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who had gone abroad to study and who had done very well and had returned to Guyana to make a contribution to his country and his people. Burnham’s cachet increased even more among all classes of Guyanese when he seemed willing to contest colonial oppression and exploitation. The PPP and the PNC

In 1950, the People’s Progressive Party (PPP), led by Dr Cheddi Jagan, a young Guyanese dentist, was formed. Forbes Burnham was a prominent member of this new indigenous party. Together Burnham and Jagan were seen as champions of the oppressed working class and decidedly willing to takeover the responsibility for running the country from the British. By his own admission, Burnham established his political credibility within the context of the trade union movement, ‘. . . the Guyana Labour Union which controls the waterfront, was my first political base. It was from there that my political base spread’ (see Sealy 1991:70). It is therefore ironic, yet, at the same time understandable,

that it is precisely the trade union movement that Burnham in later years would seek to debilitate and control. Both Burnham and Jagan were seen as adequately qualified to undertake these leadership roles. The assumption of this role of deliverer from colonial bondage, was in no small measure, one of the factors in the charismatic appeal of Forbes Burnham. He certainly qualified in Weberian terms as the politician who is ‘able to arouse national fervor in his people, and through his oratorical brilliance he was able to skillfully manipulate populist images in his appeals to fellow Afro-Guyanese. The strong nationalist front that the PPP represented in 1950 did not last for very long. The Party successfully contested the first general elections under universal adult suffrage in 1953. They won 51 per cent of the popular vote and had captured 18 of the 24 seats in parliament. Both Britain and the US quickly grew wary of Cheddi Jagan’s socialist aspirations, his pro-Soviet stance, and his radical rhetoric against colonialism and imperialism. One should bear in mind that this was at the height of the cold war, and that in the US the communist witch hunt led by Senator Joseph McCarthy was well on its way. The American disapproval, in conjunction with a less than sanguine (Winston) Churchill administration in London, led to the suspension of the Guyanese constitution, a mere 135 days after the elections were held. By 1955, long-ignored and growing tensions between Cheddi Jagan and Forbes Burnham could no

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longer be contained. Indeed, matters reached a breaking point, and the split in the leadership took place, with Burnham leaving the party to form the PNC. This schism was the result of the struggle for leadership on the part of Forbes Burnham, as well as ideological differences between Jagan and Burnham. Burnham, though claiming to be socialist,

had always presented himself as more moderate than Jagan, and insisted on not allowing Guyana to be used asa satellite of the Soviet Union.‘ It was the articulation of this type of sentiment which must have endeared Burnham to such powerful leaders as President John F Kennedy. Writing about his encounter with Burnham, Arthur Schlesinger reflected: ‘Burnham’s visit left the feeling, as I reported to the President, that an

independent British Guiana under Burnham (if Burnham will commit himself to a multi-racial policy) would cause us many fewer problems than an independent British Guiana under Jagan’ (1965:779).

Racial Politics

s

What became evident in the split between Burnham and Jagan, was the exacerbation of racial tension which resided just below the surface of Guyanese society. It is clear that both political leaders manipulated this racial dimension to their advantage. In the end, however, Cheddi Jagan was seen essentially as the Indian leader and Forbes Burnham, the African leader, with minor exceptions on both sides. It is well known, for

example, that Burnham benefited from a core of Indian business and capitalist support. Such support stemmed from the fear of a perceived threat to their economic interests posed bya socialist or communist government led by Jagan. From this time forth, politics in Guyana became explicitly racialised. Indeed, in 1955 with the establishment of the PNC, Burnham appealed to the African population, which was numerically smaller than that of the Indian. He appeared to them as an authentic African leader—a counter to Cheddi, (Rickey Singh, well-known Guyanese and Caribbean journalist, interview with the author, June 9,

2000). A former Archivist at the Guyana Archives, Tommy Payne, also shared the above sentiment of Singh, noting that Burnham emerged on the political scene at a time when black people were looking for somebody. This squares nicely with the idea of the charismatic leader as saviour, and highlights that dimension of the charismatic relationship in which the followers empower the leader. Burnham understood the role of popular politics and how to use it to

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gain political mileage. Tommy Payne perhaps summed it up best when he said that Burnham was a people player (interview with the author). Forbes Burnham knew how to employ popular rhetoric to drum up support for his party and himself. In his address to, the Special Congress of the PNC in Sophia, Georgetown, he boasted about how the PNC had placed emphasis on the people, on the proletariat and the poor peasants, from which it drew and draws its strength. He argued that his government was dedicated to transferring economic power to the masses and their representatives, and set as its goal the attainment of social justice (Declaration of Sophia 1974:9).

Populism and Authoritarianism It was clear that Burnham understood the language of populism. Irrespective of whether his programs actually benefitted the poor or working class blacks, he knew how to reach out to them and how to make them

feel as though much was being done on their behalf. Aubrey Armstrong, the Guyanese management consultant and political presence in his own right, observed in this regard: , He (Burnham) had a finely tuned understanding of his society and where the major stake-holders fit into that society, and then where people as individuals fit in. He understood those stake-holders and knew how to shape messages to touch them where they lived—in terms of vision and in terms of making them feel good about themselves. He knew how to shape the enemy—colonial power—and to give it a physiognomy (interview with the author, June 10, 2000).

For populist and other reasons, Burnham embraced asocialist philosophy, out-maneuvering, at some level, the opposition forces of the PPP which claimed a firm socialist background, rooted in Marxism and Leninism. He articulated the coming of a new society based on cooperativism. Indeed, in his now famous speech to the PNC Special Congress, he proclaimed that: ‘It [the PNC] identified the co-operative as the instrument for making the /ittle man a real man’ (Declaration of Sophia 1974:9). Other popular goals were to feed, clothe and house all of Guyana by 1976—an objective which fell way short of attainment. Indeed, George Danns, reflecting on this goal of self-sufficiency promoted by the PNC administration, argued that there were reasons both domestic and foreign, which militated against any such accomplishment.

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Danns concluded that such promises led to an outburst of rising expectations, which were not fulfilled. On the contrary, as noted in chapter one,

the rising expectations were converted into rising frustrations and concomitant restlessness and aggression (see Danns 1978 a:26 for details). Not only did Burnham seek to create a popular image at home but he was determined to make a mark on the regional and international stage as well. He was hailed as a strong regionalist playing a leading role in the founding of the Caribbean Free Trade Area (CARIFTA), the forerunner to the CARICOM. He enlisted Guyana to host the first Caribbean Festival of Creative Arts, and along with Prime Ministers Eric Williams of ‘Trinidad and Tobago, Michael Manley of Jamaica and Errol Barrow of Barbados, established diplomatic relations with Cuba in 1972. Burnham also supported the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO), had close ties with Libya, supported the anti-apartheid struggles in South Africa and Zimbabwe, and was a major voice and presence in the Non-Aligned Movement. Guyana was in fact the first member of the Commonwealth Caribbean to become a member of the Non-Aligned Movement (see Ferguson, 1999:127). A former editor of the party organ The New Nation, and head of the unofficial Propaganda Division of the PNC, Festus

Brotherson noted: Guyana freely expounded its view, invited and uninvited, on a wide range of Third World issues as well, including liberation struggles—from POLISARIO (Popular Front for the Liberation of Saguiat al Hamra and Rio de Oro) in North Africa to the Basque Separatists in Spain—as well as positions on Vietnam, Kampuchea, the Law of the Sea, terrorism, the New International Eco-

nomic

Order (NIEO), the New

Information

Order (NIO), and so on

(Brotherson 1989:24).6

Stuart Hall, writing in a different context, had some important insights to developments such as those described above. Hall sees the use of such populist strategies as an effort to master the economic and political struggle to the advantage of state-oriented capital. He pointed to what he called a double movement, of creeping authoritarianism masked by the rituals of formal representation, which he argued gave rise to a peculiar historical specificity to the present phase of the crisis of the state/crisis of hegemony (Hall 1980:161). Indeed, many realised subsequently, that Burnham’s regional and international positions tended to divert attention away from growing

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unpopularity at home. His progressive politics and posturing at the international level tended to mask increasing authoritarianism at home. In effect, Burnham had a different political profile at the regional and international levels, from that which he had established at the domestic level.

What was in evidence here was that state capitalism had begun to pose new challenges for Forbes Burnham’s charismatic leadership. It was beginning to reconfigure both the terms of the class conflict and contradictions facing the economy and polity. The regional and international posturing was at some level an attempt either to resolve or to displace these new conflicts and contradictions. In effect, these actions are part of the calculus of self-preservation. Beyond mere political survival, however, one should understand such actions in the context of a political leader as an agent of the state, endeavouring to keep a lid on class struggle. In such a context, therefore, and as discussed in chapter one,

the connection between charismatic leadership and populism becomes important and necessarily strategic. We will return to this point subsequently. Another very intriguing quality of Forbes Burnham was his ability to transcend class affiliations and to relate to people of all strata. He was reputed to have an ease relating to people of all walks of life. Many would attest to the fact that Burnham was able to walk freely in areas such as Tiger Bay, Albouystown and La Penitence—all inner-city areas characterised by high rates of crime, violence and prostitution. In such contexts, Burnham would engage in light-hearted banter and witty repartee with residents of those areas, in ways that other politicians could only observe in amazement. In this sense, he was truly a man of the people. It was at this level that one could recognise his grassroots appeal. It was also at this level, however, that one could see the Janus face of Burnham

that his sister Jessie inveighed against in the epigraph cited earlier. It is at this level also that one can see the contradictory nature of charisma and charismatic appeal. The same man, who would be at ease with the lowliest of working class people, would often be seen riding a horse or driving his Jaguar through poor neighborhoods with no apparent sense of incongruity. Jessie Burnham was concerned about this other dimension of her brother’s personality when she reminisced: ‘But along with ambition he developed a certain slickness, a sly glibness. He began even as a boy, to depend more and more on his skill with words to achieve his goals’ (circa 1962:1). In a foreshadowing of what was to become a more familiar practice in

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later life, Jessie Burnham reflected on a troubling pattern of behavior she observed in her brother. I have watched this brilliant-brother use his brain to scheme, to plot, to put friend against friend, neighbour against neighbour, and relative against relative. I have watched him use this one and that one, and then quickly discard them when they have served their purpose. I have watched him, with his clever wit and charm, manipulate people like puppets on a string (circa 1962:1).

The point, then, is one that is often overlooked, and it speaks to the fact

that not only is charisma accompanied by contradictions, but also there is a tendency for it to be closely aligned with authoritarianism and dictatorship. Addressing the subject of charisma some years ago, George Danns argued a case against the existence of charisma among Caribbean leaders. According to Danns: ‘No West Indian leader has been regarded as a savior; no West Indian leader is charismatic in the Weberian sense’ (1978b:29). Political leaders in the Caribbean tended to have authoritarian rather than charismatic personalities (1978b:23). He concluded that:

‘authoritarianism rather than genuine charisma is the distinguishing feature of West Indian leadership in the colonial situation and this leadership feature is carried over even after independence and self government status was attained’ (1978b:25).

Conceptually, the problem here for Danns, is that he views charisma and authoritarianism as occupying separate spaces rather than being fundamentally related. In the case of the charismatic political leader, the exercise of political power on behalf of a particular social class, in conjunction with facilitated access to the apparatuses of the state, implicates the charismatic political leader in an inherently authoritarian process from the outset; furthermore, the nature of capitalist social rela-

tions necessitates the subordination of labor to capital, which is crucial to state power. It means, therefore, that the charismatic political leader ipso facto, participates in this process of subsumption of labor to capital as an authoritarian character and as part of an authoritarian social and political apparatus. Charisma then finds itself in an ongoing battle to fend off an impending crisis of legitimation. It is the recognition of this aspect of the phenomenon, and the constant pressure to have one’s appeal validated, which lead to authoritarian and dictatorial practices. It becomes necessary over time, as Burnham clearly demonstrated, to have charisma institutionalised in the interest of self-preservation.

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The Institutionalisation of Burnham’s Charisma

Irrespective of one’s views about the late Linden Forbes Burnham, one thing is generally acknowledged, that is, his fundamental understanding of the political. He, more than any other politician, knew how to perpetuate himself in power. Very early in his sojourn as head of state, he set about carefully crafting a cult of personality around his leadership. This feature was achieved in many ways. First, there was the importance of his image, which seemed to loom large in all of Guyana. Pictures of the comrade leader were ubiquitous. The image extended to the covers of school children’s exercise books, replacing the image of the Queen of England. Second, there was the renaming of places by Burnham, not simply with names of historical figures who had made important contributions to the country, but by either his own name or that of some member of his family. Mackenzie was renamed Linden, Festival City was renamed Roxanne Burnham Gardens to honour his daughter, and a government housing project was named Melanie Dameshala, after another daughter. Thirdly, as leader, Burnham tolerated no challenges to his rule from within or outside of his party. He was the unquestioned leader of the PNC. Nor did he develop any cadre of young leaders to succeed him in the best interest of the party. Indeed, this unwillingness to nurture young leaders within the party is typical of Caribbean leaders. Instead, young, bright, potential leaders are often perceived as potential rivals ‘and upstarts or worse. This failure to develop a leadership cadre for fear of dethronement leads in part to what Weber referred to as the routinisation of charisma—a problem of succession which is occasioned by the death of the charismatic leader, and which necessitates the creation of formalised

rules and procedures to ensure survival of the organisation. It is a small wonder, therefore, that Burnham had as his most senior cabinet mem-

bers two of the most loyal, least charismatic individuals in the persons of former Prime Minister Ptolemy Reid, and Desmond Hoyte, who eventually assumed the presidency on his (Burnham’s) death in 1985. Neither of these men posed any threat to Burnham’s leadership, indeed they were among his staunchest supporters. More importantly, however, neither man had the same popular appeal to the mass of Guyanese people. Forbes Burnham’s unquestioned position of leadership meant requiring deference and loyalty from colleagues and supporters. Such loyalty tended to extend to employees of the state, who were often called out to

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attend public meetings or to listen to political speeches or otherwise create the impression of popular support for the Burnham administration. Government employees could be penalised for attending public meetings given by opposition parties. The implications of such pressure on government employees was compounded by the fact that the government was the biggest employer in the country, controlling some 80 per cent of the economy. Obedience was the only option in this context, and punishment for failure to conform was real. Burnham more than anyone else understood the need to make illegitimate the popular struggles from below at all costs. There was also the absurdity of Burnham—a man with no known military history or training—appearing in military uniform to accept the

honour salute as commander-in-chief of the armed forces and minister of defense. (Danns 1978a:41 footnote 2). Burnham also wore similar uni-

forms for the national service and the police. Even by Burnham’s standards, this act was obscene and shawed the extent to which this leader

would go to inflate his importance, underscore his command over the military, and to establish his unquestioned leadership. Appearing in military uniform had more than a mere symbolic meaning for Burnham and the Guyanese society. In the context of a highly militarised society (certainly by Caribbean standards), the act represents unequivocal proof about where power resides in the society. In addition, militarisation of the Guyanese society had implications for racial mobilisation and securing loyalties. But there was also a certain measure of amusement, for whereas many Third World generals had become dictators and had used their power to declare themselves ‘president,’ Burnham was the first ever president, who, by his actions, appeared to declare himself ‘general.’ First, it should be pointed out that the military and paramilitary forces in Guyana have historically been organisations which are characterised by a preponderance of people of African descent. According to Danns, Cheddi Jagan is reported to have expressed some concern about what he described as an ethnic imbalance within the armed forces (1978a:29). During his term in office, Jagan was never quite sure of the allegiance of these forces, given their racial background. ‘The military and paramilitary forces under Burnham’s administration represented a base of support for the political leader. It was also an important vehicle of racial mobilisation, and in effect, a means of providing employment for some supporters. In return, Burnham required and demanded loyalty from the armed forces. He knew that in situations of crisis, he could de-

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pend on, or deploy, the repressive apparatuses of the state to secure the reproduction of the social order. Appearing in military fatigues, then, was a calculated act on the part of Forbes Burnham. In the interest of exercising control over the armed forces of Guyana, Burnham proceeded with an extensive policy of militarisation of the society. As Danns tells us: In 1964 the total strength of the armed forces was 2, 135 which included 500 S.S.U. [Guiana Special Service Unit] members and the remaining 1,635 belonged to the police. This represented a ratio of one military personnel for every 300 citizens. In 1965 the Guyana Defence Force (GDF) replaced the S.S.U. and in 1975 the Guyana National Service was set up followed by the People’s Militia in 1976. The total estimated strength of the armed forces now numbers 22, 000 which gives a ration of one military personnel for every 35 citisens. Indeed, a conspicuous feature of everyday life in Guyana is the omnipresence of uniformed military personnel. The armed forces in Guyana have increased by 1000% since 1964 (1978a:29-30).

Military spending under Burnham’s léadership increased significantly. Much of this military expenditure was justified in terms of external threats to sovereignty, territory and security by aggressive neighbors such as Venezuela, Suriname an Brazil. As Danns concluded, even if such

threats were taken into account, this would not adequately explain the militarisation of the Guyanese society (Danns 1978a:31). What is clear, however, is that Burnham’s policy of militarisation led to a monopolisation of control over the repressive apparatuses of the state. This militarisation functioned as a form of clientilism, as well as a strategy of control over internal dissidents, and as a means of reproducing the social order. Forbes Burnham also developed a keen interest in the life and struggles of the slave leader Cuffy, the hero of the 1763 slave rebellion. The hero of the Republic has been identified as Cuffy, a choice which has been readily and understandably accepted by the majority of Guyanese. There are others in our past who have fought for our freedom and whom we remember with respect and affection, but Cuffy is revealed by our history as by far the most significant of our heroes. When Cuffy laid down his life in the cause of freedom, history tells us that he was a man opposing not merely the cruelties of slavery, but a leader of his people who envisaged and fought for freedom and independence. Cuffy was the first revolutionary in our land and of our nation and though his struggle then ended in failure, his courage, his vision and

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his example marked the beginning of success and stamped him as worthy of recognition as the hero of this Republic (Burnham 1970:10).

Having described this slave leader in such heroic terms it was not unusual for Burnham to associate himself, his leadership and his contribution to Guyanese life and society with that of the exploits of Cuffy. Indeed, in the above address he suggested that the Co-operative Republic was ‘a fulfilment (sic) of Cuffy’s struggle’ (Burnham 1970:9). The contribution of Cuffy—the embodiment of resistance against the oppressive system of plantation slavery—was subtly and not so subtly being compared to that of Forbes Burnham’s. Burnham represented the new Cuffy, except that the former was determined to be more successful than the latter. Here, a form of historical consciousness informed the

political imaginary in the construction of a popular profile In short, not only did Burnham understand his appeal as a leader, but he seized every opportunity to reproduce, if not vent, his appeal and centrality to the Guyanese society and in history.

and appeal. charismatic often reinto his place

What Happens When Charisma Is Not Enough? Max Weber, in discussing the types of authority, separated them for analytical purposes. In reality, the types of authority are never purely one or the other, there is often some interplay. In the case of Forbes Burnham’s leadership, his initial appeal was certainly charismatic but in the consolidation of his political rule, he was decidedly rational-legal. This development, therefore, raises some important questions about the implications for political power when the charismatic leader essentially monopolises and manipulates all the apparatuses of the state. This was clearly the case with Forbes Burnham. Weber’s observations are relevant here when he notes: ‘Furthermore, it has a charismatic element, at least in the negative

sense that persistent and striking lack of success may be sufficient to ruin any government, to undermine its prestige, and to prepare the way for charismatic revolution’ (Vol 1, 1978:163). In a more poignant comment, Weber's reflection is directly applicable to the case of Burnham when he asserts that: ‘For monarchies,

hence, it is dangerous to lose wars since that makes it appear that their charisma is no longer genuine’ (Vol 1, 1978:163). As charisma wanes,

there develops the need to shore up one’s appeal within one’s con-

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stituency. Burnham could not leave an issue as important as his reelection at the polls to the vagaries of the electorate. It is not surprising, therefore, that vote rigging’ became a part of the means of perpetuating himself in office. In one of the short stories in Pauline Melville’s novel,

The Migration of Ghosts, a fictional account of the reflection on the life of the Guyanese political leader Baldwin Hercules, the sister of the protagonist proclaims: ‘We must be the only country where the government is elected by the dead. Half the names on the lists are taken from tombstones’ (Melville 1998:11). The foregoing observation would resonate with most observers of Guyanese politics. In the 1968 elections, the Burnham administration introduced a new electoral policy contained in the Representation of the People’s Act. This strategy allowed Guyanese who were living abroad, regardless of their length of stay away from Guyana, to vote in the general elections. In addition, the Act made provision for the expansion of proxy voting. Proxy voting meant that an individual was legally allowed to vote for as many as five other people. It is not difficult to see the enormous opportunity which such a provision presented for abuse of the~system, and to make a general mockery of the democratic process. The British-based Latin American bureau commented: Of the 60,000 votes cast in this way, 30,000 went to the PNC, the PPP and UF

[United Force] receiving 15, 000 each. A documentary film made in Britain by Granada television documented the wholesale fraud underlying the overseas vote, a finding which was confirmed by a reputable British research institute which estimated that no more than 15 per cent of the names on the electoral list used in Britain were valid (Latin American Bureau, Special Brief, 1984:48).

In the years that followed the 1968 elections, the electoral irregularities became more flagrant. Even Tyrone Ferguson, who renders a rather sympathetic reading of the Burnham years in his book To Survive Sensibly or to Court Heroic Death, was forced to concede the calumny of the 1973 elections. The July 1973 elections turned out to be the most controversial of the elections held in Guyana to that point. The manipulation of the process was undeniable, with extensive irregularities evident in relation to proxy, postal and overseas voting. ‘The declared results gave the PNC a resounding victory that allowed the party to claim more than two-thirds of the seats in Parliament

(1999:160).

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This unabashed manipulation of the electoral process, ensured Burnham’s perpetuation of himself in power. With a two-thirds majority in Parliament, Burnham acted quickly to remove the British Privy Council as the final court of appeal from the constitution. In effect, there was no court higher than a Guyanese court for legal matters arising in that country, which created a radically different situation from that which obtained in the Commonwealth Caribbean at the time. The purpose of such a legal manoeuvre then was primarily to obviate the pursuit of any charges of electoral fraud beyond the courts of Guyana. Burnham made no secret of what he was doing at the electoral level. was no mistaking the import of his words, for instance, in 1970 when, swering charges that he was interested in Caribbean integration as a holding on to power, he boldly stated: I am not seeking a West Indian

There in anway of nation

to keep me in office, I have other means (Ferguson 1999:161).

The authoritarian nature of charisma was unmasked for all to see. Walter Rodney, the Guyanese historian and founding member of the Working People’s Alliance (WPA), explained Burnham’s behavior in the following manner: ‘You can not preside over a constantly deteriorating material situation’ without the masses becoming restless. You cannot preside over a system of constantly increasing inequality and injustice without strengthening the state apparatus to deal with the population’ (Transcript of public lecture in Barbados). Walter Rodney and the WPA perhaps represented the most spirited and sustained form of resistance to Burnham’s rule in Guyana. It refused to participate in the traditional racially organised political culture of either the PNC or the PPP. Its appeal was multiracial and multiethnic. Rodney himself articulated an unrelenting critique of Burnham’s policies, his political behaviour and his abuse of power. For his outspoken opposition to the Burnham dictatorship, he was assassinated on June 13, 1980. Richard Allsopp was moved to remark about this act of political silencing: ‘His (Burnham’s) international stature was damaged by the death of Rodney’ (interview with the author, June 6, 2000). Rodney and

the other WPA members were not the only people who expressed resistance to Burnham’s rule. The leader of the opposition for the entire duration of Burnham’s tenure in office, Cheddi Jagan, the archrival of Forbes Burnham, opposed the Burnham rule on a wide range of issues, both locally and regionally. Jagan however, was a strong constitutional Marxist,

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and pinned all of his hopes on electoral reform, which would create change and usher in a new dispensation. Wittingly or unwittingly, Jagan helped to legitimise the Burnham administration for many years. Burnham was always able to lay claim to legitimacy and democratic practice by pointing to the existence of a legitimate parliamentary opposition. Herein lies the difference between the Jagan and the PPP, and the WPA. While the PPP at one point offered the government, which at the time was feigning socialism as a result of nationalisation policies and anti-imperialist rhetoric, critical support, the WPA called for critical exposure. The Catholic Church mounted a vigorous opposition to much of Burnham’s political practices, mainly through its newspaper The Catholic Standard. Members of that community suffered greatly, others, viz Father Bernard Darke, also paid with his life in the struggle for democracy. Over the years of Burnham’s rule, there were also many strikes and protest marches by schoolteachers, sometimes even schoolchildren, and various other small opposition groups. Another source of resistance came from the trade union movement. Clearly there were some unions that were closely allied to the government and therefore did not wage war on government policies, but there were other trade unions which participated in important strike activities. Some unions petitioned the International Labor Organisation to draw attention to the problems— such as violent strike-busting and other anti-union strategies—posed to labour by the government. For these and other actions, many trade union members were dismissed; for example, some 80 members of the Clerical and Commercial Workers’ Union were so dealt with, while others were tear gassed and otherwise threatened. In sum, then, authoritar-

ianism and dictatorship are never absolute. Burnham exercised tremendous power in the context of Guyana but even he could not rule without resistance, which occurred daily and at many different levels. Two important developments ensue from Rodney’s analysis of the Guyanese situation above. First, there was the doctrine of party paramountcy, which was articulated at the PNC Special Congress at Sophia, in Georgetown: It was agreed after lengthy discussion that the emphasis should be on mobilising the nation in every sphere and not merely for periodic elections and in support of specific action and programmes. It was also decided that the Party should assume unapologetically its paramountcy over the Government which is merely one of its executive arms. The comrades demanded that the country

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be given practical and theoretical leadership at all levels—political, economic, social and cultural—by the P.N.C. which had become the major national institution (Burnham 1974:11). e

The above statement is unequivocal. The Party must assume primacy in the affairs of the state. Indeed, the state and the Party were to become inseparable. The political intent of this development is also quite clear, it represents the constitutionally facilitated concentration of power in the hands of Forbes Burnham, the leader of the PNC and the then prime minister. By 1975, the state and the Party were formally linked through the creation of what became known as the Office of the general-secretary of the PNC and the ministry of national development (see Latin America Bureau, Special Brief, 1984:46-61 for details). While the full

ramifications of this development cannot be addressed here, suffice it to say that the creation of such a link between the state apparatuses and the ruling party at the time was extra-constitutional, since there was no provision for it in the 1966 constitution. The development represented another example of Burnham’s authoritarian leadership which was being institutionalised and hence normalised within the political landscape of Guyana. Frantz Fanon inveighed against this centrality of the party and mapped out some of its consequences for postcolonial societies such as Guyana: The party, a true instrument of power in the hands of the bourgeoisie, reinforces the machine, and ensures that the people are hemmed in and immobilised. The party helps the government to hold the people down. It becomes more and more clearly anti-democratic, an implement of coercion. The party is objectively, sometimes subjectively, the accomplice of the merchant bourgeoisie. In the same way that the national bourgeoisie conjures away its phase of construction in order to throw itself into the enjoyment of its wealth, in parallel fashion in the institutional sphere it jumps the parliamentary phase and chooses a dictatorship of the national-socialist type (1963:171-72).

In short, Fanon’s argument above clearly resonates with Burnham’s policy of party paramountcy and had equally negative consequences for the democratic process and the Guyanese society in general. The second major strategy of constitutional manipulation, which further solidified Burnham’s rule was the new constitution of 1980, which

provided for an executive presidency. Here again, this matter exceeds the boundaries of this paper, but there are two specific areas of the constitu-

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tional changes which have implications for our understanding of the way Burnham’s charisma was overtaken by his preoccupation with rule making and remaking—with his rational-legal authority. First, the issue of the removal from office of the president; there are two grounds that provide for the president’s removal: incapacity and violation of the constitution or gross misconduct. Having meticulously studied the 1980 constitution, Harold Lutchman concluded that the difficulties in the way of bringing about the removal from office of the president are so overwhelming as to render the provisions of little or no effect, thereby making the removal of the president virtually impossible in practice (Lutchman 1982:45). Lutchman went on in muted tones to raise the fol-

lowing issue about the executive presidency: The question may well be posed as to why a President whose election was not even subject to a condition that he receive at least a bare absolute majority of votes cast (i.e. 51%) should ultimately require a 75% vote of all the elected members to effect his removal. An answer to this question seems the more necessary when it is recalled that the President is not elected separately and apart from the membership of the legislature. He can therefore claim no greater support among the electorate than that received by the party by which he was sponsored (1982:47).

The second provision within the 1980 constitution with even more serious implications for the modalities of leadership demonstrated by Forbes Burnham, has to do with the issue of presidential immunities. I quote at length: (i) Subject to the provisions dealing with the removal of the President for violation of the Constitution or gross misconduct the holder of the office of President shall not be personally answerable to any court for the performance of the functions of his office or for any act done in the performance of those functions and no proceedings, whether criminal or civil shall be instituted against him in his personal capacity in respect thereof either during his term of office or thereafter.

(ii) Whilst any person holds or performs the functions of President no criminal proceedings shall be instituted or continued against him in respect of anything done or omitted to be done byhim in his private capacity and no civil proceedings shall be instituted or continued in respect of which relief is claimed against him for anything done or omitted to be done in his private capacity, (Guyana Constitution (1980), Article 182, (i) & (ii), cited in Lutchman 1982:49).

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One does not have to be a constitutional specialist to understand the full implications of such a provision of immunity as stated above. As the maximum leader, Forbes Burnham stood above the law both in his role

as president of the republic and also as a private citizen. No amount of charismatic appeal or leadership could guarantee such survival or impunity for any leader. This is the crisis of the state, coupled with the crisis of hegemony to which Stuart Hall alluded in an earlier section of this chapter. It represents the underbelly of charismatic leadership, and it points to the danger of such a leader’s access and control over the apparatuses of the state. In typically unabashed fashion, Burnham is on record as saying: ‘Power and ultimate power must lie somewhere. Where does the Opposition want us to put it? In the hands of the irrelevant Opposition?’ (Forbes Burnham Speaks on Human Rights, cited in Lutchman 1982:52).

What of Burnham’s Legacy?

-

What, then, is one to make of the Burnham legacy for Guyana? Forbes

Burnham was in office as head of state for over two decades. A period of rule that is bound to have a long lasting effect on the political landscape of the country. Burnham’s rule encompassed the transition of Guyana from colonial to postcolonial status. As a charismatic leader, not only did he influence the political culture of the country, but by virtue of his style of rule, he was in effect, single-handedly responsible for defining the terrain of political struggle. Burnham’s charisma endeared him to the public, at least initially, and using this appeal, he was able to further his political interests and ambitions. Aubrey Armstrong summarised his accomplishments in the following manner: He shared with us a vision of a Guyanese state in which we depended on our own capabilities and skills to drive development. He made us believe in ourselves. A number of his projects moved us out of the linear model of development. His educational polices, which were socialist in orientation, democratised education for a whole range of people who would never have had an opportunity to benefit in this area (interview with the author, June 10,

2000).

Armstrong did not see Burnham’s leadership only in the positive light he articulated above. He was also mindful to address some of the negative consequences of Burnham’s rule. He noted that the leadership of Forbes

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Burnham led to a dependency syndrome in which people depended on the state, the Party and government largesse. He also pointed to Burnham’s leadership developing an illusory trute between the large ethnic groups without any real notion of conflict resolution, which in turn created more problems (interview with the author).

Other commentators were less sanguine however. Rickey Singh argued that charisma of the popular masses of Guyana. For Singh, that he was a man who abused his authority’

about the Burnham legacy was used to the detriment ‘his (Burnham’s) legacy was (interview with the author,

June 9, 2000). Hubert Williams echoed a similar sentiment: His [Burnham’s] greatest accomplishment was a negative—to destroy what Guyana could have become. The rapid and continual deterioration of Guyana’s social life has to be placed at the feet of Burnham (interview with the author, June 11, 2000).

Williams observed that the deterioration and corruption of Burnham’s leadership, percolated throughout the system, which led some people in Guyana to reason: ‘dem thiefin so why can’t we’. Both Armstrong and Williams point to anothér consequence of Burnham’s charismatic leadership which had serious implications for the administration of postcolonial society. Armstrong argues: ‘After the charisma goes on for too long, technical expertise and all forms of competence genuflect to the charismatic leader’ (interview with the author, June 10, 2000). Similarly Williams claims that Burnham scared off tech-

nocrats from contributing to the running and administration of the country. According to Williams, Burnham was unable to separate his own political rule from the fundamental technical requirements of the society (interview with the author, June 11, 2000). Cornelius Castoriadis,

writing in another context, made a point which has particular relevance to an understanding of the Burnham legacy. Castoriadis contends: ‘We cannot change what has been, but we can change how we gaze upon it— and this gazing is an essential ingredient of our present attitudes . . .’ (1991:4). In contemporary Guyanese society, there is a reassessment of the Burnham legacy taking place. There seems to be an effort to rehabilitate Burnham as a more effective leader than he was while in office. These

efforts seem to be the result of factional feuding over the framing of the Burnham legacy within the PNC in the aftermath of the 1992 and 1997

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election losses to the PPP. Moreover, in the context of a racially polarised society, the attempt to restore a positive image of Forbes Burnham, is an appeal in part to Afro-Guyanese, to see his leadership as more congruent with their broad interests than with that of the Indian dominated PPP. Put differently, to honour the memory of Forbes Burnham, Afro-Guyanese should continue to support the PNC, or risk never having a place of influence in the society or the government of Guyana again. It is a calculated effort to discourage any political sympathy for the PPP by appeal to racial solidarity. It is a yearning for a return to the way things used to be. This is a classic retrospective illusion. In the end however, Rickey Singh might have summed up best the issue of the way we gaze at Burnham’s leadership when he reminisced: “There are many Burnhams, it depends on which Burnham you were looking for. There was not a singular vision of the man’ (interview with the author, June 9,

2000). In essence, he was echoing what Jessie Burnham had long since warned of, the different guises which Burnham wore. Even at this level however, one senses the kind of political complexity which Burnham represented and which requires more serious attention. Conclusion

Max Weber was very clear in enunciating the concept of charisma, that a critical factor is the support of those who are subject to charismatic authority—the followers or disciples. According to Weber, it is the duty of those subject to charismatic authority to recognise its genuineness and to act accordingly (1978:242). There is then an interdependent relationship between the charismatic leader and his followers. The point here is very simple, the charismatic leader must seek and obtain the consent of the ruled in order to function effectively. The complicity of some Guyanese with Burnham’s authoritarianism and dictatorship should not be excused or ignored. Perhaps no one anticipated the lengths to which Burnham would go to perpetuate himself in power, but many knew the basis on which they gave him support. Some members of the petty bourgeoisie knew that with Burnham in office they stood to benefit materially as well as in terms of status. Others knew that without access to other economic avenues for advancement, they could benefit from the pillage of the state for their own personal aggrandisement. Others still, felt that given the racial polarisation of the country, they were going to support African leadership over Indian leadership at all cost. What is certain is that

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Forbes Burnham could not have become the political incubus he became without crucial support from his followers. The charismatic leader may not have to deliver on all or some of his ptomises to everyone, but he must be able to reproduce a core constituency of followers. It is still not altogether clear whether some Guyanese have taken ownership for their support of the excesses of Burnham’s rule. Upon his death, efforts were made to embalm the body of Linden Forbes Sampson Burnham for posterity, for permanent viewing, as the PNC articulated it at the time. The WPA commented on these efforts to embalm the Comrade Leader in the following manner: Perhaps the decision to mummify the late Leader is an admission that his successors will need his remains to bolster their political standing and also an admission that his spiritual legacy lacks depth and permanence (see Singh, Caribbean Contact, September 1985:8).

These efforts ultimately failed and so Burnham was interred at the Place of the Seven Ponds, the national site for Guyanese heroes in the Botanical Gardens. A remarkable feature of the hold that Forbes Burnham had on many Guyanese is that fifteen years following his death, people who are now critical of what he did in Guyana between 1964 and 1985, would prefer to remain anonymous for fear of repercussions to them or their families. Indeed, even though many former members of the PNC, and those who simply supported Burnham but were not actively involved in political affairs, now live in other Caribbean islands or in North America, a core of

support for him remains. In such a context, to be critical of the Comrade Leader is heretical and could still be punished by ostracism or worse in those tightly knit Guyanese overseas communities.? This situation is testimony to the kind of influence Burnham had in certain quarters, and more disturbingly, his continuing influence on his true believers even from his grave. In the end, however, a study of Burnham’s leadership in Guyana raises some very troubling questions about the nature and operation of the democratic process as we understand it in the Caribbean. Furthermore, such a study also provides us with an opportunity to explore the implications of charismatic leadership for concerns around the issue of class struggle in the Caribbean, and the modalities of transformation in this region. Burnham’s leadership is a textbook example of how issues of race,

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national identity, and charismatic leadership can frustrate national dialogue, obscure the promotion of narrow class interests, and act as a fetter on genuine class alliances leading to transformation. e

ENDNOTES ib The author would like to thank Cary Fraser, Hilbourne Watson, Randy Persaud,

George Lamming and those who must remain nameless, for their comments and assistance in the writing of this paper. Interviews were conducted by the author in Washington DC and in Barbados. I would like to thank the following people who now reside in Barbados, for graciously consenting to be interviewed for this chapter, they are: Mr Tommy Payne, Dr Richard Allsopp, Mr Rickey Singh, Dr Aubrey Armstrong and Mr Hubert Williams. The customary provisos are hereby applied. . The irony of Burnham’s presence at the funeral of Winston Churchill cannot be overstated. As indicated earlier, it was Churchill who had suspended the Guyanese constitution following the first elections under universal adult suffrage. Burnham had contested that election axa member of that same short-lived PPP government. . Burnham was not the only Caribbean leader to appear in public dressed in this fashion, Robert Bradshaw of St Kitts, Errol Barrow of Barbados, Eric Gairy of

Grenada among others, have on occasion donned a top hat and pinstripe swizzletail suits. . The PPP went on to win the next two elections in 1957 and 1961. By this time however, the US was not about to allow another Cuba in their backyard. Despite the fact that this was a democratically elected government, the Jagan administration was considered unacceptable to American and British interests and had to be removed. Despite the much vaunted position of the US about upholding the principle of democracy, the government of Cheddi Jagan was brought down at the hands of the CIA, in conjunction with the Harold Macmillan government in England, following a crippling 80 day strike led by the Civil service and financed by the CIA, through the Gotham Foundation and the American Institute for Free Labor Development (see Spinner, 1984, Jagan, 1966, Jeffrey and Barber, 1986, Latin American Bureau, 1984, et al for details).

. Emphasis in original. . Upon his death in 1985, the then prime minister of India, Rajiv Ghandi described Forbes Burnham as one of this century’s most outstanding figures (Daily Nation, August 12, 1985:1). In a cable of condolence, Tanzania’s former president, Julius Nyerere described Burnham as a valiant fighter against political and economic imperialism (ibid). _ The ease with which some exiled and estranged PNC members whonow reside in

the US and Canada reminisce about their involvement in vote rigging in Guyana is truly remarkable. For some, the years and the distance from their actions have made them contrite, for others, however, such means still justify the ends, which

quite frankly meant keeping the Indian (Dr Cheddi Jagan) out of power. . By the end of 1981, the country’s per capita income was lower than-in 1970 and 30 per cent lower than the 1975 figure. National income declined steadily, falling

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by 8 per cent in 1981 alone, along with investments, savings, exports and consumption, all of which contracted between 1975 and 1980 (Latin American Bureau, Special Brief, 1984:64). The New York Times indicated that by the time of

Burnham’s death, he had run up a foreign debt of more than US$ 2 billion, a sum more than five times Guyana’s GDP. Repaying the interest on that debt still takes a big bite out of Guyana’s revenues. 9. My thanks to Vivette Glen-Lewis for drawing this point to my attention. The fear of reprisal is manifested in the way many respondents framed their remarks to me with the caveat: ‘Don’t quote me on this but. . .’

5

BERG

eG a huINTEZeIN

Cheddi Jagan (1918-97) Charisma and Guyana’s Challenge to Western Capitalism

Introduction

Cheddi Jagan’s appeal was not necessarily that of the messiah and its definitive association with charisma. Instead, he came to be seen as the em-

bodiment of the aspirations of the East Indian rural proletariat and peasantry in the former British colony of Guyana on the north east coast of South America. He spearheaded the struggle for humanity among his people, particularly the former indentured servants from India. In the process he became the principal advocate in their demands for full inclusion in a creole society that was reluctant to accord them the rights of belonging in the social and cultural space of national identity. Jagan also represented a challenge to the racialised and class ascriptions of colonialism. His life was one of exposing the porous and permeable nature of social and political boundaries that were considered impenetrable in colonial society. Throughout all this he straddled a world of polar opposites.

Ambivalence is the term that best describes Jagan’s political vision. His

roots were those of a rural, East Indian Hindu, but political fortune

thrust him into a westernised, Christian world of non-proletarian and non-peasant pursuits. He despised equally the snobbery of the creole elite and the exclusivity of European representations and practice. But the freedom of the urban western world proved particularly attractive to him, even though it offered little to assuage his longings for the ‘simple pleasures of the countryside . . . full of rich experiences’ (Jagan 1980:2 1-23). Undoubtedly, these were the antitheses that shaped his lifelong quest

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to accommodate the liberal, egalitarian ethic of westernism, couched in the language of freedom, with his determination to free his country from the exploitation, privilege and snobbery engendered by western racial capitalism. They explain the contradictions that shaped his life, and they were the driving forces behind the organisations and institutions that he built to challenge the core of western racial capitalism in his country. Jagan’s charisma became integrally linked to these organisations and institutions, and was mixed in with his populist appeals to the Guyanese working people, particularly the East Indians, who saw in him their deliverance from colonial servitude, Afro-creole racism, and American

imperialism. On March 6, 1997, Cheddi Jagan, after having suffered a heart attack,

died at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington DC after being flown in a US military plane from the republic of Guyana where he was serving as the elected executive president. To many, this represented a cruel irony, as Jagan had spent his entire political life inveighing against the evils of capitalism, and particularly against that brand of capitalism that had taken root in the US. But those who see irony in the circumstances of his death miss, entirely, its symbolic significance. To a large extent, Cheddi Jagan was, as was the entire Caribbean, a

post-war construction of the US. He became the symbolic boundary marker, defining the limits of American tolerance in an age of American hegemony, and remained America’s and the region’s pariah and outcast until new global instruments of domination and control were fashioned. His legitimate claim to power was acknowledged only when the region was rendered a marginal backwater, devoid of strategic and symbolic significance, in the wake of the triumph of American capitalism over the moral, political and economic bankruptcy of Euro-communism. Ironically, it was to the US that Jagan turned in his efforts at regaining the position that everyone knew was rightfully his from the start: the leadership of the independent government of the republic of Guyana. The very principle of democratic governance employed to condemn and vilify him was used later by the US to justify his legitimate claim to executive authority; and it is ironic that what took his life was the very condition against which he fought and for which he blamed American capitalism: a national impoverishment so acute that it could not save and protect the life of the country’s president. Jagan was forced to seek medical intervention in the belly of the very beast at whose feet he laid the

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blame for the condition of endemic poverty and dependency— transported in an American military aircraft. It is thus that Cheddi Jagan became a metaphor for the post-World War II English-speaking Caribbean as an American construct. But in his antipathy, he engaged the juggernaut of American capitalism, exposing its contradictions to no avail. He maintained the moral high ground and, in doing so, could lay claim to a pyrrhic victory. At the time of his death, the region was steeped in the morass of poverty and devoid of its sovereignty. These were his very predictions—ones that its leaders chose to ignore, deride and condemn. As it turns out, the region’s leadership proved to be correct in their strategic pursuit of pragmatism. All they needed to do was to look at the example of Jagan. For, in the end, even

he was forced to join their fold.

Jagan, the US and Britain Cheddi Jagan’s charismatic appeal was, to a large extent, created in his relations with the US and Great Britain, and in the formidable responses of these two powerful countries to his actions, policies and pronouncements. On October 10, 1994, two years after he was elected executive

president of the republic of Guyana, the New York Times published an article confirming the involvement of the Central Intelligence Agency in clandestine subversion in pre-independence British Guiana against his party and administration. In 1964, in the midst of the social, economic and political turmoil produced by the destabilising effects of Western intervention, Jagan was ousted from his elected position as Premier at a time when Britain was preparing to grant full independence to the selfgoverning colony (Weiner 1994:1;4). It was organised and implemented under direct orders from US President Kennedy, leaving for posterity a ‘clear written record, without veiled words or plausible denials, of a President’s command to depose’ the government of Cheddi Jagan (Ibid). The US, with the somewhat skeptical support of Great Britain, orchestrated a campaign of violence and destabilisation that left over 100 persons dead, and a legacy of ethno-racial and political strife. In its wake, a significant portion of the capital city was gutted from arson, while the civil service was engaged in full revolt: employing strikes and civil disobedience literally to shut the country down. The campaign was supported by funds funneled through the American Institute for Free Labor Development, an international program run by the American Federation

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of Labour-Congress of Industrial Organisations (AF L-CIO). The agency organised a full blockade on shipping and airlines going in and out of the country. Meanwhile, the Kennedy Administration managed to convince Great Britain to delay the holding of elections until Jagan was forced to accept a constitutional change that virtually guaranteed his ouster (Ibid). With his country in tatters and engaged in a virtual racial war, he had no other choice but to submit his resignation. Jagan’s unceremonious ouster was the culmination of a US led campaign of cold war vilification and demonisation. Details of US involvement were well known and well publicised (Pearson 1964; Lens 1965;

Sheehan 1967). They had been confirmed as early as 1965, by an advisor to the American president who played a direct role in the orchestration of Jagan’s political demise (Schlesinger 1965:779). America’s involvement was justified on the grounds that Jagan’s leftist ideology and his administration’s relations with Cuba, represented a ‘threat’ to US national interests. To support the claim, rumors were spread in a media blitz of an impending communist takeover heralded ae the approach of Cuban warships (Weiner 1994:4)

In hindsight, the notion that a Panes of 600,000 people living on 83,000 square miles off the north east coast of South America could pose a threat to the US seemed irrational, even to Kennedy’s advisor, Arthur Schlesinger: “The C.I.A. decided this was some great menace, and they got the bit between their teeth,’ wrote Schlesinger, ‘But even if British Guiana had gone Communist, its hard to see how it would be a threat’ (Ibid). This observation misses the point entirely, for what was important is not the reality of a threat, but rather it was the representation of Jagan as a threat, along with the demonstration of the USs’ willingness and ability to act against him that was significant. These combined to signal the limits of US tolerance for any opposition to its domination and control of the region. In the process, it managed to set the limits of democratic governance and to define the terms of sovereignty for Britain’s former colonies in the West Indies (Fraser 1994), and, as de-

scribed in chapter one, created the type of social and political crisis out of which charismatic leaders are likely to arise. At the same time the actions of the US established the basis for Jagan’s charisma. The campaign against him, combined with the blatant act of interventionism, catapulted Jagan into the international arena. He became recognised as a fighter for the downtrodden and his eventual ouster from office added significantly to his appeal among his East

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Indian supporters, rendering him an almost mythical figure to be revered by his supporters and to be feared by his opponents for what he was purported to represent. In essence, then, Jagan came to symbolise the boundaries of what was’acceptable from the region’s leadership during the beginnings of a shift by Britain’s former colonies into the US sphere of influence (Hintzen 1997). The development of relations with the US was a practical and symbolic demonstration of the freedom of these colonies and former colonies to exercise their independence in foreign relations. In pragmatic terms, establishing relations with the richest, most technologically advanced military power, also offered numerous economic opportunities in the areas of foreign investment and tourism, while on the social plane, the US was allowing increasing numbers of West Indians to migrate under conditions where migration was critical to efforts at alleviating endemic problems of unemployment and underemployment (Fraser 1994:110-17). Thus, the fashioning of the image ofJagan as dangerous and unacceptable, served to set limits both upon the region’s foreign relations and upon its domestic economic, political and social policies (Hintzen 1997).

Race, Class and Education It was precisely Jagan’s East Indian background and roots that led him on a political path that diverged significantly from the Afro-creole leadership in the rest of the English-speaking Caribbean. West Indian identity and its ‘black’ political nationalism were fashioned for and by its creole population, which led to a reaction among the East Indians, who were located outside nationalist representation and practice (Hintzen 1999). In its stead, the East Indian population constructed a diasporic identity that was not embedded in Western socio-cultural forms, as was the creole culture of the region. With the exception of a small number of converts, East Indians held to their South Asian roots, and took their re-

ligious, social and political cues from India. Jagan’s antipathy to capitalism, his ambivalence about the West, and his insistence on a foreign

policy that crossed cold war ideological strictures, must be understood in terms of this background. As it became clear that East Indians would face various ethno-racial obstacles to their upward mobility in a creole-dominant society, Jagan emerged as a leader who was able to take the ‘creole’ route to social and

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political success, while holding on to his East Indian values and identity. Thus, Jagan’s success was a political version of the American Horatio Alger myth. Both his parents were East Indian laborers on the sugar estates of British Guiana, where race and class ascribed one’s social and

economic position. The young Jagan could have expected no more than a primary education unless his family could find the means to pay for secondary schooling at a private institution. This they did, enrolling him in the only secondary school in the rural region, which was far from competitive when compared with the public secondary schools located in the capital city. The latter were the preserves of children of the colonial and local elite and, increasingly, of the emergent urban middle class. ‘To be a somebody one had to have attended one or the other of these schools. In 1933, Jagan’s parents decided to enroll him at Queen’s College—the country’s top secondary school, which was devoted to the task of grooming the children of the middle class for colonial administration. Undoubtedly, Jagan’s introduction into the urban milieu helped to mould a political ideology that was steeped in the egalitarian ethos of westernism and couched in the language of freedom; but it was his lifelong desire for freedom and equality that led him away from western capitalism. He came to despise the class snobbery of westernised creoles, which was fully evident among his secondary school counterparts at Queen’s College. He began to think of the urban-rural divide in terms of conflict and struggle. Urban life, he writes, brought him into ‘conflict with the ways in which I had been brought up and with the kind of things I had been doing’ (Jagan 1980:20). He also began to understand the relationship between privilege and exploitation. He mentions, specifically, the conflict of material conditions: ‘At Port Mourant poverty was intense,’ while in Georgetown he was ‘suddenly thrown among the sons of “famous” people’ (Ibid:20-22). Upon graduation, Jagan came face to face with the reality of colonial capitalism that ascribed power and position to the cultural elite. The credential of a Cambridge School Certificate, which would normally guarantee white-collar jobs in the colonial public or private sector, was reserved for the colonial and creole elite. They were off-limits to him, and his qualifications proved irrelevant and worthless. He was East Indian, Hindu and an agricultural labourer making claims upon the Christian preserves of white colonisers and a coloured and black and Portuguese local elite. The plantation society carved out of a system of racial capitalism and proved intransigent. He was unable to get a job.

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Opportunities for higher education were equally proscribed for an East Indian Hindu with an agricultural laboring background. English universities were exclusive and restrictive, if only because of their prohibitive costs. Despite demonstration of merit, Jagan was trapped by the colonial strictures of race, class and religion (Ibid:43—44).

Ironically, it was these very strictures of colonial capitalism that led Jagan to the US and to his embrace of the principles of freedom and equality, and it was there that he exploited the considerably more egalitarian opportunities for access to higher education. After migrating there in 1936, he seized the chance offered by cheap fees and easy availability of jobs to enroll at Howard University in Washington, DC. In doing so, he was able to underwrite his upward mobility into the professional middle class and, eventually, to catapult himself into a position of political prominence. Initially, he was convinced that the US offered the best opportunity for a secure future, but exposure to life in the US would change him decisively (Ibid:56).

Jagan’s US Sojourn Once there, Jagan’s attention quickly became focused upon the privilege of class and upon its exploitative implications, hidden in the multiple discourses of difference in American society. This began to propel his understanding of western capitalism in a direction that was fundamentally different from the existing group of West Indian nationalist leaders. Unlike those leaders, who were educated in Great Britain, Jagan’s under-

standing of American society was based on personal experience as a poor member ofa racialised minority. At Howard, he was immediately introduced to the black/white dichotomy of racial discourse that typified American society, albeit as someone who existed in its interstices—neither black nor white. The rigidity and absoluteness of the divide came as a shock to him when compared to the much more complex intersections of race and class in the colonial West Indies (Ibid:43—56).

Jagan entered Northwestern University to study dentistry. There he was introduced to the world of white America. For the first time, he be-

came exposed to the stark reality of class exploitation, free from the racialised context of colonialism and black/white relations in the US. He also came face to face with the reality of national privilege that supported the system of imperialism. For him, his Chicago experience seemed an identical replay of his secondary school encounters in the

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capital city of Georgetown. He was enrolled at an institution that was the preserve of the white elite, while forced to deal with his own poverty and his status as a racial outsider. Through the force of his own circumstances, he found himself propelled into the world of the Chicago working class. This, for Jagan, was the ‘guts’ of American life. He ‘lived on the border of the slums, but worked on the fringe of the Gold Coast.’ He was brought ‘into close physical contact with urban poor white Americans’ and this gave him the opportunity to listen ‘to speeches reflecting their miseries and sufferings’ (Ibid:52). He began to question seriously the claim that the roots of American capitalism rest in principles of egalitarianism and in a fundamental commitment to equal opportunity. He also began to doubt seriously its capacity for liberation from poverty. What Jagan saw in Chicago, perhaps for the first time in his life, was exploitation devoid of its racial face. He became convinced that ‘life for most Americans was not all . . . two chickens in every pot and two cars in every garage’ (Ibid). He sought out the social sciences for explanations of these American contradictions by enrolling at the YMCA College in Chicago. In the end, he became convinced that capitalism could not provide a solution to the problems faced by his country. This position was in stark contrast to the prevailing understanding among West Indian nationalist leaders of the day. In 1942, he graduated with a BSc degree in social sciences from the YMCA College. It was the same year that he earned his Doctorate in Dental Surgery (DDS) from Northwestern. But, by then, he seemed to have set his mind on the use of critical social science to provide the justification for the political direction that he was taking. During the 1930s, the advocacy by US for the West Indian nationalist cause added fuel to the pro-American sentiments of the West Indian nationalist leadership. This was notwithstanding the incongruities of racial privilege and class exploitation manifest in its practice of capitalism at home. Such incongruities were totally ignored by West Indian nationalists in their vision of America as the instrument of their countries’ sovereignty and as a partner in their efforts at developmental transition (Hintzen 1997). But what they chose to overlook was precisely what disturbed Jagan, and the incongruities became the subject of his scientific inquiries while living in the US. Jagan was profoundly touched by his experience in the US, where he witnessed first-hand, a form of capitalist exploitation that was much more brutal, even though more sophisticated, than plantation

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colonialism. It was accompanied by significantly more devastating forms of exclusion than those which he had experienced in the West Indies, and it engendered a pattern of segregation that was absolute. He took particular umbrage at the Asian Exclusion Act that prevented him from becoming a US citizen, which effectively prohibited him from obtaining the necessary certification to practice dentistry in the US. At the same time, he was not exempt from the military draft; but rather than serve as a private, and unable to convince the authorities otherwise, Jagan made

the decision to return to British Guiana (Jagan 1980:52-56). Thus, Jagan’s vision of justice and utopia emerged from his participatory experiences in the US. Colonialism became, for him, just another manifestation of capitalism. Unlike his West Indian counterparts, it was not enough, merely, to organise a nationalist challenge to colonialism. Its very essence, embedded in the relations of domestic and international capital, needed to be contested. His socialism came to be imbued with the values of western liberalism to which he was attracted, and which he

observed in practice in America. Jagan embraced America’s political liberalism and admired the country’s success in providing opportunities for mass consumption. Perhaps as a reaction to a background of poverty, he rejected the austerity that seemed to be associated with socialist practice and became a strong advocate of the idea of material abundance for all. Such were the ambiguities out of which Jagan’s nationalist ideology grew.

Jagan Goes Home Jagan was disturbed by the politicisation of the racial division in British Guiana. Immediately upon his return home, he involved himself in progressive political activity. He was able to count on the support of his American wife, Janet Rosenberg, a student nurse whom he married in

1943 while studying in Chicago. She came to Guyana with political skills honed while a student activist at Wayne State University and Michigan State College in the US. By the time of his involvement in domestic politics, Jagan was already an adherent of socialism, and he had begun to see race as merely an epiphenomenal manifestation of capitalist relations of production. He was convinced that the racial divisions that plagued his country were to be overcome by the application of scientific, structural analysis. Armed with this understanding, he leveled charges of racism against the League of Coloured People (LCP), an organisation that

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pitched its racial appeal to the black and coloured middle class. Similarly, his populist leanings led him to criticise the British Guiana East Indian Association (BGEIA), which had become organised as a foil against its black and coloured counterpart, for being an,arm of the East Indian middle class. Later Jagan turned his attention to the trade union movement. This, of course, was quite consistent with his ideological position as a socialist. In 1945, he was elected treasurer of the Man Powers Citizen’s Associa-

tion (MPCA), a trade union representing the predominantly East Indian labor force in the country’s sugar industry. Almost immediately, he began to oppose the union’s moderate and conciliatory approach to the sugar producers and colonial government. The stridency of this position soon led to his ouster from the union’s leadership. In 1946, he affiliated with the Guyana Industrial Workers Union (GIWU) and quickly fashioned it into one of the most effective unions in the country and the pillar upon which his political career was launched. In 1949, he assumed the presidency of the Sawmill and Forest Workers Union (SFWU) (Ibid:57-64).

At this point, he began to pursue the strategy that was to become the hallmark of his political life—that of strategic pragmatism. It was employed as a means of navigating the strictures of the existing socio-political order. His intention was to place himself in a position to mount organisational and strategic challenges to colonial capital. It was the single-minded pursuit of this goal that defined his political career. In the final analysis, that pursuit was at the base of his charismatic appeal. It endeared him to the poor, dispossessed and progressive communities. It was also responsible for his vilification in the corridors of Western power and within the group of local and international capitalist interests. He eschewed the absolute, doctrinaire, ideological campaigns typical of the region’s radicals, and favored conciliation when efforts at radical change appeared fruitless. At the same time, he abhorred the fatalism of the region’s pragmatists who saw their role as navigators through the inevitability of global capitalism. He rejected their sense of powerlessness for an unshakable confidence in the structural possibilities, made available through praxis, for creation of a socialist alternative. It was out of pragmatic calculation that Jagan ‘moved toward the BGEIA upon his return to British Guiana despite its social location among the middle classes and despite its racial exclusivity (Ibid:60). Then he joined the MPCA—a labour union that was firmly entrenched

in the racialised construct of colonial politics as the organisational base

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of East Indian worker mobilisation. Given the class location of the BGEIA and racial exclusivity of both organisations, Jagan’s association with them appeared, on its face, to be a violation of the very ideological principles that guided his politics. But he saw such association as providing him with the opportunity to gain national prominence and credibility as a leader. In this regard, he worked consciously to create the reputation upon which his charismatic appeal was based. He quickly came to be seen as a ‘champion of the workers.’ It was only then that he developed associations with the progressive GIWU, and with the SFWU, both of which he went on to lead.

Pragmatic Socialism Using his organisational base among the working class and his credentials as a radical, Jagan proceeded to launch a working class interracial movement to challenge colonial capitalism. His reputation asa socialist leader was enhanced after he joined a progressive discussion group of young radicals and intellectuals, bringing to it a practical understanding of the conditions of the poor and dispossessed. In 1946, together with his wife and two socialist radicals, one black and the other coloured, he formed the Political Affairs Committee (PAC), whose aim was to hone

the principles of socialism through the organisation of a multi-racial, class-based nationalist movement (People’s Progressive Party 1971:1). The PAC thrust Jagan into the national political arena; but it was his strategic and pragmatic use of ‘race’ that underwrote the electoral victories he would soon enjoy. In 1947, using his union organisation and his reputation as a leader of East Indian sugar workers, he entered electoral politics as an independent candidate and wona seat in the colony’s Legislative Council representing an electoral district with an East Indian majority. He did so while lamenting the use of ‘racism and cultism to blur and confuse the class issue’(Jagan 1980:66). His ultimate goal was to position radical and progressive politicians, organised in the PAC, to seize control of the colonial state, and the opportunity came in a constitutional change to internal self government proposed by the British Colonial Office. The change, which ushered in universal adult suffrage, benefitted those politicians with established mass organisations that could be used for popular political mobilisation. At the same time, being committed to a multi-racial worker’s movement, Jagan proceeded to organise a group of

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radicals and progressives with roots in both the black and East Indian population into the People’s Progressive Party (PPP) that he founded in January 1950. From the very beginning, the goal of the party was the es~ tablishment of an independent socialist state: Recognising that the final abolition of exploitation and oppression, of economic crises and unemployment and war will be achieved only by the socialist reorganisation of society, (the party) pledges itself to the task of winning a free and independent Guiana, of building a just socialist society, in which the industries of the country shall be socially and democratically owned and managed for the common good, a society in which security, plenty, peace and freedom shall be the heritage of all (People’s Progressive Party 1971:5).

But Jagan’s brand of socialism was infused with those distinctively American values of ‘security, plenty, peace and freedom’ located at the core of America’s national self-concept and at the very heart of American political philosophy. In an ironic way, they were perfectly suited to an East Indian constituency that felt itself shut out of and excluded from the benefits of creole society. His supporters sought upward mobility in the private sector and in the professions, and they depended upon the surpluses generated from cash crop own-account farming to support their ambitions for success. Jagan was able to mould this budding kudak class of agriculturists into enthusiastic advocates and defenders of his brand of socialism. This had much to do with his political philosophy and its ambivalent and complex mix of American political ideology and practice. His charismatic genius rested with his ability to fashion an ideology to suit the interests of those who would normally find it anathema. Socialism, to him, came with the potential for shattering the very strictures of colonial capitalism that stymied the aspirations for upward mobility of those who were shut out of its benefits. In Guyana, these strictures had both racial and class dimensions. At the same time, he was able to incor-

porate in his ideology those very things that were making America attractive to the populace and their leaders throughout the region. But in the depths of the cold war, this feature of his political philosophy was rendered invisible by the rigid demands of the American superpower for absolute loyalty in its ‘backyard.’ Jagan’s goal for the ‘final abolition of exploitation and oppression, of economic crises and unemployment and war’ appeared as a direct challenge to American hegemony. For, in the final analysis, it was a call for

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the abolition of western capitalism. And, at the historical juncture of the fifties, western capitalism had an American face. So Jagan made his choice to challenge American capitalism, which was symbolised by the decision to name his party after the Progressive Party in the US. The latter was organised by Henry Wallace and Paul Robeson to fight the cold war policies of the American administration (Jagan 1980:98). It signaled, at one and the same time, his embrace of American possibility and rejection of American praxis. Jagan chose not to take the American juggernaut on directly. Guided by his strategic pragmatism, he saw the securing of internal self-government as his first task. He understood well that if this were to be accomplished, his program of socialist reconstruction needed to take a back seat. The battle for self-determination was to be fought through an appeal to Western values. He represented colonialism as a violation of the very values of political liberalism that informed the principles, practices, and policies of the US and Great Britain. And he raised ‘the principles of self-determination set out in the Atlantic Charter’ in support of his calls for internal self-government. Using the Charter as a point of reference, he argued for: (i) the right of the Guyanese people to frame their own constitution by the election of a constituent assembly; (ii) a unicameral legislature, fully elected under adult suffrage; (iii) an executive council

presided over by the prime minister; and (iv) the relegation of the Governor’s position to a titular head of state without veto power and acting on the advice of the cabinet. The governor’s responsibilities were to be confined to defense and external relations (Ibid:100-1).

Jagan appealed to the principles of democracy—freedom of organisation, freedom to protest, and freedom of political participation—in support of his challenge to the status quo. Always, he demanded that those in power exercise their moral obligation to adhere to the very constitutionally defined principles of governance reserved for themselves, and he demanded for the colony the very rights and privileges that Britain granted its own political citizens at home. He insisted that colonial subjects be governed under identical principles of governance as those enjoyed in the mother country, and in doing so, he exposed the contradiction of colonial domination whose philosophy and political economy were rooted in principles of liberalism. He used his elective office as a bully pulpit. In 1952, while making a case against restrictive legislation, Jagan condemned abill introduced in the colony’s Legislative Council to ban ‘subversive literature’. The bill

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was aimed directly at the PPP, and its intention was to prevent the party from distributing literature advocating and supporting socialism. He challenged the bill by pointing to its discriminatory nature and its violation of the liberal principles of freedom. He petitioned the colonial government to explain ‘why Guyanese could not be allowed to read what anyone could buy in London, and enjoy the same freedom in this British colony.’ To him, this was nothing less than a ‘violation of a fundamental democratic freedom, as enunciated in the Bill of Rights by the founding fathers of the US, and of a basic human liberty as expressed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights of the United Nations’ (Ibid:

104-5). Jagan did not see his call for socialist transformation to be in any way contradictory to the principles and practice of governance in Great Britain. He firmly believed that what he was advocating for Guyana was no more than the socialist policies eventually implemented by the British Labour Party. He noted the latter’s advocacy of socialist transformation since 1918, and its use of the political strike as a weapon. The fact was not lost upon him that it was this very British Labour Party that was elected to office in 1929 and that governed Britain until 1931. Indeed, a

Labour Party government, elected to office in 1945 and in power until 1951, was engaged in transforming Britain into a welfare-socialist state at the very time that Jagan was advocating a socialist transformation for one of its colonies. Moreover, a policy of socialist transformation was almost de riguer everywhere in post-war western Europe. And Jagan firmly believed that what was good for Britain and for western Europe was certainly good for British Guiana. By making a moral and ethical appeal for political equality, Jagan began chipping away at colonial authority. He demanded and gained the right to union mobilisation, the right to strike which he employed to hit at the heart of colonial profitability, the right to party political mobilisation, and the right to principled advocacy which he employed in negotiations with the colonial government. There were pragmatic reasons for his stridency. Under a system of income and property qualifications, Jagan’s working class supporters were placed at a considerable disadvantage. At the beginning of the 1950s, progressive candidates enjoying overwhelming working-class support were losing elections to conservative defenders of the colonial status quo despite their majoritarian base.

Thus, in town council elections held in 1950, candidates from Jagan’s nationalist PPP lost to conservative opponents in two out of three pre-

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dominantly working class wards in Georgetown, the capital city. Confrontation seemed the only route to popular representation in colonial decision making and this is the route that Jagan took as he managed to secure from the colonial government considerable concessions including wage increases and better terms of sale for peasant production. Much more importantly, he negotiated a change in the constitution, forcing the colonial government to agree to the introduction of universal suffrage and to hold elections in 1953. The constitutional change also ushered in a ministerial system that allowed popularly elected officials to hold executive office.

Politics and the Ideology of Anti-communism But, in the world of the fifties, ideological distinctions were being made

in determinations about who can make claims to political and civil rights. These were reserved for the politicians of Western democracies, and Jagan’s political philosophy, which rested on the very ideals of freedom, equality and democracy was rendered meaningless by the US ideological propaganda campaign that painted him as a communist. The image of a leader with totalitarian aspirations bent on establishing a bridgehead for Soviet domination of the hemisphere was widely propagated. Hence, where Jagan failed was in his misreading of the times: Guyana was not western Europe, and the fifties were not the thirties. His advocacy of a socialist transformation came at precisely the time when the center of capitalist power had shifted to the US with its emphasis on individualism and free enterprise. Thus, he found himself on the wrong side of the fence in an era of intense cold war contentions and in a region firmly located in the American ‘sphere of influence.’ It was a period when the US needed to demonstrate, in concrete terms, its hegemony over the former colonies of Europe and, particularly, over those in the western hemisphere. In support of the neo-colonial aspirations of the new American power, Jagan was cast as the ideal typical example of what was unacceptable for leaders engaged in the task of postcolonial nationalist reconstruction. He became one of the central figures in America’s symbolic campaign to communicate to these leaders the limits of West Indian nationalism (Fraser 1994:169-94).

Jagan’s charisma at home was derived from the appeal of his political philosophy to rural East Indians. The focus of his brand of socialism on

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exploitation had considerable appeal to these East Indians, as they continued their sojourn as an exploited labouring class on the country’s sugar plantations. They were well aware that the financial benefits of their economic efforts were exported overseas. Expropriation as a remedy seemed just and appropriate, but they were not at all immune from the considerable appeal of the ‘American way.’ Jagan’s commitment to the tenets of Western liberalism made sense as they struggled for inclusion in creole society while seeking material and economic betterment. This imposed limits on the form of socialism that they were prepared to support. They were unwilling to compromise their pursuit of material and economic betterment. Neither were they willing to forego aspirations to convert their peasant production into viable capitalist holdings. They saw this as the means to upward mobility, so America’s materialist ethic and its illusion of upward mobility fell on fertile ground, and this is why they found the logic of Jagan’s philosophy so appealing. It spoke to their economic, political and social interests as East Indians. At the same time, they were not prepared to support the brand of nationalism advocated by Jagan’s creole counterparts in the rest of the region. It did not cater to their interest in nationalist inclusion nor in bringing an end to the exploitation of international capital. Jagan’s political philosophy was ideally suited to their concerns and interests, and it was a philosophy that could only have been fashioned out of the particularities of someone with participatory experience as an East Indian in creole colonial society. This, in a nutshell, was a dilemma of class politics in the country. The social, cultural and economic interests of the East Indian proletariat and peasantry diverged sharply from their creolised counterparts in the rest of the country. When the PPP was formed, Jagan sought out a black intellectual and attorney, Forbes Burnham, to occupy the post of Party chairman. The choice was made out of the conviction that the PPP needed to have a black co-leader. In addition to Burnham’s appeal among the black urban proletariat, he brought with him considerable credibility among the creole middle classes. Jagan retained for himself the position of leader of the Legislative Group, and he selected his wife, Janet Jagan to be Party

secretary. Her considerable political skill was demonstrated when she managed to become the first candidate of the party and the first woman to be elected to the Georgetown City Council in Town Council elections. She had enormous political pull in the strategically important capital city.

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Thus, it was Jagan’s strategic pragmatism that contributed to his extraordinary success in shaping a multi-racial nationalist movement. The PPP, under his leadership, developed as the major mass political organisation in the country. It enjoyed the overwhelming support of the black and East Indian proletariat and peasantry. Jagan’s successful use of militant mobilisation to coerce constitutional concessions from Britain favorable to representatives of the working class quickly paid political dividends. In 1953, the party won an overwhelming victory against formidable opposition mounted by domestic capital and the local petite bourgeois. The victory under the terms of the new constitution, secured legislative representation and executive office for the party’s leadership. Jagan’s political successes added significantly to his charismatic appeal, but they came at great costs. Immediately, he was the target of colonial retaliation. The very socialism that was responsible for his tremendous appeal in the domestic arena placed him on an inevitable collision course with Britain. The jnterests of British capital rested as much in the preservation and prolongation of colonial dominion as in the containment of communism, and Britain’s political leadership viewed the PPP’s strident advocacy of self-government and socialism as a considerable and direct threat to political, economic and strategic interests. After the PPP’s victory at the polls, the British colonial office moved quickly to secure its ouster. Almost immediately, it began to encourage a domestic campaign to negate the will of the majority. The campaign was orchestrated by a domestic elite that was opposed to decolonisation and Jagan’s agenda for radical transformation. The Colonial Office provided direct and strategic support to this elite, advocating for its assumption of political office. In the process, Britain succeeded in shifting the terrain of political discourse away from the issue of colonial legitimacy, seizing upon America’s rhetorical and passionate obsession with anti-communism. Cold war definitions were superimposed upon nationalist politics and inserted into popular interpretations of political and labour organisation. Britain managed to use the election of Jagan to convince the rabidly anti-communist US of the need for collaboration in shaping the conditions and terms of West Indian nationalism. The election of the PPP provoked considerable alarm as a harbinger of the future of Britain’s other West Indian colonies, and the Eisenhower administration was

more than willing to be convinced of the danger Jagan posed to American interests. In October 1953, the American consul general cabled the

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Department of State over concerns about the consolidation of a ‘communist bridgehead in the area,’ and advocated that this ‘menace’ be ‘firmly met’ (US State Department, Decimal File, 1953). Thus, with the

PPP’s victory, the US increased its involvement in the region significantly, and British Guiana took its place with Iran and Guatemala as the first of the political economies of the south to have cold war categories imposed upon their domestic politics. In all three instances, the indictment of communism was used against a legitimately elected government to justify direct foreign intervention. This presaged a new globalisation. With the groundwork laid and the approval, if not active support, of the US guaranteed, Britain intervened militarily on October 9, 1953, suspended the colony’s constitution, and ousted the PPP from office. In its justification, the British Colonial Office claimed to be acting in response to appeals from domestic representatives of the population to forestall a ‘communist takeover.’ By then, even potential allies had come to believe that Jagan and the PPP posed a threat to the region. Significantly, even the progressive British Labour Party threw its support behind the suspension. The party’s leadership argued that the PPP had violated the trust of the electorate (Jagan 1980:133).

But if Jagan was indeed a communist, it was certainly not reflected in the policies and programs that his party attempted to implement while in office. He advocated the strengthening of economic ties with the US as a basis for securing the country’s independence and actively sought out US support in a campaign for independence. He provided assurances against nationalisation, and he complained about representations of himself in the US press as a communist (Fraser 1994:127). Domestically, his

populist focus was on extending universal adult suffrage to local government elections, providing universal access to cheaper education and health delivery services, providing additional scholarships for study overseas, implementing social security and workers compensation programs, agricultural and infrastructural development, tax reform, diversification of trade (specifically focused upon Japan) and improving wages and conditions of work, particularly for those in the lowest socioeconomic categories (Jagan 1980:119). But the simple characterisation of Jagan as a communist misses the complexity of his political philosophy. Like his West Indian nationalist counterparts, he was not hostile to America or to American investments. He firmly believed that the nationalist goal of economic self-determination would have been considerably enhanced if the colony were weaned

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away from dependence upon the sterling bloc (Fraser 1994:127). This was precisely the thinking behind the ‘anti-communist’ policies advocated by other West Indian nationalists from the 1950s through the post-independence era (Hintzen 1997:64). But once his socialism became cast in cold war terms, this fundamental similarity was overlooked. His communist label negated the argument that he was little different from his fellow West Indian nationalists, and located Jagan on the opposite side of the cold war divide in a way that came to dictate patterns of alliances in the region. Thus, when Britain finally intervened against the Jagan Government in 1953, the two major nationalist parties in its West Indian colonies chose to support its actions on ideological grounds. Alexander Bustamante—chief minister of Jamaica, Norman Manley—Jamaica’s op-

position leader and Grantley Adams—the chief minister of Barbados, all wrote strong letters supporting the intervention. The three were the foremost leaders of the West Indian nationalist movement (Jagan 1980:12446). In making their decision, they chose to eschew defense of the very principles of self-determination for which they themselves were fighting in favor of an anti-communist position. Such repudiation of national sovereignty in favor of the rights of capital was to become the hallmark of West Indian post-independence political economy. It was Jagan’s anti-imperialism that forced these leaders into a clear declaration of uncritical support for American capitalism, and cast Jagan at one and the same time, the béte noire of the West Indian nationalist movement

and the darling of international radicalism. This contradictory and dual character is very much a neglected feature of charismatic appeal. ‘Io be the hero, the charismatic political figure has, first, to become a villain in

the eyes of the defenders of the status quo that is being challenged. The suspension of the constitution effectively put the brakes on Jagan’s push for self-government. Britain installed an interim legislature comprising members of the middle strata and business elite, many of whom were members of the conservative opposition. It began to insist that local leaders openly repudiate and disavow communism. Money and organisational assistance were directed at breaking the back of Jagan’s support in the sugar industry and at creating an anti-PPP union movement. The Trades Union Council (TUC), over which Jagan had consid-

erable control, was disbanded and a new TUC was organised to replace it. As the overarching conglomerate of the country’s trades unions, the TUC had established and maintained progressive international alliances

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through formal association with the socialist World Federation of Trade Union (WFTU) and the Caribbean Labour Congress (CLC). These re-

lations were severed by the new Council in favor of affiliation with the International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU) organised in the US. The declared purpose of the ICFTU was to combat ‘communist influences’ in the international trade union. movement (Despres 1967:196-201). Progessive leaders and their radical unions were expelled from the new TUC, and efforts were undertaken at the international

level to isolate the radical nationalists while shoring up alliances between Guyanese conservatives and regional and international anti-communist organisations While vilified by the supporters and protectors of Western capitalist interests, the campaign by Britain and its local defenders against Jagan, contributed significantly to his growing international reputation as an anti-colonial warrior. His charismatic appeal grew and he became the most principled defender of nationalist self-determination among the Caribbean leaders. He was the only one of the region’s radical socialist leaders of the fifties to be elected to head a government. Thus, Jagan remained alone among the group of elected leaders as the moral conscience of West Indian nationalism, but his isolation from the nationalist

mainstream came with significant foreclosed opportunity. He chose to ally himself with the discarded and isolated West Indian radicals, which intensified his alienation and had profound implications for regional unity.

In 1958, as chief minister of British Guiana, Jagan rejected the opportunity to participate in a West Indian Federation. The Federation was commonly understood as the institutional arrangement under which transition to independence would occur. In 1962, Jamaica made the decision to defect and this signaled the death knell of the idea. Were Jagan part of the mainstream, his decision might have been different, and that

might have set the region on a fundamentally different and more sustainable course. But the principle of self-determination was compromised and he could not be a party to it. As a result, the region lost its opportunity to fashion and implement policies for self-sustaining and equitable development. And with this failure, the region became primed for the socio-political crises that began in the late seventies and that have persisted into the beginning of the twenty-first century.

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Racialised Politics: Burnham’s Challenge Britain was looking for a way to isolate the region’s radicals from the nationalist mainstream, and Jagan was at the top of their list. After its military intervention, Britain began to pay particular attention to the divisions within the PPP itself. Faced with the most profound ideological challenge to its colonial dominion in British Guiana, its Colonial Office actively sought to split the party along racial lines (Fraser 1994:ch 6). The strategy was to isolate Jagan and his radical supporters by courting the political ambitions of Forbes Burnham. Britain saw Burnham as pivotal to their attempts to slough off the PPP’s more moderate leadership. A propaganda campaign was launched to highlight and magnify the ideological distinctions within the party. Burnham was cast in the more moderate role of a ‘Fabian socialist.’ His brand of socialism was represented as the acceptable ideological alternative to the ‘communism’ of Jagan and his radical clique. Quickly,

intra-party alliances became crystallised around cold war definitions and Britain did its best to concretise this ideological divide. After the intervention, the most ideologically progressive nationalists within the party’s leadership were singled out for harsh treatment. Five members of its radical wing were picked up immediately and held in detention. Nine more, including Jagan, were served with orders restricting their movement and curtailing their political and union activity. Finally, Jagan and his wife, along with other radical party activists, were sentenced to prison terms. In Britain’s campaign of repression, the ‘moderate’ members of the PPP, now considered to be in the Burnham camp, were

treated less harshly. Sensing Britain’s sympathetic response, they chose to accept the restrictive terms of the intervention with little protest. Britain’s machinations soon paid dividends. For Burnham, Colonial Office support came with the real possibility of capturing executive power as leader of the PPP. So he began to cultivate the support of party moderates in a bid to gain exclusive control of the party (Fraser 1994:169-70). In 1955 he led these ‘moderates’ in an orchestrated at-

tempt to takeover the party and to undermine the ‘extremists.’ His bid precipitated a split of the party into Jaganite and Burnhamite factions, each operating as independent political organisations, and each claiming the right to the be called the PPP. Britain, the US and the local conservative elite hoped that the split in the PPP presaged an end to radical anti-colonialism. They saw in the

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Burnham faction the possibility of a new nationalist movement that was much more willing to accept Britain’s demands for a gradualist transition. And the Colonial Office encouraged the West Indian nationalist leaders to put the weight of their support behind Burnham’s faction. Once their support was forthcoming, these leaders began in earnest to build alliances between themselves and Burnham and to isolate and dis-

credit Jagan and his PPP faction.

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Even though ostensibly ideological (with East Indian moderates going with Burnham and black radicals remaining with Jagan), the split had racial implications. Jagan and Burnham were popularly understood to be leaders, respectively, of the East Indian and African wings of the nationalist movement. With the split, this understanding became concretised into a pattern of racial support that quickly became institutionalised. The racial politics that ensued has remained embedded in Guyanese political culture to the present day. The rupture of the PPP eviscerated Jagan’s genuine attempt at forging a multi-racial nationalist coalition. With this, the two wings of the party became embroiled in the very racial politics that he had repudiated. ‘Race’, and the politics of ‘race’, became the basis of political support. By 1956, one year after the split, racial politics had become so entrenched that three of the leading black radicals resigned from Jagan’s faction of the party. With their departure, the party lost much of its remaining black support and its ability to sustain itself as a multi-racial movement. This seemed almost preordained by the racial constructs of colonial representation and practice. The East Indian population with its size and regional distribution had an unbeatable advantage in the existing first-past-the-post constituencybased electoral system. And Jagan’s charismatic appeal guaranteed overwhelming support from the vast majority of this population. The result in political terms soon became uncontestably evident. Convinced that the back of Jagan’s radical anti-colonial movement was broken, Britain

agreed to new elections in 1957. With its racial base of support solidified, Jagan’s faction won 9 of the 14 elected seats and he went on to lead a new government. His Party won again in 1961 under a new constitu-

tion of limited self-government. The victory allowed him to serve in the newly created post of Premier. In 1953, Jagan was caught completely off guard by Britain’s strategy of introducing cold war definitions into the nationalist arena. He underestimated the power of anti-communism to legitimise western interventionism. With re-election in 1957, he attempted to defuse the issue of

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ideology by embracing the politics of moderation. He assiduously accommodated Britain’s desire for gradualism. Rather than challenge the authority of the governor in the new constitutional arrangement, he accepted new terms of office that were even more restrictive than those under which his government operated in 1953. He softened his push for self-government, choosing to recognise and abide by the right of the Colonial Office to set the pace of constitutional reform. He ameliorated his strident anti-capitalism, going out of his way to provide domestic and international capital with assurances of his government’s intention to pursue a moderate path. And he indicated an interest in Puerto Rico’s strategy of industrialisation by invitation. Jagan’s moderation and conciliation began to pay some initial dividends. They tempered Britain’s potential opposition to his government (Fraser 1994:169-82), and he made effective use of the political space created by this new strategy. Operating under considerable political restrictions between 1957-64, he managed an impressive array of domestic accomplishments. His government placed considerable emphasis on agriculture, health, education and social welfare. Development planning was introduced and extensive and comprehensive surveys of the country’s resources were made for the first time in its history. The country’s electricity generating capacity was upgraded and expanded with state takeover of the Canadian-owned electric company. Agricultural production, particularly rice and vegetables, was greatly expanded. Malaria was eradicated and successful campaigns were introduced to control polio, typhoid and other forms of diseases. Numerous health centers, cottage hospitals, and maternity and child welfare clinics were built, particularly in the rural areas, and free medical care was introduced. There was

major expansion and upgrading of housing throughout the country and rent control ordinances were enacted to protect the rights of tenants. There was also significant expansion of primary and secondary education, with the state assuming full control and management of all primary schools in the colony. Technical education and teacher training were expanded and a University of Guyana was established (Jagan 1980: 189-208). The period 1957-60, was marked by important political accommodations between the Jagan government and the US. It reflected the effectiveness of his efforts to present a more moderate image, while insisting on his country’s right of self-determination, and signaled this by establishing economic ties with eastern Europe. Even in the charged

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atmosphere of the cold war, he managed to explain such ties successfully on pragmatic rather than ideological grounds. ‘Thus, he was well on his way to creating a space for British Guiana outside the contentions of the cold war, and he was beginning to prepare the final eradication of the social, political and economic legacies of colonialism. His focus on the pragmatic rather than the ideological was beginning to pay dividends in creating the conditions for poverty reduction, human development and self-sustaining economic activity. Once again, he was able to demonstrate the power and possibilities of strategic pragmatism, which became the hallmark of his charismatic appeal.

Jagan and West Indian Nationalism Jagan’s approach seemed to hold tremendous possibilities for West Indian nationalism. It provided an alternative to the sycophancy and adulation exhibited by West Indian leaders in their relations with the US. There appeared in the latter’s initial response to Jagan’s policies, some predisposition to accept the region’s thrust for genuine sovereignty and self determination and to judge these outside of cold war interpretations. But the rest of the West Indies was firmly ensconced in the contentions of the cold war, both internationally and domestically. And the positions of their nationalist leadership hardened once the Cuban Revolution of 1959 took a pro-Soviet turn in the early sixties. Were Jagan to have prevailed, then his brand of nationalism may have provided a different context for the interpretation of that revolution. As an example, it may have provided the basis for shifting US-Cuban post-revolutionary relations away from the ideological space of cold war discourse. But the West Indian leaders had already declared themselves on the side of anti-communism, and this left the US without a pre-existing regional context for interpreting the post-1959 events in Cuba. Cuba was left with only two options: the first was to declare the revolution anti-communist and to protect American economic interests. This demanded supporting the unfettered participation of international capital in Cuba’s political economy. The second was to assert its right to national self-determination, by seeking control of its own economy. The choice of the latter came with the certainty of a communist label, and it was the path chosen by Cuba. Cuba’s turn to communism deepened and widened the cold war divide in the Caribbean. America’s supposed tolerance for progressive movements ceased abruptly. Every policy and political action came to be

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viewed from the prism of the cold war. This quickly became evident in America’s relations with the Jagan government. The accommodation that had developed ceased abruptly after the Cuban revolution took its pro-Soviet turn in 1960. The boundaries of tolerance for progressive movements were narrowed considerably. With Cuba firmly in the Soviet camp, the US began to play a direct and defining role in shaping the socio-political reality of the Caribbean and Latin America. The initiative for doing so was seized from Britain in the English-speaking West Indies. In this new environment, national sovereignty and self-determination became unobtainable, and the US joined with Britain in a second and more vicious campaign to rid the region of the PPP. For the second _ time, Jagan found himself beyond the pale of American tolerance, and with this went any possibility that the region’s leaders would follow his example of a successful nationalist strategy. In British Guiana, colonial racial divisions came to be superimposed upon cold war ideological appeals-to political mobilisation. Racialised political alliances began forming across class lines and, in 1959, Burnham’s socialist faction of the PPP joined with a vehemently anti-communist party representing petite bourgeois Afro-creole interests to form the People’s National Congress (PNC). Around the same time, the United Force (UF) was founded as a right wing minority party. It received the bulk of its support from the country’s Portuguese, Chinese and lighterskinned coloured population. The party relied for its survival upon the active backing of the country’s business elite, international investors, and western governments. Finding themselves on the other side of the racial divide, most of the East Indian middle strata, including its business, pro-

fessional and educated elite, threw their support behind Jagan’s PPP, irrespective of its communist label. By 1960, the country was politically divided into highly racialised camps. This was notwithstanding efforts by UF to present itself as a multi-racial flag bearer of anti-communism. The party’s role in leading the ideological charge against communism took a back seat to the issue of race. Burnham’s PNC fed the fires of anti-Indianism, and exploited the fears of an East Indian takeover of the urban sector which were harbored by the predominantly black and colored urban middle and working classes. The combination of international intervention, isolation and racial

strife proved too much for Jagan. He agreed to accept the terms of electoral reform fashioned and promoted through collusion between the Kennedy Administration and the British government. This decision

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guaranteed his ouster from power. After elections in 1964, the PNC, as

the senior partner, was able to form a coalition government with the UF. Votes for the two parties were secured through appeals to the anti-Indian and anti-communist sentiments of the supporters of the two parties. The PPP, despite polling the largest number of votes of any party, was unable to garner the 50 per cent needed to hold on to power. Out of power and isolated from the capitalist North and from the group of West Indian nationalist leaders, Jagan turned for political support to Cuba and eastern Europe. He declared a personal and open commitment to Marxism/Leninism and formalised relations between the PPP and the communist parties of the Warsaw Pact. In 1970, at his party’s sixteenth congress, Jagan declared Marxism/Leninism to be ‘the unfailing guide of the Party in all its tactical and policy decisions’ (PPP 1971:55). The fabricated representation of a communist PPP, emerging out of cold war contentions and interjected into nationalist politics by Britain in 1953, had become areality. By 1968, however, it had become clear, even under the terms of electoral reform implemented in 1964,

that the PPP enjoyed the support, albeit a racially exclusive one, of the majority of the country’s voting population. This was enough to guarantee the Party an electoral victory in any freely contested elections devoid of fraud. But fraud is what it took to maintain the PNC in power, and the rest of the political leaders of newly-independent Caribbean countries, in choosing to side with the US, maintained an illegitimate PNC government in power. In their support for the PNC, West Indian leaders demonstrated a willingness to repudiate the principles of freedom and self-determination, so essential to national sovereignty, for allegiance with the US. They rejected the fundamental tenets of democracy and democratic governance in their support of the national interests of the US. In so doing, they paved the way for a pattern of anti-democratic, liberal democracy in the West Indies, and gave the US carte blanche to dictate the terms of governance in the region. The PNC leadership used the international anti-communist coalition against Jagan to its full advantage. It secured independence from Britain in 1964 with the implicit understanding that the communist threat had been eliminated. In 1967, the party managed to gain full control of the government by enticing elected members of parliament from the UF to ‘cross the floor.’ Subsequently, control of government was ensured by the use of constitutional fiat, rigged elections, coercion and control

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(Hintzen 1989; Hintzen and Premdas 1982). Fraudulent electoral victories were secured in 1968, 1973, 1980 and 1985, and the PNC used its

control of the electoral machinery to enact constitutional changes that ushered in a period of semi-authoritarian rule. A fraudulent referendum in 1978 paved the way for the establishment of an executive presidency in 1980, and under the new constitution, the functions of the prime min-

ister were combined with those of the president. This unified the exercise of executive authority and the constitutional functions of head of state under the aegis of the executive president. The powers of the holder of this new office were so enormous and absolute, that a former

attorney general of Britain referred to them as virtually ‘imperial’ (Guardian 1980).

By the 1980s, the crisis of legitimacy experienced by the socialist states of eastern Europe heralded the end of the cold war anda relaxation of American obsession with anti-communism. In Guyana, this favoured a focus on civil and political rights that enhanced considerably the moral and ethical claim of the PPP to the right of governance. Jagan found himself in quite an advantageous position. Notwithstanding his embrace of Marxism/Leninism after the ouster of his government in 1964, he had remained absolutely and steadfastly committed to the principles of democracy, freedom and human rights. He continued to contest elections knowing that the outcome was preordained. In his persistent and continuous challenges to PNC rule, he embraced the principles of freedom of speech, freedom of assembly and the right to organise. These were the hallmarks of his campaign against the ruling party. In the wake of challenges mounted against communist governments in eastern Europe, his call for democracy became difficult to ignore. Geo-strategic concerns about the Soviet Union were also on the wane. The dismantling of Eurocommunism eliminated altogether anxieties that ideological alliances between eastern Europe and the countries of the South could pose threats to the national interests of the North Atlantic. Moreover, in light of a developing cooperation and a growing rapprochement with the US, the Soviet Union was becoming less enthusiastic in its support for radical parties and for political groups in the countries of the south. PNC Demise

The new emphasis on democracy and civil and human rights soon began to affect the terms of political legitimacy in Guyana. In 1986, five

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opposition parties, including the PPP, formed a Patriotic Coalition for Democracy (PCD). The coalition began to coordinate domestic and international opposition to the PNC regime. With the strength of its party-political organisation, it was able to secure control of the country’s most powerful unions, representing workers in the country’s major industries (sugar and bauxite). The coalition was able to use this control to affect the national economy at a time when a country’s economic performance was beginning to dictate the terms of socio-political stability. There was a new global imperative for countries of the South in their efforts to ensure economic viability. After a period of escalating and debilitating debt, many of the governments of these countries had come to rely almost exclusively upon external financing to maintain economic stability. International financial agencies and western governments were the major sources of funding for economic bailout. Control of terms of access to critical foreign exchange support placed these agencies and governments in positions to dictate macroeconomic policy. With growing dependence on external funding, political leaders in countries seeking economic assistance began to find themselves at the mercy of the international financial arms of these agencies and governments. , Under PNC rule, Guyana had become an economic basket case. The country was heavily indebted and in danger of catastrophic economic collapse. Creditors with the resources to finance an economic bailout began to make demands upon the PNC government. In 1988, after two years of negotiations, the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) finally approved a policy framework paper for economic stabilisation. This was to lay the foundation for a three-year Enhanced Structural Adjustment facility program and a Structural Adjustment Loan in 1990. Future access to external financing came to be contingent upon full satisfaction of terms defined and dictated by these two multilateral agencies and other collaborating international donors (IMF 1990:1). The ruling party was forced to agree to the terms set forth in the negotiated agreement, and in the process were made to discontinue essential funding for grassroots and popular schemes and programmes (Ferguson 1995:50-55). This directly threatened the PNC’s base of political legitimacy among its supporters, against whom the government reluctantly directed its cuts. By the time it was over, however, many civil and political rights were curtailed. The ruling regime was forced, under the terms of its agreement with international lenders, to dismantle many

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of these pillars of its political control as international financial agencies and aid donors began demanding a significant shift away from the public sector and toward an expanded, viable private sector as the mainstay of economic activity. They called for considerable cutbacks in the state bureaucratic sector, and the regime was forced to completely restructure the state bureaucracy (Latin American Regional Reports, Caribbean 1991:2). Soon, the political and economic costs of meeting the demands of the international financial actors began to mount. The performance targets that were specified began to place the government at the mercy of the opposition coalition. Through its control of the trade unions in the major productive sectors, the latter had acquired the wherewithal to affect production. In May 1989, the PCD used this control to call a crippling strike that effectively stymied the government's efforts aimed at meeting the specified performance targets (Ferguson 1995:50). This demonstrated, unequivocally, that the cooperation of the opposition was indispensable if the government's efforts to gain access to external funding were to succeed. And the terms of such cooperation came to rest increasingly upon the willingness of the PNC to hold free and fair elections. In the unfolding international environment of the post-cold war era, these were precisely the new conditions of legitimacy being imposed upon governments of the South. In the wake of the example in eastern Europe, a general campaign was mounted against the PNC and its denial of political and civil rights. Jagan’s PPP stood to gain the most from the ensuing calls for restoration of democratic transparency. In 1990, trade unionists, businessmen, religious leaders, public officials and professionals combined to launch a‘reform movement’ for democracy. The movement, which was called The Guyanese Action for Reform and Democracy (GUARD), was patterned directly after the protest movements of eastern Europe (Catholic Standard 1990:1-2). Its leadership established an international presence by combining forces with influential Guyanese living abroad. Locally they relied for support upon the country’s churches, trade unions, civic organisations, businessmen and grassroots organisations under their control. Prominent public officials were willing, for the first time, to openly identify with calls for the ousting of the ruling regime. This, more than anything else, signaled the shift from anti-communism to a paramount concern for democracy and human rights in the domestic discourse of legitimacy.

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Jagan’s Capitualtion to Imperialism With the changing socio-political environment of the eighties, there was little pragmatic reason for continued commitment to Marxism/Leninism by the political leadership from countries of the South. After the collapse of eastern Europe, the possibility of receiving strategic economic and political support from the Soviet Union and its allies diminished significantly. In Guyana, this became increasingly evident to Jagan as he made the decision to return to his policy of pragmatism developed and enunciated during his tenure in office between 1957-64. The shift to pragmatism started in the latter part of the eighties, and was publicised during a campaign aimed at allaying the concerns of western governments about his ideological position. Jagan made a number of trips to the US to engage in a concerted lobbying effort. During these visits, he met with Bush administration officials, members of the US Congress and ex-president, Jimmy Carter. He assiduously avoided his usual references to Marxism and his former advocacy of socialist causes. His intention, clearly, was to convince the America’s legislative and executive leadership of the genuineness of his new moderation. In April 1990, he went as far’ as to repudiate his past commitment to radical change. He gave assurances that ‘the building of a so-called Communist state in Guyana is not on the agenda of the PPP and we have even dropped our insistence on a socialist-orientated (sic) program.’ Jagan also began to express support publicly for private enterprise, for attracting foreign capital to the country, and for divestment of publicly owned corporations in favor of foreign private investment (Bohning 1990; Miami Herald 8 December 1990; Catholic Standard 13 May 1990:5). These were precisely the conditions guaranteeing continued access to foreign exchange that were fashioned and formulated for the country by the IMF and World Bank. Jagan’s apparent about face came at a time when the tolerance of the international community, led by the US, for the PNC’s practice of electoral fraud was beginning to erode. The frustrations of this community were compounded by the regime’s failure to meet the criteria agreed upon as conditions for continued western economic support. By the beginning of 1990, there was an increased willingness to accommodate demands for free and fair elections. They were being supported by the international financial institutions engaged in negotiations with the PNC government. Electoral reform and transparency in the system of

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voting became implicit conditions of access to foreign exchange support. Under threat from these institutions, the PNC was forced, finally, to re-

form the electoral system and to agree to hold elections in December 1992. And the PPP was once again elected to office with Jagan succeeding to the post of executive president. In the final analysis, it was Jagan’s absolute and unswerving commitment to the democratic principles of Western liberalism that created the conditions for his return to power. This was the basis of his charismatic appeal. Political liberalism was the instrument available to the East Indian population to be used to break the back of elite, creole socio-political domination. Jagan’s political philosophy embodied the hopes and aspirations of East Indians for the full benefits of citizenship, represented in their right to vote. The international conspiracy to deny them this right collapsed with the end of Euro-communism. It ushered in an end to the cold war that had entrapped the PPP, and that justified and legitimised interventionism and support for anti-democratic rule in Guyana. Jagan came to power at a time when the formulation of national economic policy was transferred out of the hands of national leaders to international economic actors. The ideology of governments in power and their intentions now matter little in policy formulation (Hintzen 1995). Progressive and radical leaders were finding themselves with very few options but to accept the dictates of international public policy fashioned by global economic actors. Robbed of their autonomy, these leaders posed little threat to capitalist interests. There was little point in opposing their ascendance to power. Their very presence in government preserved the image of democratic governance while capitalist interests remain protected. Overt and covert use of violence and subversion against them could now give way to the interventions of those in charge of making and implementing international public and monetary policy. The latter could use control of the terms of access to foreign exchange to impose their will upon countries of the South. In this manner, the interests of international capital could be protected. Policy formulation could be sharply constrained by international actors using financially punitive measures to cripple the political economies of leaders whose intransigence and ineffectualness jeopardised global capital. Guyana was no different. A PPP government coming to power, even with its radical predisposition, posed little threat to Western and capitalist interests. So, the decision by west-

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ern economic and political actors to insist upon electoral transparency came without risk to their interests. Jagan believed, fervently, that he could use his position as executive president to bring an end to poverty, injustice and privilege, but he was wrong. The window of opportunity for successful assertion of the principles of self-determination had closed. With the dramatic shift in international relations, terms of governance were being dictated by international public policy. The IMF and World Bank, at the forefront of a new structure of global penetration, had become firmly ensconced in Guyanese decision making. Any government in power found itself compelled to accept the neo-liberal policies imposed by these agencies as a remedy for the country’s poor economic performance. The autonomy of Jagan’s government was compromised even further by the development of a relationship with former president Jimmy Carter of the US. Increasingly, Jagan began to depend upon the Carter Center to act as an agent for the country in its international bargaining, and the Center played a pivotal role in organising and overseeing the 1992 elections. It intervened with the US Embassy in Georgetown and with the International Foundation for Electoral Systems when the PNC appeared reluctant to hand over power after its electoral defeat. Because of the strategic connections that he brought, Jimmy Carter managed to position the Center directly into the country’s decision making process, fashioning a National Development Strategy. The Center began serving, also, as a conduit between Jagan, on the one hand, and international actors and multilateral aid donors on the other. Its intervention was particularly important for relations with the US. In effect, the Center became an international bargaining agent for Jagan’s government (Harvey 1966). Thus, Jagan’s ability to act independently as executive president after his 1992 electoral victory was severely compromised by international public policy and strategic reliance upon the Carter Center as an international intermediary. This was notwithstanding his declared intention to ‘start where we left off when we were forced from government.’ He valiantly sought ways to ‘break from foreign colonial domination’ and to secure ‘political freedom, economic emancipation, and cultural freedom’ (Jagan 1996:4). But these ideals hardly figured in the process of policy making. His administration was forced to engage in the task of implementing the dictates of international actors with neo-liberal agendas. In the end, his country became even more firmly and integrally linked to global capital. In the end, he could do little but join forces with the little

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known and ineffectual Bretton Woods Reform Organisation, established internationally by an erstwhile and disenchanted IMF official. The goal of the organisation was the development of Alternative Structural Adjustment Programs (ASAP) focused on small-scale, labor intensive, high value-added enterprises that were broadly distributed. In 1994, Jagan announced his intention to renegotiate the terms of structural adjustment to ones more consistent with the approach advocated by the Reform Organisation. Predictably, however, although he was unsuccessful in his efforts (Meeker-Lowry 1995), he nonetheless

continued in his optimism, hoping for the development of a new Third World alliance. The ‘mood is different’ he asserted. ‘Survival in the Third World, in the face of multi-nationals, conglomerates as well as

globalisation (require the) unity of all forces.’ He was right, but capitalism, in its international march, had obliterated any possibility for the type of economic self-determination that he sought. He could do nothing but seek out ways in which global capital could be accommodated, even while continuing to hope for its salvation. He was left advocating for a ‘national democracy’ to bring together ‘the working class, the middle class, progressive intelligencia, and capitalists—what I would like to call patriotic capitalists’ (Jagan 1996). As naive and idealistic as it was, re-

liance on the ‘patriotism’ of international capital was all he had left to satisfy his dream of independence and national self-determination. Conclusion

As it turns out, Jagan’s radical socialism was no different from that of the British Labor Party. It was socialism steeped in the philosophical principles of Western liberalism. And it was informed by a personal history that had imbued in Jagan a powerful disdain for privilege, injustice and poverty. The obsession with their elimination drove his political ideology. Jagan saw freedom and sovereignty as necessary conditions of social, economic and political justice. These were at the heart of his charismatic and populist appeals. His ideology took hold among a socially and culturally dispossessed East Indian population that saw in it, the possibility of penetrating creole elitism and destroying the latter’s potential for socio-political domination of a post-colonial state. Despite his disdain for racial politics, he became inextricably linked to his East Indian support base and was to be seen as a representative of East Indian interests. This support was galvanised after Britain successfully introduced pat-

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terns of colonial racial representations into the arena of nationalist politics. Internationally, British and US interventionism underscored, en-

hanced, and highlighted his reputation as a defender of nationalist sovereignty, a fighter against capitalist exploitation and a fighter for the poor. His charismatic appeal developed as much out of the characterisations of those who opposed him as out of his political principles and philosophy. At the same time, he did offer an effective solution to the dilemma of nationalist self-determination, which was formulated despite the hegemonic presence of the US as the new capitalist superpower; and this contributed to his appeal on both moral and practical grounds. Were Britain not intent on maintaining its colonial empire, Jagan’s call for freedom might have been interpreted differently. It was certainly not inconsistent with the principles established in the Atlantic Charter and with those ratified in the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights. His policies while in office never proved threatening to capital, even though they were justified by the type of anti-capitalist rhetoric typical of western European socialist parties of the time. His accomplishments while serving in office between: 1957-64 were astounding. They were achieved under conditions where his authority was severely constrained by the terms of the colonial constitution. Nonetheless, he succeeded in changing for the better the conditions of life of the majority of the population. His was a nationalism that was viable and humane; one that posed little threat to the ‘national interests’ of the West. In its for‘mulation, it had all the earmarks of developing into an effective model for national policies everywhere in the post-colonial world. This was the practical basis of Jagan’s charisma. And although his post-colonial vision was demonstrably viable as a model of development, it was fated to become hostage to Britain’s colonial appetite. In sum, then, Jagan was the only West Indian nationalist leader of the

fifties to risk retaliatory action by insisting on the right of sovereignty

and self-determination. He won the moral battle, but lost the war in

which the rights of powerful international capital prevailed against the interests of the poor and the powerless. Jagan was well on his way to developing a viable national and regional alternative to global capitalism when he was ousted. By the time he returned to power, the advancement of global capital had reached such a stage as to render national sovereignty virtually impossible. Ironically, his charismatic appeal was at the very heart of his failure in this regard.

6

PATRICIA

MOHAMMED

A Very Public Private Man Trinidad’s Eric Eustace Williams (1911-81)

Introduction: On a Stained Canvas When much has been said, and the twentieth century is done, it is useful

to prime the canvas of our history and culture again, retaining the texture and hues of the original but adding depth and complexity to the overlay we must bring with a new age. Such is this attempt to depict aspects of a Caribbean man who has contributed immensely, if controversially, to the life and vision of a society.! His intellectual achievement in Capitalism and Slavery, first published in 1944 (1966) and based on his original doctoral thesis of 1938, provided for people of the Caribbean a new way of seeing themselves, not as ‘weak and backward and in need of a civilising mission’ but as a ‘productive source of wealth for England and as victims of economic exploitation past and present.’* In The Negro in the Caribbean published over 20 years earlier in 1942, he declared that both Trinidad and Jamaica would gain independence, and that “The Negro’s right to decide his own affairs and his life is not a question for argument’ (p 102). Along with other pioneers, such as the pan-Africanists and anti-colonial nationalists, he became a major player in a new ‘new world’ enlightenment project which would rewrite Caliban’s script—nobility enshrined and savage redefined, and most of all, human. The bravado, discipline and intellectualism with which Eric Williams confronted family, friend, and foe, were his major strengths and major weaknesses. Williams’ iconoclastic retaliation and singular vision as an historian prepared him for the historic role he later would play as the icon of a nation. If he remains a controversial figure in the world of the intellect, he was doubly so in the sphere of politics. This chapter does

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not attempt to assess Williams’ contribution to history, or to judge his collaborations in public life, other than where it is possible to do so. This reading of his life and work is viewed through the additional lens of gender, attempting to move beyond the public/private dichotomies, which artificially separate the home from the world, to depict both his humanness, and his humanity. Apart from his writings and those of others who have written on him, this paper draws extensively on interviews carried out with people who have known him personally or worked closely with him, along with many other informal sources.’ The transcripts of interviews used were provided by Erica Williams from the Eric Williams Memorial

Collection,

and, as with all oral history, must be read

advisedly. Williams’ leadership is associated primarily with two sets of political concerns: on the one hand, there is race and nationalism, and on the

other, was gender politics. A popular interpretation of the first is generally taken as his attitude, and that of the People’s National Movement, (PNM) to issues of racial difference in the politics of Trinidad and To-

bago; the second focuses on his treatment and employment of women in the political sphere. These tired discourses sometimes need deflecting if we are to move ideas beyond the popular and the clichéd. Williams being black, he had experienced all the obstacles associated with both his race and colonial status when he lived in England and the US. Understandably too, he had internalised many of the biases about race and class which pervaded Trinidad society at the time, and those biases coloured any appreciation of his politics and practice. Nevertheless, this should not detract from Williams as the intellectual, historian, and visionary,

who confronted the issues of race and racial difference at a more discerning level. In this chapter, theoretical debates on charisma and charismatic authority are not dealt with extensively, for these have been well developed in chapter one, and the relevant connections automatically will be made by the reader. Rather, better to let the prose communicate, as it does in the real lives of men and women. But along with the central issue of charismatic leadership, the questions of race and gender are to be problematised. For power is a common denominator in both race and gender relations, and masculinity and public power are intricately intertwined. ‘To understand how power works, how it is held, traded and manipulated,

it may be therefore necessary to understand men and manhood, and to dissect the power of patriarchy; especially given the fact that such patri-

Eric Williams / 157

archy operates equally between men and men, as it does between men and women. The Father of Modern TFrinidad.* Achieving peace at the price of air and sunlight, I deliberately leave the files and reports and grievances and read and write asa private citizen, maintaining his sanity and seeing the daily chores, stresses and strains in clearer perspective, determined to prove that, like Dante’s Ulysses, I “Could conquer the inward hunger that I had, To master earth’s experience, and to attain Knowledge of man’s mind, both good and bad” (Williams 1969:343).

This is the last and one of the more lyrical passages included in the final version of Inward Hunger, the autobiography of Eric Eustace Williams. He completed it on July 6, 1968, two years before the Black Power upheavals would take place in Trinidad in 1970, shattering any illusion of his control, or the harmony he envisioned for the society. He died just over one decade later in March 1981, a private death for one who had all the public facilities at his disposal. While the full circumstances surrounding his death remain obscure, it is clear from all accounts that he had, as was his usual custom, dismissed

the servants and withdrew into the isolation he had sought more and more since 1970. Both his personal secretary at White Hall, Madge Lee Fook, and his political secretary, DD Dupres,° agreed that from the middle of the 1970s he wanted to leave office. “The security around him became tighter and tighter’ observed Dupres. ‘It was difficult to get to him. I sensed sadness about Eric . . . I think at the time he did want to leave office. I think he did not want renomination in 1973 . . . I think one thing that disappointed him was that the PNM stagnated with the party officers not moving forward. He made every decision. He was overworked.’ In March 1981 he slipped into a diabetic coma from which he never recovered. If Williams’ rise to fame and power has retained a fascination, his death has retained a puzzlement and sadness for people who knew him or experienced part of his reign.® ‘It was difficult to piece. It was almost unreal. It was like it never was going to happen. I don’t knowif I thought he would die. I think I just walked around in a daze,’ said a close friend of the family on hearing of his death.’ Conrad O’Brien,® a businessman and colleague of Dr Williams at one time, observed that his mood on

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hearing of Eric’s death was ‘One of sadness, especially the manner of his death .. . Yet by that time in his life he was beginning to experience regret about some things. He was depressed, the country was in turmoil: doctors, nurses, civil service were all in unrest. One of his biggest mistakes is that he stayed on too long.’ Eric Williams had lived his three score and ten years by 1981. His death appeared to those who were not close to him to be very incongruous with the persona he had constructed for the public in his earlier rise to power during the forties and fifties. Maybe ina final ‘death where is thy sting, grave where is thy victory’ melodrama, he has left an underlying guilt with a nation who called him their father. For his death, whatever the circumstances, seems very consistent with the way in which he controlled and kept apart his private life. This reticence, silence and grief about deaths, and the private side of life, have remained almost

completely hidden from a generally prying and prurient society, which has the tradition of the tried and tested methods of the calypso and weeklies known to cut everybody down to size, to make everyone ‘boil down like bhaji.’ He presented an unusual and enigmatic figure even for this society. There was no outward display of family other than a close and enduring relationship with his daughter Erica. Although he kept in touch with the popular culture of carnival and calypso, for a public figure, he had an essentially reclusive personality. At the same time, for many people, this charismatic leader attained almost super-hero qualities. Manifesting the most esteemed characteristics of Trinidadian masculinity, he could out talk and demolish his political opponents with ‘robber talk’ sans humanité, and transfix crowds to stand and listen to him for hours. This capacity to engage the crowd in different ways is unique. Not only did Williams get their laughter and support, but he also deliberately capitalised on their attention to raise a level of political consciousness through information. As he himself was to observe: ‘Particularly in my lectures at the University of Woodford Square, I made a point not to talk down to the people. It was straight University stuff, in content and in form as well as in manner, designed to place the problems of Trinidad in international perspective’ (Williams 1969:149). It was not Williams’ voice or stature that compelled people. My own memory of his voice, heard on the radio and television, and which differed no doubt from the heady days of the University of Woodford Square, was of a barely modulated monotone, which crackled with ice

Eric Williams / 159

and dry humour. He was a short man, and in private his close friends poked fun at his height, which he took with good humour. His appearance, even from the early photographs available of him, is that of an intense bespectacled charactér, whose eyes never looked for, or straight into, the camera. His arrogance, such as it has been described, is not

about the body, but the mind. Rather, his appeal to people was his capacity to interest others in what he was doing, because he was himself interesting and compelled by it. This charisma was not limited in the decade of the fifties to one class or ethnic group, but crossed many barriers. George Lamming recognised this capacity to sway and inspire people with his passions and remarked on this method by which Williams would begin to rewrite the colonial script. ‘He turned history, the history of the Caribbean, into gossip, so that the story of a people’s predicament seemed no longer the infinite, barren track of documents, dates and texts. Everything became news; slavery, colonisation, the forgivable deception of metropolitan rule, the sad and inevitable unawareness of native production.’ And Lamming continues, ‘His lectures retained always the character of whisper which everyone was allowed to hear, a rumour.

which experience had established as truth.” Regardless of what one may think about his political practice, there is almost clear agreement that he had the instincts of a great teacher. Ibbet Mosaheb!9, one of the men with whom he would join forces to form the PNM, acknowledged his gift as a teacher. He was great, a born teacher, thoroughly prepared. Whatever misgivings we may have about the ways in which Williams learnt to employ his strengths and draw others around him towards a political goal, it is clear that he outshone many others in his day, and would have been resented for this capacity, while being used for it. In the masculine world of politics, he had the added advantage of, as Sparrow said, ‘Big Brain’ over ‘Big Belly’, to charm a generation of women to work on his behalf and that of the party. This larger than life quality of his political existence, meant that Williams not only led the party which he had brought to power, but even during his early rule embodied it, becoming and remaining its icon today as much as the balisier.

Inward Hunger That the private side of life was kept separate and apart from his public engagement with power is most evident in Inward Hunger, in both the

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style in which the final document is presented, and the selective content which is included. The published Inward Hunger was, until recently, the only record of Williams’ writing about his personal life, and this can be read primarily as a political tool. It outlines as it were, the early development of his political consciousness, his confrontations and conflicts, and

how he dealt with them in his rise to power. In unpublished early chapters recently accessed!!, Williams speaks directly through his writing to us, rather than leaving us to rely completely on secondary sources. When Inward Hunger was published he had completed fourteen years and nearly three terms as prime minister. In the published version of the manuscript, three hundred and forty four pages, Williams had ostensibly devoted barely twenty-eight pages to his childhood and youth in ‘Trinidad before he set out for, as he termed it, ‘Negro Oxford.’ Nowhere

was there an acknowledgment of personal compassion or emotions other than anger or political frustration, except briefly in the early chapters describing his youth and his commitment to his father and to his schoolmates. In the first few chapters of Inward Hunger, however, one can still see the forging of Williams’ understanding of race and gender relations in colonial society. As-his father’s son, the battles he would undertake in life must be seen in relation to a desire to right both the wrongs done to his father and those he personally experienced as the colonised black male subject during his time at Oxford, in the United Kingdom, and in the US. In his perception of what motivated his life’s work, it is clear that Williams felt quite deeply about the historical role the scholar and activist should play in a developing society which had suffered the pangs of colonisation and African slavery. These early ideas hint indubitably at the political nature of this role. He portrays a committed, perhaps even an overdeveloped, sense of responsibility to his country in these early drafts: Morally I felt myself obligated to specialise in this neglected field of research because for fifteen years—from 1922 to 1937—my education was funded by the people of Trinidad and Tobago . . .’ He also went on to note that the history of his education could point in two directions, one of which spoke to: ‘the integration of the Negro in the western world,’ while the other threw light ‘on a quite unnecessarily dark cranny in the history of the world, but, more important, in terms of the ideological history of the west, its relation with “backwards” peoples, and its often repeated assurances of a better world.’

This grounded belief in the value and power of education, and what

he has been able to achieve as result of a sound education, was translated

Eric Williams / 161

very clearly into his political approach, as for instance in The University of Woodford Square lectures and in the policies for free secondary and university education, which he introduced with Independence in 1962. He wished to return this gift to’the people of Trinidad. Maybe this explains the note of deep sadness one finds in interviews from those closest to him after the Black Power riots in Trinidad in 1970, fewer than two

decades after he had struggled to bring education, freedom and a sense confidence to his people. He was devastated by the turn of events, which moved him from being deliverer to oppressor, and led him seemingly to seek out his own company more and more from that time on.

Race and Class Background While the first few chapters of Williams’ autobiography clearly place him in the impoverished and disempowered lower middle class of urban Port of Spain in the 1920s, it was not long before he managed to cultivate a certain bourgeois aloofness about him. In a colonial society fractured along race lines, he was also cognisant of his pedigree. Thus, speaking of his father’s father, Williams noted that he was ‘a full blooded Negro, employed in a menial capacity with a well-to-do local white family, who eloped and married one of the daughters’; while his father’s mother was to be credited with the fact that ‘my father had some of the Scotch blood that ts found all over the West Indies.’ Of his maternal grandmother he would say: ‘My grandmother, whom I recall, was not unusual in West Indian and American Negro families, a very light skinned woman of colour, the ‘high yallah’ type of contemporary American Negro society rather than the café au lait variety so much esteemed in the slavery period in the West Indies.’ According to Williams’ notes, they had a servant who cooked, and while the family gave out the laundry to be done, there was also the concern with class respectability. Here a clear picture of the struggling lower middle class in Port of Spain at this time emerges from the vignettes of his penned notes: ‘POS was the city of the gay caballero, the batcher girl and the merry widow females exceeded males in the town 7110 females—3 out of every five town inhabitants were females.’ Due to financial need, they had to rent out the backyard ‘to a large foot, dark brown skinned woman who was a cook in one of the white families. She was visited by a light skinned married man—later arrested for defalcations at a firm where he worked... My mother and father had a profound sense ofpropriety and gentility.’

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Williams draws on anecdotes and characteristics of individuals, in this

case, those of his extended family, to depict the tenor of class and race relations at the time. Indeed, his approach is reminiscent of the style employed in Lloyd Braithwaite’s Social Stratification in Trinidad, first published in 1953. In another draft of Inward Hunger he writes, ‘The few memories which I retain of my aunts afford some insight into the colonial life and society of the time. One married a Negro tram driver and was generally regarded as having lost caste; the light skinned woman might marry “dark,” might go back to the kitchen having reached the drawing room—as the French West Indian proverb puts it, but she must not descend lower than the professions.’ Williams is also aware that not only skin colour but also hair provided markers of class and breeding at this time, as it perhaps unfortunately still does in the Caribbean. “The pathetic importance attached to the quality and texture of hair in Trinidad affects women in particular, but also men. For example, Trinidadians always commented on my good hair and are surprised to hear that I have no Indian blood in my veins. In the West Indies, light and dark frequently produce dark children with good black hair, and light children with bad light hair. The latter are often called derisively in Trinidad “shabeen.”’ On this score too, he notes that ‘boys were then con-

temptuous of girls who had “wire hair.” The importance of hair and skin colour was brought most clearly into focus when it came to the question of marriage partners, as marriage should generally lead to an improvement in one’s status. His parents were no exception in this matter. ‘When

‘It came to marriage, my parents were adamant. One might come from Africa, but there was no point in going back to Africa. That was their attitude...’ Williams displays a reasonably good grasp of the status and position which his family held in the society at that time, and the choices available to them then and later. He was the only one to obtain a university education, and he was keenly aware of the responsibility he shouldered as the eldest child and son of the family. The challenges of domestic life, moving from one place to another, and struggles with income, would have predisposed any sensitive and sensible child to a sense of domestic responsibility. But this was not for the young Eric, who fixed on another responsibility placed on still very fragile shoulders—to fulfil the ambi-

tion which his father had had for himself. Never retiring in his own selfaggrandisement, Williams writes ‘Greatness, Trinidad style, was thrust

upon me from the cradle. My father knew that what he had never been given an opportunity to achieve with his brains, he might with his loins. The island scholarship for his son became the dream of his life’

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/ 163

(Williams 1969:30). He noted in his earlier drafts of Inward Hunger that his father was educated at Tranquility school, which represented the best primary and intermediate education offered in those days: ‘Secondary education was then—as it still is today, a luxury, available only to the boy—and to a lesser degree to the girl.’

Realising Father’s Ambitions In the class and colour hierarchy which defined ‘Trinidad colonial society at the time, masculinities were being pitted, one against the other. It is in relation to his father as a black man, who had been unable to comfort-

ably to support his family, and humbled by the prejudices of class, race and colour, that Williams proceeds to define his political vision for the Caribbean, and for Trinidad and Tobago in particular. Again, education is the signifier by which vision can be realised and both his political and intellectual deliberations repeatedly underscored this fact. He describes the precocious way in which his ability was recognised: ‘No doubt I was a good pupil, perceptive, alert, with a good memory, but looking back on it all,

now, I see my precociousness...’ His father suspended atricycle from the ceiling saying he would have it when he could recite his alphabet. He earned the tricycle before he was 2 years old. While he recalls ‘naturally’ very little, this one incident he says, stood out in his mind. He also recalled the experience of his being sent to Tranquility school as opposed to the Catholic school, which was generally to be expected. For him this was ‘no mere whim . . . a considerable financial sacrifice was involved . . . education cost 5 shillings a month with a reduction for younger brothers.’ At the time he attended Tranquility, there were 250 boys on role, primarily black and coloured, with few Indians, Chinese and white boys: “The con-

sequence was to make the young child, more particularly the boy in the days of which I write a potential economic and social asset, a possible future professional man...So from as early as I can remember, I was tormented and plagued with these possibilities, awed at being generally regarded as the rising hope of my stern, unbending relatives.’

That Williams presents his origins in the published Inward Hunger primarily from the standpoint of the son of a black man who feels cheated by the French Creoles and whites of Trinidad, that the major preoccupation of his work, intellectual and political, is geared to liberating blackness from its secondary oppositional relationship to whiteness, is filled with a particular irony, perhaps more meaningful to a Trinida-

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dian audience. Coming from the small island of Trinidad, his father’s status as a civil servant in the 1930s, a position of relative importance at the time, his mother’s family name, the French’Creole, Boissiere, his urban

childhood, his all rounded excellence in both scholarship and sport, and the encouragement and hopes which his family had for him, all prepared Eric to be a confident and brash rather than retiring young man. This was the only heritage he would receive from his parents and also the only reward he could return, particularly to his father. He writes: It was a day of jubilation that October 19, 1931, when the news of my scholarship victory was brought to me .. . Jubilation, particularly for my father, who arrived home for lunch, bewildered by the congratulations from people on the way. His twenty-year-old dream had come true . . . he looked upon my victory as a decisive proof of his manhood. His bearing was more erect thereafter, his confidence in himself restored, and he often told me that, whatever his rivals

had, they had not an Island scholar as their son (1969:33).

In a society in which the professions of law and medicine were sure avenues to mobility and signals for status, Eric’s choice to enter Oxford to read for an honours degree in history, was not, and could not be comprehended by his father: ‘On this question, the disagreement between my father and myself was sharp, profound, persistent, and destined to strain our relations almost to breaking point.’ Having consulted two ‘coloured nominated members of both the Legislative and Executive Councils of the island, one a physician, the other a lawyer,’ (1969:39)

both of whom agreed with his choice, he reckoned with his father much the same way he would later proceed to do with his tutors and lecturers at Oxford, with his superiors at the Anglo-American Caribbean Commission, and later with his opponents and fellow politicians in Trinidad and elsewhere. ‘I was thus ready for a showdown with my father .. . He was accordingly very angry with me. He protested and remonstrated, argued and sneered, cajoled and persuaded. It was all in vain. I had made up my mind. He gave in with poor grace’ (1969:39). That he had made his decision, stood by it, and won even greater glories than his father had anticipated, was clearly another victory for Eric. ‘When I saw him in 1944, after twelve years, having got not only the bachelors degree but the doctorate in philosophy, he greeted me with: “So you are a doctor after all.” From this point on, his autobiography becomes a very public one and

Eric Williams / 165

in none of his writings or speeches, except in passing, are we ever given

a glimpse of his personal life or emotions ever again. After he returns to ‘Trinidad to live, reports from Elton Richardson convey the suggestion

that his tastes had become very bourgeois and that he distanced himself from his family and others of his race: He lived in an exclusive area where Negroes didn’t live. He had an unlisted phone so that he could call us, but we could not call him—a fact that I had not known until then. He also said that he had at that time little or no relationship with his family. He drove a big Buick and looked neither to the right nor to the left (Richardson 1984:27).

The implication of individualism and opportunism cannot be missed, nor should we deny that Eric might have distanced himself for reasons of his own, and might have had a separate set of friends with whom he associated and trusted more generously than his political colleagues. “That he was single minded and focused is no news to us. He had won every battle as a result of this particular trait and applied this with all, tout monde.” The Public Private Man

Eric Williams’ demise as a tragic figure in Trinidad, an image greatly opposed to his self-consciously constructed public aura, is perhaps that he attempted to combine two essentially competing ambitions into one life. To do this, he had to separate his ‘self’ into a public figure that belonged to the nation, and a private one who was inaccessible, who could write

and think peacefully, away from the world. He returned to Trinidad in 1948 after an already phenomenal career of teaching and writing to enter the public arena of politics, first of one sort with the Anglo-American Caribbean Commission, then on to another, which he would sustain

for many decades. Whether the driving force behind Williams is his own ambition and wish for power, or the desire to redeem his father’s life, is pure conjecture on the part of any of us. Nonetheless, the sheer energy and time which he had put simultaneously into his political and writing careers need to be acknowledged and celebrated, much the same way that we do with any individual who dedicates his life to a cause worth fighting for. That Williams appeared on the horizon at a fortuitous moment in the country’s politicisation is important to acknowledge. As described in

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chapter one, it was a time of crisis; the sort of crisis that is known to

throw up charismatic leaders. In this connection we were dealing with the crises of decolonisation and political liberation from centuries of colonial rule, and the unfathomable uncertainty. that attends the birth of a new nation (see chapter one). The idea of nationalism was not a new

invention and the society had already begun to experience the emergence of other sons of the soil, for example, Uriah Buzz Butler and Al-

bert Gomes. Conrad O’Brien comments on William’s own reading of the situation: ‘We must bear in mind that by then England was ready to get rid of its colonies, now an economic burden, due to its large WWII

debt. England was also pressured by the US to disband its empire. It was a two way street. He grasped the opportunity since England was vulnerable. He also felt impatient that Trinidad should have been independent long ago. He hated colonialism . . . At that point he was the only one who could do it with stability . . . I think we were fortunate to have Dr Williams to take us to independence and lead us in the first few years.’ The demagogues like Butler in Trinidad, and Alexander Bustamante in Jamaica, had outlived the new time’ when the ‘Negro’ must take on ‘government, legislation and planning’ (Williams, cited in Rohlehr, 1997:866). That Williams had a good understanding of the dynamics of class and anti-colonial politics in Trinidad, long before he fully entered the field, is clear from his writing: “The “agitators and hooligans” as they were called, were men of the people. Uriah Butler, the leader in ‘Trinidad, uneducated, with a queer political concoction of God, Marx

and the British Empire, yet withal a man of great sincerity’ (Williams 1942:93). More than passion and fury signifying something, Williams, like Cheddi Jagan (chapter five), was highly critical of the West. He introduced reason and empirical detail, underscored by new metaphors for struggle and vision, and in an earlier unpublished draft of Inward Hunger he wrote: “Today the Caribbean area is a museum ofnoble recommendations and political platitudes, hopes denied and promises reneged. The optimism inherent in western democracy has here been interred amid this frustration of colonial realities.’ Then in a populist twist he began to lyricise and sing the praises of the ordinary folk—the former slaves and indentured workers whose blood and strength were sapped in the making of colonial wealth and privilege, neither of which they were permitted to share. He described a battered ‘population whose sex, twenty four yards off, is indistinguishable—flat chested women, ragged trousers suggestive of skirts. The real derelicts of the Caribbean are the Caribbean people. I am aware of

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them. I, who paraphrasing St Paul, by the grace of the people of the Caribbean am what I am and in whom their grace has not been void. The bells toll for me because it tolls for them. It is because I believe and realise this that I present this account of the education and experience of a colonial Negro, of his hopes and fears, his optimism and pessimism, confidence and skepticism, ambition and futility, aspirations and frustration .. .”

Williams had conceived of political history as a history of consciousness and struggle. For him, intellectually speaking, Trinidad and the Caribbean in the New World were the site from which another liberty could be forged. ‘Thus for four hundred years’ writes Williams, ‘the Caribbean has been emphatically and unambiguously in the western hemisphere of influence. If ever western civilisation has anywhere had a chance to solve the world’s problems, that place is the Caribbean.’ From here he goes on to add that it was for this reason that ‘I deliberately decided to make the Caribbean area the subject of my special study in research. I had all the necessary equipment for that study, both psychological and technical.’ A certain arrogance of thought and possibility must inform those who are ambitious—it is generally the basis of great achievement. They must stand outside, the charismatic hero beyond the crowd; and for a short while, Williams

combined both. What Eric brought to the crowd was, as Gordon Rohlehr again points out, drawing insightfully on Sparrow’s calypso, that of ‘Big Brain’ and book learning. Brilliance and cleverness, marks of the gifted, the clever and the extraordinary, all key charismatic qualities, were important to the society to which Williams returned. What one could not achieve by the station of one’s birth, class, or colour, was won through education

and intelligence, not to mention a definite charismatic charm and persuasiveness of character. In The Middle Passage, Vidia Naipaul captures the contradiction of the Trinidadian psyche in relation to those who stand out as different; a characteristic which would buttress Williams’

charismatic-populist appeal and grant him access into all classes and homes. It was a psyche and an attitude which he understood well and employed to his fullest advantage: For if such a society breeds cynicism, it also breeds tolerance, though not the tolerance between castes and creeds and so on—which does not exist in Trinidad anyway—but something more profound: tolerance for every human activity and affection for every demonstration of wit and style (Naipaul, 1962:82).

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The latter is perhaps what Williams added to a backdrop already positioned for political independence. Bukka Rennie’s reading, from a perspective of the history of working class organisation in Trinidad, is that the society was primed for Williams, whose path to political success was already paved, and who, consequently, did not have to expend too much energy building a party, ‘testing theory with practice, and suffering the pressures that normally go with boring, painstaking political work. All Williams had to do was walk into the scene, and complete the picture that had already been drawn and framed’ (Rennie 1973:163). Williams, however, had to walk many miles up and down the country, before he would reach centre stage. Apart from the many public lectures he gave, he launched the PNM ‘in 52 different meetings all over the country, following this from July to September, the date of the elections, with no less than 157 election meetings. His reputation for sustained and concentrated hard work, previously known to few, was now known to all’ (Sutton/Williams, 1981:xxii).

Williams benefitted from those who preceded him and from those who worked alongside him. Perhaps this needs to be made more transparent, allowing others part of the stage on which this play for nationhood unfolded in the fifties up until Independence. So far the narratives of each, including that of Williams, may be partial and self-serving, and where and when this has happened also needs to be illuminated by _ bringing some of these stories together. That Williams did not present himself as a martyr in the struggle against colonialism but as a conqueror, both physically and intellectually, was consistent with his personality and with his confidence, and should not surprise us. Ibbet Mosaheb, one of the earliest partners in the movement which led to the formation of the PNM, noted about Williams

after his wife died: ‘He went to Europe. Took his gas-guzzling car. I wondered why. It allowed him control. He liked being in charge, very egoistic. He couldn’t participate if he was not in charge. He needed to be in command.’ Williams was not a social historian, and his style as well as absorption in the struggle, make it difficult for him to extract himself and see both the forest and the trees. As the charismatic leader, brilliant

thinker and visionary for the party, in Forged from the Love of Liberty, Williams celebrates the birth of a child—the PNM—to which it appears he alone had given birth, handmaidens of both sexes notwithstanding. Nothing at this time came between the hero and his crowd. By 1956,

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Eric had devoted himself completely to the nation. His daughter Erica observed that ... one of his favourite sayings was that “a prime minister should never have a wife, he should never have a daughter; and under no circumstances should he ever have both.” I made him repeat that statement to many friends over the years because I found it so obviously funny, but I know now he really meant it. I think he was attempting to express the belief that a political man must devote his entire being to politics and to his country. Pathetically, when he died, he had neither his wife, his sister, his daughter nor indeed a single relative by his side.

Despite the many who would come to know him and work with him, he remained an enigma, more charismatic because the wall he had constructed between himself and others could not be easily scaled. Elton Richardson recalled that ‘. . . Eric and I travelled together and this led to a wider feel of the man than would have been otherwise possible. The facts are that I did get to know him well, but not enough. He was always a loner who needed a shoulder’ (Richardson 1984:24). And Williams needed and leaned on the shoulders of both men and women in an effort to rid the society of the colonial menace he hated so much.

The Yankees Gone and Eric Takeover Now:

Williams, Masculinity and Race Eric did not live up to the image of the bookworm, the weak and unmanly lad who could only ‘beat book’ and did not know how to /ime with the boys. The same discipline and competitiveness, which he brought to his studies, was equally evident in his early sportsmanship, in the way he brought up his daughter, and in the masculine world of racial and class politics. And although his first tastes of the latter were in both London and the US, they were later clearly mirrored in different proportions in Trinidad. He was however, equal to the task, and upon formally entering politics in Trinidad, he quickly proceeded to learn the ropes, just as he had employed his acumen to every task he had undertaken before. His political shrewdness was a blend of his own remarkable intelligence and the ideas learnt very rapidly from those around him. We know that Eric was no mean learner when he set his heart on it. Ibbet Mosaheb recalls that when Williams and Soy (his second wife), returned from the US (circa 1949-50), where they were married, he taught Eric how to drive

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on the roads of Debe and Penal. ‘He learned quickly. I taught him to play poker also, then he began to win the games.’ And if we are to go on Elton Richardson’s comments and those of others, the insights about mass Trinidad style politics, to which he would add his own brand of doctor politics, were learnt primarily from those around him. Richardson related the incident before Eric was to deliver his now famous speech ‘My Relations with the Caribbean Commission’ (1943-55) in Woodford Square, on June 21,1955. It had to be

read first to the Bachac group—a study circle—comprised of Krishna Bahadoorsingh, the Montano Brothers, Telford Georges, Norman Girwar, Winston and Dennis Mahabir, Eustace Siegnoret, Claire SloaneSeales, George Wattley, Eric and Richardson among others, and predated the final grouping which initiated the party. Richardson’s account of this, which also speaks to Williams’ populist political side, is as follows: ‘It was a beautifully done speech, but I felt that it lacked the quality of identification. I said that he ought to couch it so that all poor struggling folks could see their own struggles reflected in his experiences.’ Eric hesitated before accepting, but when he finally did, just before the speech was actually delivered, he said te Richardson: ‘You were right, I should try to get people to see that my struggle was a replica of the struggles of others . . . he knew then what he could do with that crowd. The evening was an outstanding success and Eric was safely Jaunched’ (Richardson 1984:28).

Where the leader stands on his own, and where he is a composite of the group, is the thing which most differentiates the public figure from the writer, who, of necessity, must remain the individual. The others

around him, primarily men, felt that as a politician, he was made in their image, undifferentiated by race, and that this was not fairly reflected.

This appears to me to be one of the elements, perhaps a major one, in resentment to Williams as political leader. Ibbet Mosaheb supports some of Richardson’s claims, that the group which formed around him by 1955, molded him into the political persona, which was first needed to bring the PNM to victory. When the group was still very small, Richardson cautioned Dr Williams about the political pitfalls of aloofness, and the need to balance a certain detachment with a touch of accessibility: “There are some things you must do if you are going into politics. One, you must get rid of that big car. Two, you must move off this hill to join the people.’ Another party affiliate comments:

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Well, he certainly responded to our advice and suggestions. Williams was not involved in the Caribbean movement of the masses. He was identified to the masses through his writings. Williams was brilliant, he was able to identify with what the masses wanted: He was leading them, but he was not from among them, so he had to seek support from party members who had the know how.!2

Eric sold the car, bought a little gear-shift Vauxhall, sold the house on the hill and moved to Cornelio Street, a centrally located middle-class suburb in Port of Spain. His journey thus far had taken him into the belly of the colonial beast, across its various tentacles and their prey, and now back to the island where he was born and where he had decided to ‘lay down his bucket.’ He was back to dealing with the problem which had confronted his father two decades ago. The chessboard of national and anti-colonial politics was no doubt fully fathomed, and he played with the same skill and commitment that he had employed in every thing he had so far undertaken politically. The question that one must ask, however, is how in the midst of this group of progressive and obviously learned men, Williams emerges as the political leader? Why was he, as a man among other men, selected to represent them? The answer is that they, like Williams, had recognised that the ‘common folk’ of Trinidad at the time ‘looked to a leader to be somebody respected. They themselves did not want to be identified with the activities of the normal man. They saw Williams as a modern day Christ’ (Ibid). In other words, in the 1950s, Eric Williams had the neces-

sary personal appeal, the intellectual tools, and the compelling charisma to pull together not only those who identified with him racially, but also politically. Brilliance is an overused word in the Caribbean, and usually refers to those who have acquired book learning. In Trinidad during the fifties, few could boast the range of achievements of ‘de Doc.’ Along with the early stirrings of decolonialisation and the generalised crisis of political legitimacy it would create for the colonial master in the wider Caribbean (chapter one), Williams’ personal charisma and style were hallmarks. He embodied not only the ‘brains’ needed to deliver people out of the hands of the colonial masters, but he had the oratorical skills which he used to

beat ‘Massa’ at their own game. He skilfully blended empirical data, rhetoric and argument and in the Queen’s finest English, he was able to decisively stake the claim for his people’s independence. As Selwyn Cud-

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joe observed ‘Williams grew up in the social environment in which the proper use of language was of utmost importance’ (Cudjoe 1993:43). He now added to this a capacity to move crowds ‘in the middle ofa city, village or community centre. This is a feat that,.as any public speaker knows, cannot be dissimulated and it was clear that in the period between 1955 and beyond Independence, Eric was the man who had all the characteristics to appeal to a wide cross section of the multi-cultural melée of Trinidad and Tobago. Williams, at the same time also had to be outside of the masses to cross class and racial barriers, and again, here his

breeding, intellect, travel and experience would present him as the best choice: In fact he was never identified as one of them. I think for all practical purposes, we didn’t want him to be identified with them. They looked upon him with awe—like a charismatic leader. We had to protect that image. It was a nationalist movement trying to embrace the two major ethnic groups in the society who were at the time the oppressed people. While it was necessary to have him identify with a part of the establishment (the whites) it was not politically sensitive to be fully identified with them (Ibid). .

Williams, however, was more than a politically expedient character. His writing before this time had already articulated a vision that needed to be rendered into political practice. His brilliance was also in being able to arrive at the appropriate metaphor for struggle at the time, which was immediately understood by the masses. This is reflected in two forms, first in The Negro in the Caribbean, written twenty years before, and in his famous ‘Massa day done’ speech delivered on March 22, 1961, at the University of Woodford Square.!3 The analysis of Williams’ conscious knowledge and use of language as a political tool is dealt with at different levels by Selwyn Cudjoe (1993) and Gordon Rohlehr (1998) and need not be repeated here. What is to be elicited here, however, is another reading of the terms that he employs as metaphor and how this transliterates into the contestation of patriarchy and the construction of masculinity in Caribbean society. The vision that is presented by Williams is a freeing of all colonised men (read Negro) from the control of all-powerful men (read Massa). The Negro in the Caribbean already contains ‘Massa Day done,’ written in a different script for a different audience. ‘The Negro in the Caribbean, we emphasise, is primarily an agricultural laborer, working

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for pitifully low wages. As the saying goes he produces what he does not eat, and eats what he does not produce’ (1942:32). And concerning the

Massa: ‘It is the deliberate policy of planters and governments to keep the people ignorant and uflettered. In the words of one planter: “give them some education in the way of reading and writing, but no more. Even then I would say educate only the bright ones; not the whole mass of the agricultural population, you will be deliberately ruining your country”’ (Ibid:72). In 1942, his Negro is not differentiated by sex,

race or even society necessarily, and represents a pan-Caribbean rather than pan-African vision drawn from a working class male and female composite.

In his speech on his ‘Relations with the Caribbean Commission,’ Williams, convinced that the enemies of the state were the colonial mas-

ters and the planter class, also reasons with the crowd about his actions and persuades them to his conclusions. Throughout the speech, he employed words that were cleverly chosen to provoke the image of a people wronged and to galvanise the support of the popular masses: I stand before you tonight, and therefore, before the people of the British West Indies, the representative of a principle, a cause, a defeat. The principle is the principle of intellectual freedom. The cause is the cause of the West Indian people. The defeat is the defeat of the policy of appointing local men to high office.

In summarising the text of this speech, Paul Sutton claims that Dr Williams examined his frustrations over the previous twelve years as a senior official of the Anglo-American Caribbean Commission, and drew the inevitable conclusion that colonialism was the most important impediment to the progress of West Indian people, individually and collectively. To Williams, therefore, before moving ahead, Caribbean peoples had ‘to confront and destroy colonialism’ (Sutton/Williams 1981:269). In Eric’s vision, Trinidad and Tobago and the Caribbean must be united against colonialism in order to win the battle for freedom. He is one of the parents involved in the birth of a new nation, but the children of the nation must also forget the political divisiveness inherent in their ethnic and racial differences in order to march forward. The nation, like the child, must be a mixed one; much like Williams himself.

These ideas are evident in his concluding chapter of History of the People of Trinidad and Tobago. This book he had written in haste during his

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first term as chief minister and hoped to present it as a national history to the people of Trinidad on Independence Day 1962. For Williams, deliverance from colonialism cannot be based on backwardness and ignorance of one’s history. He embodies both the hero and the messiah, a latter day Moses engaged in a task that had been undertaken by Gandhi and Nehru, both of whom he admired for their accomplishments in what he recognised as a parallel struggle taking place in India. But he also had an eye to the racial divide in Trinidad when he wrote: There can be no Mother India for those whose ancestors came from India;.. .

There can be no Mother Africa for those of African origin, and the Trinidad and Tobago society is living a lie and heading for trouble if it seeks to create the impression or to allow others to act under the delusion that Trinidad and Tobago is an African society. There can be no Mother England and no dual loyalties (1962:281).

And later, echoing the sentiments of creolisation in a speech delivered to the University of Dakar on the relations between West Africa and the West Indies, Williams distinguishes the West Indian from the West African: .

Thus can we define the West Indian as he has developed during four centuries of colonialism. He is not an African, nor is he an Asian, nor is he a European.

He is an African or Asian assimilated to the European . . . His political struggle has not been so much astruggle against Europe as a struggle to be incorporated into Europe, a struggle to oppose Europe’s rejection of him on grounds of colour or race or previous conditions of servitude (Sutton/Williams

1981:226). In Williams’ vision of race, a nation, like a family, must have one loyalty and must be pulled together by a common disloyalty. What he underestimated in this vision, was that race is not only skin deep and that the problems due to racial and ethnic difference surface in the day to day relations of people, despite compelling visions of unity and struggle which they may in fact share. Eric Williams and the Indians of Trinidad

Williams displays a keen comprehension and sympathy with the different population groups in Trinidad at this time. He had observed in the unpublished draft of chapter two of his autobiography that while he

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attended Tranquility school: ‘The importance of education was not fully appreciated by the Indian community as it was today—bardly surprising when one recalls that my admission to Tranquility also coincided with the cessation of the

annual importation of indentured Indian immigrant labour.’ He thought that the Chinese, playing the role of a typical middleman minority, regarded themselves as a distinct group, economically rather than racially, running small groceries, laundries and restaurants. The history and process of identity formation of Indians in the Caribbean has been a different one to the migrant groups who preceded them, or those who would come later into Trinidad. By the fifth decade of the twentieth century, many settlers were still India-born and had the memories and nostalgic longings for ‘home’ that are typical of most first generation migrants. The majority of Indians lived rural lives, outside of Williams’ urban experience of Trinidad, and those with whom he did come into contact were urban and better educated. Thus, in discussing ‘The Contribution of the Indians’ in his History of the People of Trinidad and Tobago, as well as in an unpublished set of notes titled ‘Indian Immigration in the West Indies,’ he demonstrated his sound intellectual grasp of the issues which affected Indians in the society, whether internally as a group, or externally in their relations with the other groups. He understood fully the deterrent to the political process of nation building caused by incoming immigrant labour: ‘Thus it was in the West Indies, while one race was freed, another was indentured, and the task offorming a genuine society was therefore deferred.’ If political practice had cast a shadow on Williams’ presumed political exploitation of, or attitude to, the Indian population, the handwritten or unpublished parts of his autobiography reveal a far more in depth understanding and empathy with those who experienced this system of indentured labour migration in Trinidad.!4 And while he did not equate indentureship with slavery, he did not minimise its horrors either: ‘The African slave was imported by private enterprise. Indian contract labour was subsidised by the Government, that is to say by the ordinary taxpayer to the extent of one half... The slave was slave for life, indentureship was a five year contract; the slave was exiled permanent from his land, Indians were guaranteed return passage at the expense of the importing country after five years . . . If indentured labour was free, it was, to paraphrase Carlyle—freedom plus a constable.’ He went on to point out that Indian immigration, designed to

compete with the Negro landowners, resulted in a class of Indian landowners and that: ‘Once the Indian had received his plot ofland, he was no

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more willing to work uninterruptedly and exclusively on the plantation than the former slave had been.’ Williams was keenly aware of the grimy details of indentureship, the conditions of life on the estate, the presence of diseases, hookworm and

malaria among a labouring population that did not have shoes. He also knew that the infant mortality among the Indian population was twice that of the rest of the society, and that the Indian population was criminalised by the 1899 Immigration Ordinance. He goes on to argue, however, that the Indians ‘introduced one innovation into the life of

Trinidad—thrift. Notwithstanding their pittance wages, many managed to save about 40%.’ Williams’ concern with Indian immigration was a philosophical and not an antagonistic one: ‘Indian immigration was responsible for the long delay in grappling with the question of a modern labour code and decent relations in our society. It kept generations of West Indian employers at the moral level of slave owners.’ And while he admits that he had limited contact with Indians in his schooling and early life, there are snapshots here of his capacity to empathise with the plight in which this group found themselves in the nineteenth century, whether in Trinidad, Guyana, Suriname or elsewhere.

He recounts the story of two fellows who were found in the heart of the British Guiana forest, and when asked where they were going, one said that he was walking back to India: Many Africans said the same thing. And the Indians used to say when they died they would not remain on the sugar plantations. Their spirits were going back to Calcutta and Madras, just as the Negro slave used to commit suicide saying they would cheat the sugar planters and their spirits would go back to Africa. The Bandung spirit! African and Indian saying the same thing throughout the West Indies, fighting the same enemy, in the same arena of battle, under the same difficulties, both of them struggling.’

That Indians may at one time have appeared to him as the ‘recalcitrant minority’ should in no way to serve to colour all of his efforts and accomplishments, nor his keen understanding of indentureship. Perhaps what was not then, and in this writer’s view, is still not fully grasped about the political collision between ethnic groups, is that differences need also to be appreciated from sociological lens, rather than primarily through political ones. These differences of the juxtaposition of a very different ‘eastern’ culture onto a ‘western’ space were not understood at the time, as, for instance, the internal differences between the monothe-

ism and the secular nature of Islam, compared to the pantheism of Hin-

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duism, and, consequently, the differences between people within the same cultural and ethnic group. In other words, as a man who had seen the ignominy experienced by men of his own racial group, Williams could not have been insensitive to the problems experienced by Indian men.

Race and Masculinity Examined through yet another set of lenses, Williams’ struggle can, therefore, also be viewed as that of the colonised male subject against the presumed superiority of the male coloniser. It must be recalled that women were generally not part of the struggle for political power at that time. In Trinidad, this script is differentiated by race, even while Williams as visionary embraces all groups. ‘Black men’ writes Hilary Beckles, “embarked on a Caribbean experience within the context of institutional environments that reflected the conquistadorial ideological interests of white patriarchy.’ Because they were outnumbered by black men in West Africa, and in the Caribbean, white men sought to privilege ‘the power apparatus of mind over body,’ and in the process appropriated for themselves ‘an iconography of the former and projecting an imagery of black men with the latter. The conquest and control of the black male body, and its denial of a mind, resided at the core of the dichotomised ethnic masculine context’ (Beckles 1997:8). If the contest between white men and black men appropriated the dichotomy of mind over body within the iconography of the noble savage, then that between white men and Indians was also rendered inascript of otherness. The rationalisation for British rule over the Indians was simi-

larly justified in the difference between the enlightened and progressive civilised nations of Europe, and those which were dark, unscientific and

backward; very similar to that of the African. These oppositions between Britain and India justified the rule of the coloniser, and to all intents and purposes, kept the colonised in their subordinate places. ‘The characterisation of the gender order between the British and India differed in one way ‘. . . we see throughout India a race of men, whose make, physiognomy, and muscular strength convey ideas of effeminacy.’ The physical difference of Indian men in the spectrum of masculinities had also been shifted to Trinidad, placing Indian men here too at the lowest end of the patriarchal ladder (Mohammed forthcoming). As demonstrated by Singh (1994) in his analysis of race and class

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struggles in the colonial state of Trinidad between 1917 to 1945, this discourse of race and masculinity had it roots long before Williams appeared on the political scene. Already in the public commentary there had been an outcry from both black and coloured men that Indians would soon swamp the African population. In Singh’s assessment, Stephen Laurence, the Coloured Unofficial, (an ‘unofficial’ coloured

representative nominated by the people under the system of Crown Colony government) ‘openly voiced what must have been a long-suppressed consideration in the minds of the Black/Coloured intelligentsia.’ First, concern was raised over the continued importation of the Indians on the grounds of numbers—that Indians were already one-third of the population. But secondly, and more important, was the perception of the space as an indigenously western one, belonging to those who had inherited and inhabited the west longer. Laurence felt that ‘as a “West Indian,” he had a right to object to the colony being converted into an “East Indian” colony’ (Singh 1994:5). A thick thread that runs through the writings and speeches of Williams is the metaphoric discourse on masculinity. The relationship between the ‘negro’ and the ‘massa’ is that between a subordinated masculinity and a hegemonic one.!> Williams employs an idea of a composite, public, hegemonic masculinity, which functions against all oppressed, and, thus, subordinated colonised men. In the practice of translating vision into reality, the struggles of race, class and his own personality reproduced another male gender regime (Connell 1990). This operated between Williams and other men within the party, and between men of the different ethnic groups, where Williams himself took on the role of the hegemonic male, and the others became subordinates of one sort or another: the ‘Yankees gone and Williams take over now.’ Struggles for political control are never straightforward and are equally complicated by race and class differences within the same society, if not more so than those external to the society. Women’s invisibility, if not their absence in the deliberations for the highest levels of power, eloquently states that it is masculinity which is itself being contested in the power broking between men and men.

The Politics of Competition In the struggle for power during the decades of the fifties and the sixties, the contestation of masculinities involved Indian men represented on

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two sides: those who supported the goals of the PNM, and those who stood outside as well. Williams the conqueror was no saint, and his human frailties as a public figure have been held up for scrutiny far more than others, who, whether by choice or necessity, have remained less

public. Ibbet Mosaheb recalls that after he lost the Federal Elections to Badase Maraj, he became very hostile, and in a speech in Woodford Square he referred to the East Indians as a‘recalcitrant minority.’ This was a serious mistake, as many of Williams’ supporters later told him. Nevertheless, ‘two weeks later in a meeting in San Fernando he repeated the same things,’ which Mosaheb deemed ‘a political blunder.’ Obviously he was hurt by the outcome of the elections and chose to place the _ blame ethnically on the Indians. Despite his outburst, a product of his temper rather than his rational mind, Williams is on record as having shown both compassion and a keen political sensitivity to the racial question. In his ‘Massa day done speech’ ef 1961, Williams represented those who stood outside of his vision as the ‘stooges of Massa.’ His tone was more vituperative; one that had wrestled with far more practice and experience and perhaps already feeling and expressing the dissonance between vision and reality. Nonetheless, still working with these differences of race, Williams inverts race and colour into aclass position, and presents himself and the party as cleansing the society and the nation of the backward elements to progress. He clearly expected in the political sphere to have things run his way—and perhaps had got used to this after a fashion. We need not settle this matter of his autocracy or personality here—there is sufficient evidence of his personality to deduce that he expected to win, although in facing the death of his be loved second wife, Williams would also have experienced grave defeat. Perhaps he had grown used to it in the sphere of public life. There were many sides to his character as his political secretary DD Dupres noted: ‘Well, he didn’t like to lose and would get vexed. If he lost a seat in the elections, he would sit down and look at the figures to see where he lost.’ To this Ibbet Mosaheb would add, ‘He used people and dropped them all the time. People had functions. When those were completed, he dropped them. That was one of the bad things about Eric—the personality of the man.’ Another close colleague and friend, Conrad O’Brien, observed that he ‘was the type of person, who, having

had one complete a duty, would end the relationship, at least for a time.’ And according to O’Brien, this was due to the fact that he was ‘not very

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friendly, did not enjoy the company of others very much. He was very private, not a good mixer.’ Further, ‘he was not the sort of person to have a real best friend, to sit and chat with for hours, and confide in him.’

O’Brien also agreed in the same breath that Williams could be tough, charming and belligerent, and that there was the other side of him—the side that had made him a leader of men among other men: ‘his forthrightness, his defense of democracy and freedoms.’ But Eric Williams was contending with another far more fundamental challenge within this relatively new society—a narcissism that undermines true commitment to the collective. In The Middle Passage, Vidia Naipaul seemed to capture the essence of this problem when he wrote that: ‘Everyone was an individual, fighting for his place in the community. Yet there was no community. We were of various races, religions,

sets and cliques; and we had somehow found ourselves on the same island. Nothing bound us together except this common residence. There was no nationalist feeling’ (Naipaul 1962:45). And one decade later, in a

speech to the 15th Annual convention of the PNM, Williams repeats the same sentiment: One of the most serious difficulties we have to contend with is the national character. The sheer individualism of the place is absolutely unbelievable. Everyone is out for his own interest, the interest of a particular constituency, the interest of a particular industry, the interest of a particular village, the interest of a particular family. Nobody ever thinks of the national interest (September 1971).

From 1970 onwards, Eric Eustace grew tired and spent more and

more time at his home. He began to withdraw to his private world where he could ensure order and perhaps retain something of his illusions. Madge Lee Fook recalls that during the later years he was working ‘more at home.’ And although he still attended ‘to his cabinet meetings as usual, he just didn’t spend that much time at Whitehall . . . I think that he was not appreciated. Whatever he did, it was never good enough, there . . . was a general malaise among the people.’ Thus, the persona of Williams in the 1950s, the intrepid leader who took on ‘massa’ and led this army of men toa victory, shifts to a tired and battle weary warrior, more resigned and distrustful of the same men who once fought alongside him and whom he struggled to defend. He had moved from the benevolent patriarch to the distant and unforgiving patriarchal father.

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Eric and the Nation’s Youth

Each schoolchild received chocolates from the government of ‘Trinidad and ‘Tobago to celebrate Independence Day, August 31, 1962, along with other trinkets barely remembered today. We, the children of ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’ were given small bars of delicious brown chocolate, individually wrapped in red. In a supreme irony of history and culture, the sugar cane and cocoa!¢ that defined plantation life and agricultural labour in Trinidad, between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, were represented in the twentieth century to court their offspring in their first taste of freedom. The gesture was a magnificent one; both for its calculated political intent and for the bittersweet taste it recalls of the man who would reside in the collective memory of the society as ‘the father of the nation.’ The consummate intellectual, historian and politician, Eric Eustace Williams would have understood the value of this gesture to the children of Trinidad and Tobago. In a manner highly reminiscent of Fernando Ortiz Fernandez (1947), who spoke of the counterpoint between tobacco and sugar, and their ironic combination in the historical-political economy of Cuba, Williams lyricises sugar and cocoa in Trinidad. But first, for Ortiz Fernandez “Tobacco and sugar are opposed to each other in the economic as in the social field, and even strait-laced moralists have taken

them under consideration in the course of their history, viewing the one with mistrust and the other with favor’ (1947:3). The contrasts are very

compelling. Tobacco is cultivated by free wage labour; sugar by unfree slave labour. Sugar is all stalk, and the leaves are discarded; tobacco is all about the leaf. One is ‘food of the flesh,’ the other the ‘delight of the spirit.’ And finally, whereas sugar is ‘sweet and odorless; tobacco is bitter and aromatic’

(1947:6). This sense of irony is continued by Eric

Williams in Capitalism and Slavery (1966:21) where he laments: ‘Strange that an article like sugar, so sweet and necessary to human existence, could have occasioned such crimes and bloodshed!’ (Ibid:27). In other

words, how can something so sweet tasting produce such bitter memories in the history of mankind? In Dr Williams’ address to the youth of Trinidad and the symbolic gesture of the gift of chocolates, one could discern an element of civility along with tenderness; much the same way chocolates have come to be treated as a luxury gift of love. Further, he was acknowledging the fact that agriculture ‘was the backbone of the island’s economy,’ and that

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sugar and cocoa vied with each other for pride of place in that economy: ‘the difference between them being essentially a difference between the absentee owned plantation, which excluded all the crops, and the locally owned estate which encompassed the subsidiary cultivation of food crops.’ Beyond this, too, Williams wanted to underscore a further essen-

tial difference between sugar and cocoa: ‘the former, dependent on contract labour from India, the latter on native labour.’

In its essential aspects, sugar like so many of Trinidad’s children, was an outside child compared to cocoa, which was the legitimate first born. Sugar was English, cocoa was Trinidadian; sugar was the symbol of imperialism, cocoa was the quintessence of local autonomy; sugar, to revert to a metaphor drawn from family life in Trinidad, was the de facto extramarital connection, while cocoa was the de jure wife, like so many wives in Trinidad, fighting a losing battle against the other woman. The giftwrapped finished product, to continue Williams’ metaphor, was a marriage of the two products, each transcending the limits of the other, which was very consistent with Williams’ sense of a future that must exceed the ethnic and racial boundaries of the past. His message to the youth of the nation in the Independence Youth Rally at the Queen’s Park Oval, on August 30, 1962, also showed his confidence in the young people of the nation: “To your tender and loving hands the future of the Nation is entrusted. In your innocent hearts the pride of the Nation is enshrined. On your scholastic development the salvation of the nation is dependent.’ To Williams the politician, we can impute many subtexts and motives to gifts and words such as these. But to the visionary, the writer, the private man and father, they should not be taken for granted. His charismatic appeal was unmistakable as shown in the fact that for the brief period around independence, he succeeded in involving everyone, those who supported the PNM and those who did not; and that was no mean achievement.!? Conrad O’Brien, Trinidadian

businessman recalls: ‘It was a glorious time. The country came together. You could feel the spirit of unity and excitement taking place. Despite the odd fears, the country was together and everyone was behind Dr Williams in a peaceful transition. It was great to be part of it.’ Eric the Charmer

Despite his human frailties, and there were many, there are also snapshots of a private self which reveal a far more likeable and humane man.

Eric Williams / 183

At the same time, he was always studied, controlled and controlling—

heightened consciousness leads equally to increased self-consciousness. ‘He was a very private man,’ said O’Brien: ‘To meet him and to shake his hand was not very easy, especially getting to know him at such a meeting. I doubt whether many got to know him. He had an especially strong personality. When he was ready to turn it on, he was very charming . . . But he could also be the other way.

But the charming side was one which was quicker revealed to women, with whom Eric felt no need to compete. He accepted women as equal, but different. DD Dupres, his political secretary for years, speaks of the kind of relationship Dr Williams had with her mother, and here we get an insight into Williams’ understanding of the ‘fairer sex’ at this time: My mother, Muriel Achong, . . . symbolised everything that he thought was a woman. In addition I think Eric knewthat my mother adored him asa brain. He would call her up to get a feel of what was being said in the supermarket, what was being said when she went out to tea with her friends. To my mother, Eric was a charmer. He was able to speak to women young or old and charm them . . . He was a woman’s man. When he focused on you, you were the im-

portant person at the time. He really was interested in what you had to say.

That Eric implicitly understood sexual politics is clear. At the same time, he was not unfair to the women he would come in contact with ei-

ther socially or professionally, because they were women. From his treatment of his daughter and care for her own scholarship and development, one may deduce that he was progressive and was willing to engage women and challenge their intellectual potential. Williams recognised that women were important and valuable in the private life of things and respected this, but the worlds had to be kept apart.

The Private, Secretive Man Eric Williams was a man who jealously guarded his privacy. As a close friend, Halsey McShine recalled, he and Eric met up in London during the time they were both studying, and during the final year of his studies, Eric ‘became friendly with a Trinidadian lady, Elsie Ribiero’ who was studying music in London. Despite the fact that they were relatively close friends, Halsey did not realise that Williams was then courting Elsie, and was very surprised anda little bit hurt when he found out that,

184 / Caribbean Charisma

as Eric’s best friend, he had not been selected to be the best man at his

wedding, nor for that matter was he invited to the wedding: ‘We all used to go out in a foursome with my now wife. We used to go out to eat and dance. He never let out that it was serious, that.they were actually married.’ McShine only found out later from John Pillai, who had been the best man, when Williams and Elsie were safely married and had left for America. Nobody knew whether he got married before or after he finished his degree, although McShine thought it was before but qualified it: ‘I am not sure. Like I said, nobody knew because he was afraid the Trinidadian government would take away his scholarship. He kept it as quiet as possible.’!8 This compartmentalising of his private life continued even when there was no obvious need to do so. McShine remembers about his second marriage to Erica’s mother, Evelyn (Soy) Moyou: ‘It was a very private wedding. He didn’t let anybody go. It was a shame that she died so early. He was very fond of her. I think his life would have taken a very different course if she hadn’t died. He might not have gone into politics.’ These sentiments were also shared by Dr Williams’ daughter, Erica, who, in reference to her father, commented that,‘he was deeply affected

and scarred by the death of my mother. She was the “be all and end all” of his life’ (Boodhoo, 1986:4).

It is not a simple task to make the distinction between public and private influences on our lives. The relationship between the two is as interwoven as the connection between objectivity and subjectivity. Nowhere is this interface made more evident than in the comments from his closer friends and colleagues as to the reasons why Eric agreed to enter politics. In response to Ken Boodhoo, Ibbet Mosaheb observed that there were those who felt that ‘if she didn’t die he would not have gone into politics.’ But Mosaheb does not agree. Instead, he was convinced that it was Williams’ firing from the Anglo-American Caribbean Commission that determined his entry into politics: ‘I believe Eric was forced into politics by the firing. The position of Secretary General rotated. Eric believed that when it was the English turn he would be appointed Secretary General. He wasn’t and was eventually fired.’ After the firing, Mosaheb recalls that Eric called him that very day and asked him to ‘come to his home with (Winston) Mahabir.’ There they met Dr Elton Richardson and ‘all four began to discuss Eric’s future. We looked at the existing parties and decided that Eric should not join any. By then he decided to enter politics.’

Eric Williams / 185

Eric, Women and Feminist Politics That Williams fell deeply in love with Evelyn Moyou was obvious to all who knew him. Hugh Simpson recalls that he was seventeen years old and friendly with the Moyou’s and knew when Eric was ‘courting Evelyn.’ Joan Lake, who also knew the Moyou family, recalls that, ‘quite often, I would be at their home. I knew him as Eric, not as Dr Williams.

He would be visiting his fiancé, Soy.’ This was the early fifties and Eric had already started the round of lectures at the Public Library. Although Joan did not attend, she remembers that her father followed his early lectures at the library and was very impressed: ‘My father and uncle — Harold followed him very closely.’ The picture one has is of a man just over forty, courting his fiancé, and having a well-rounded life of sport, lectures and work. The capacity to love as Eric Williams did, either a partner, or a country, and to create something wholesome and lasting out of these attachments, is already“an achievement which few will have made in their entire lives. It is clear that Williams seems to have been in close contact with, and

perhaps trusted, many women from the Chinese community. His secretary for his entire period in office was Madge Lee Fook; Mrs Joyce Won Sang was in charge of the Better Village competition; his political secretary D D Dupres was the daughter of Muriel Achong, a Chinese woman, and his second wife, Soy, was also clearly of Chinese descent. There were also pragmatic reasons for this. If we are to go on Wally Look Lai’s assessment of the Chinese at this time (Look Lai 1998), this connection

to the Chinese community is not unusual. For in the fifties, these families were the ones Williams would have had more contact with in middle class Port of Spain society. Their daughters were educated and fitted into the range of secretarial and white-collar posts, or the social milieu in which he moved, and were, therefore, accessible to Williams.

After Soy’s death in 1953, Williams retreated into greater solitude and later assumed the task of bringing up Erica on his own, with help from the women in the families to whom he was close. He did not choose the convenience of marriage to assist in his political life. D D Dupres commented that ‘the absence of a female caused a practical problem.’ For Williams led a very lonely life, which meant that he had to plan his own entertainment and when he became prime minister he had to get approval from the security people. Everything was meticulously planned:

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‘It was the nature of the job. I think if he had a wife, things might have been different. When he had a free day he had no one to share it with.’ It is difficult for those who were not closely acquainted with Williams to understand the charm he exerted and loyalty he engendered in the women closest to him. Yet, there is every evidence that this was a crucial part of his appeal and that he established a base of power among both middle and working class women. The popular gender reading of Eric Williams and the PNM, is that his power base had depended largely on the PNM Women’s League and their capacity to mobilise at the grassroots and community level on his behalf. Perhaps this was so, but it is likely that any male politician of the time would have done the same, making Eric no better or no worse for not replacing the old patriarchy of the ‘massa’ by another one. At the same time, one must also consistently respect Williams’ capacity to engender such loyalty on the part of the women who worked with and for him. That he understood the secondary status of women in society, and the need to incorporate them as fully as possible into mobilisation and decision-making, is clear: from his speeches and the programmes of the PNM government. He writes in Inward Hunger: ‘We set up specific units of the Movement as follows: Party Group, Constituency Group,

Group,

Women’s

General

League;

Council,

Youth

Central Executive, Legislative

League,

Annual

Convention’

(1969:146). In addition, he notes, “The women and youth were organ-

ised on a constituency basis, and provision was made for an Annual Youth Rally and an annual women’s conference. The latter elected a Women’s League executive. Both Units were represented at the Annual Convention by two delegates each’ (Ibid). The emergence of the PNM predated any second wave feminist activity in Trinidad, so that here, both the party and Williams were not influenced by feminist propaganda. Were women merely another constituency through which power would be assured? One does not get that impression from a reading of his private relations with the women he knew or from his treatment of his daughter Erica. But here again, he may have been a man of many contradictions. Williams must have known that the theme of sexual equality had emerged asa political issue, for in the series of lectures in the PNM adult education programme given by C L R James in 1960, James spoke on such topics as ‘The exploitation of sex’ and “The sex war,’ placing the exploitation of women within a Marxist reading of class exploitation (James 1960:82-84). Thus,

Eric Williams / 187

having travelled and read widely, Williams was not unaware of some level of feminist politics at the time. In Inward Hunger he writes ‘one of my favourite topics was the place of women in Caribbean society. Occasionally I spoke specifically of the place of women in the PNM’ (1969:149). He courted women for the Party as a gentleman and scholar—carefully, wisely, perhaps ruthlessly—and gained the strength that would keep him in power despite the dissensions by his male colleagues. In a previous paper on Williams and nationalism, it was argued by this writer that the politician Williams could not, and would not, have overturned

the fundamental belief in the superiority of male leadership. To do this would have ‘capitulated to a philosophy of equality far beyond its time’ (Mohammed 1997:743). The second wave feminist revolution only grew to universal recognition by the decade of the seventies. Williams drew on the real or imagined capacity of the female for loyalty and devotion, and on this score, his political secretary, D D Dupres, was without parallel. She spoke of Williams’ temper, his way of freezing people out by giving them the silent treatment for years at a time, and even recalled her own decision to leave her job when this type of treatment was meted out to her (at one time Eric had consigned her to nine years of silence): Every time I threatened to leave my job, Andrew Carr suggested I write down on a piece of paper his assets and liabilities and see which one outweighed the other, and then make a decision. Andrew always started off by putting down one liability, no wife, second liability, child away at school. He has no one at home. If he gets vexed, he has no one at home to take it out on. Of course I would put down his assets as well. His love for people was a great asset. He had total committed love. He loved his constituents. He was a father to his people. I did this at least once a month. On the balance the job was worth it.

That women benefited from their association with Williams, and re-

tained their loyalty and devotion long after his male colleagues did not, seems clear from all accounts. Rhoda Reddock has touched on the role and function of women in the PNM as I have also alluded to in another paper. But this remains one area of primary research that needs to be undertaken seriously by social historians (Reddock 1994; Mohammed 1997). The evidence so far leads one to question why women retained this loyalty to a leader. Do women fit into some stereotyped mould in which men in power are not challenged or questioned, or is it the difference of women at the time? What do we really know of the challenges of

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women within the PNM? So far the data uncovered here reveal very little. Conclusion: A Time for Heroes and Heroines

Eric Williams’ early work as a scholar provided a crucial polemic against which a more equal exchange of a kind would begin to take place between the West Indies and the Empire. That there is continuous debate as to the credibility of his thesis will continue and necessarily so. Yet, we must also concede as Paul Sutton has done, that Williams’ Capitalism and Slavery published in 1944 ‘inaugurated the modern period of West Indian historiography’, and that when it was ‘first published, it was quite simply, original. The thesis within it, that Britain had directly benefited from the West Indian connection, had been decisive, had apparently occurred to no one before, or at least not enough to elaborately set it out in writing’ (Sutton 1992:30).!9 The real victory of Williams is that he had learnt his master’s tongue well, as Caliban defiantly speaks to Prospero in The Tempest: ‘You taught me language, and my profit on’t is I know how to curse’ (Scene 11, Lines 364-65).

Richard Sheridan (1987) points out that the ‘new’ school of political economy, associated with the Caribbean New World Group, emerged in the decade of the sixties, and was in part aimed at explaining why the Caribbean and other similar societies have been characterised by monocrop production. To this end, he observes: ‘It is of interest that while the theory of plantation economy and society has varied in intellectual pedigree, much of the intellectual inspiration has come from Eric Williams’ historical analysis of ‘the triangular trade’ in Capitalism and Slavery. Not only is this acknowledged within the Caribbean region, but André Gunder Frank, leading theorist and historian of the dependency approach to underdevelopment, writes that by comparison with Adam Smith, Friedrich List, and Karl Marx, Eric Williams in his Capitalism and Slavery, makes perhaps the most forceful argument regarding the connection between the expansion of colonial trade and the development of British Industry’ (quoted in Sheridan 1987:336). In Elsa Goveia’s review of Williams’ British Historians in the West Indies (1966), she argues that Williams had merely replaced old shibboleths by new ones, and there is some merit to her argument. ‘I cannot help thinking,’ writes Goveia, ‘that it is a most un-necessary and damaging waste . .. for Dr Williams to spend his limited time doing badly the kind of

Eric Williams / 189

detailed monographic work which is being done already by other scholars with competent professional qualifications . . . No one is ever educated or liberated from the past by being taught how easy it is to substitute new shibboleths for old’. But Goveia’s critique must be tempered, for to read Williams only as a scholar is to do him a great injustice. Such a review understands only Williams the intellectual, and does not consider the energy, political commitment and drive which made Williams continue to write while holding down one of the most demanding jobs possible; that of leading a nation. The irony here is that Williams’ contribution to historiography, even if problematic, and his insistence that university education should be made available within the region, had cut through the underbrush for others bravely to follow. Writing of the wider Caribbean society in general, Vidia Naipaul noted in The Middle Passage (1962) that: ‘Power was recognised, but dignity was allowed to no one. . . We lived in a society which denied itself heroes . . . Generosity, the admiration of equal for equal—was therefore unknown’ (Naipaul 1962:44). To this it can be added that this paper was not written to bury Williams nor to praise him, but to sift through his intellectual and political remains so that we do not continue to deny ourselves heroes. To recognise heroism is not to disregard that heroes are made of flesh and blood and bones and that they too have felt pain and joy, or that they too were arrogant and have been humiliated, simultaneously indifferent and caring, ambitious and retiring, idealist and pragmatist, and neither black nor white, but the many colours between. All

culture is built on a certain amount of myth. All culture is also derived from our belief in myths. That Williams is in the process of already being mythologised as a leader of the nation in the history of ‘Trinidad and Tobago, demonstrates a measure of progress for a society that was once deemed incapable of ruling itself. The process through which Williams’ legacy must pass onto future generations must be prepared to turn the pages back and forth to his vision and to his lived practice, to read between the lines, to paint other heroes and heroines onto the landscape of his terrain, and to redeem the moral in his estate.

ENDNOTES

1. I share no private and personal allegiance to party politics of one sort or another. I was born in the era which Eric Williams and the PNM ushered in and benefit-

190 / Caribbean Charisma

ted from Williams’s vision of the nation by perhaps never fully constituting myself as a colonised subject. . This is taken from Solow and Engerman’s discussion of William A Green’s chapter ‘Race and Slavery: Considerations on the Williams thesis’ cited in Solow and Engerman, 1987, p 2.

. Iam grateful to the following people for telephone, e-mail or face to face discussions on the subject of this paper: Erica Williams, Linda Chan, Ayoob Mohammed, Linden Lewis, Allister Hinds, Elizabeth Parsan, Audrey Chambers, Erna Brodber, Indira Karamacheti, Jessica Byron and Rex Dixon.

. This is taken from the interview of Williams’s secretary Madge Lee Fook, carried out on July 23, 1997 by Ken Boodhoo for the Eric Williams Memorial Collection. The full quote is ‘I think he is Trinidad and Tobago. Wherever you turn, you see evidence that he was there. He was involved in education, roads, schools.

His image is everywhere. He’s the father of modern Trinidad.’ . Transcript: Interview with D D Dupres, July 26, 1997, Ken Boodhoo, Trinidad.

Dupres was the daughter of Muriel Achong, who was a close friend of Eric and a member of the PNM. She became Eric Williams’ political secretary as a result of this association and stayed in that position for many years. . I make this obviously subjective point for several reasons. In his interviews with people who lived and worked with Williams, Ken Boodhoo asked several persons whether they knew he was ill, how they heard about his death, and what they felt. Secondly, Ramesh Deosaran in the preface to his study Eric Williams: The Man, His Ideas and His Politics (A study of Political Power), (1981) describes his

response to the news of Williams’ death, noting that he pulled out his file on Williams and for the rest of this week wrote as the nation mourned—among other things clearly an act of immediate cognition and recognition. I remember my own response and that of those around me to Williams’ death, first, disbelief

and second an indescribable feeling one has on the death of someone you should have paid more attention to, thinking that they had been there for so long, it seemed as if they would live forever. . Transcript of an Interview with a friend of the family on September 22, 1998, by Ken Boodhoo, Port of Spain Trinidad, Eric Williams Memorial Collection. Because the interviewee has not yet consented to being identified, her name has been kept from the records. The quote is used as it is a fairly innocuous one visa-vis politics but it does summarise nicely the mood of people on hearing about Williams’ death. . Transcript of an interview with Conrad O’Brien, former Trinidadian businessman at his home in Boca Raton, Florida, on Thursday February 20, 1997, conducted by Ken Boodhoo of Florida International University. . Williams actually cites Lamming as having written this in the PNM Weekly on August 30, but no date is given for the first publication. It has been reprinted in ; part in Callaloo, 20.4 (1998) 731-36. 10. Interview with Ibbet Mosaheb, July 12, 1997, Port of Spain, Trinidad, by Ken

Boodhoo.

11. A portion of Williams’ collection of books and papers which is owned by his

daughter Erica Williams Connell, was made available to the Library of the University of the West Indies, St Augustine, Special Collections in 1999. It is available now for public use. 12: Interview with party affiliate carried out on July 20, 1997 by Ken Boodhoo. The

Eric Williams / 191

name of the interviewee cannot yet be cited, as permission has not been officially received by the Eric Williams Memorial Collection. ee Though much longer and with less eloquence possible in the brevity of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, in his ‘Massa day done’ speech Williams packaged both his historical knowledge and practice of the battlefield of politics into this speech to propel him into another victorious term. I begun rereading the speech, thought of the parallel between this and Lincoln’s address, read it on the inter-

net, and then discovered that William’s ended this speech citing ‘Lincoln who dealt Massa in the United States of America a mortal blow’ (Cudjoe, 1993:264). i. In writing this section I recall in one of many conversations with Lloyd Braithwaite, that he felt in his Social Stratification in Trinidad first published in 1953, ISER that he had omitted the Indian population and he had either drafted or had intentions of doing a parallel investigation which placed Indians alongside others in the society. Among Williams’ unpublished drafts, there is a chapter en-

titled ‘Indian Immigration in the West Indies’ some of which I have drawn on here, and in his actual first drafts of his autobiography there are more insights which did not emerge in the final version. There may be many explanations for this, one being that he and Braithwaite, in the general tenor of the times, still

perceived the Indian population as outside of the mainstream of Trinidadian and Caribbean culture and felt that they had to be treated as a specifically different group. Perhaps, as is more likely the case with honest scholars, they did not feel comfortable writing about a population they did not feel they sufficiently understood, and were wary of committing the insights of the ‘outsider’ within to

paper. 13: See discussions on masculinity in the work of Linden Lewis, ‘Masculinity and the Dance of the Dragon: Reading Lovelace Discursively’ Feminist Review, No 59, June 1998. 16. Bridget Brereton writes that ‘For the Trinidad peasantry, cocoa provided a prof-

itable export crop that required neither considerable outlays of capital nor a large labour force. Because of cocoa, the peasants were relatively secure between 1870 and 1920, but the attitude of the government towards them tended to remain indifferent or hostile. The local government’s policy on economic matters, during the nineteenth century, usually reflected the bias towards the plantation and sugar’ (Brereton 1981:93-94). tf. While writing this paper I called several of my friends, family and colleagues in

Trinidad to discuss with them various ideas or memories they had about Williams and the era in which he brought the country to Independence. There was unequivocal agreement that this was a moment in which a nation came together, sharing some of the goals and the vision he had presented. That such ideas of gender and gender relations affected both men and women 18. (perhaps in different ways) needs to be established as part of the ongoing feminist deconstruction of the public sphere. 19; Sutton notes here that Williams freely acknowledges his debt to CLR James’ TheBlack facobins: Toussaint L’Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution, when developing his thesis in Capitalism and Slavery.

7

BRIAN

MEEKS

Jamaica’s Michael Manley (1924-97) Crossing the Contours of Charisma

‘Let me catch a glimpse of m’boy,’ shouts Heather, a latter-day Fuliet

dreaming from her balcony, between snorts of her own laughter. ‘MichaelYoung Boy, Kennedy gone! It’s only you left now. The last hero!” Rachel Manley, Siipstream: A Daughter Remembers

Introduction

Monday, March 17, 1997. It is the day after the funeral of Michael Manley. This is how the Daily Gleaner described the previous day’s events in the western city of Montego Bay: They rented cars, chartered buses and car-pooled. Montego Bay was virtually empty yesterday as thousands of admirers made their way to Kingston to pay their last respects to the man tailor Ray Jarrett called “a great man who has left the world poorer at his departure, yet richer by his journey through”. On Friday morning the Western City woke up to a transformed Sam Sharpe Square. A giant photograph of the late former Prime Minister was mounted atop the burnt out shell of the old courthouse where Mr. Manley made many of his most famous speeches. Since then, persons unable to go and view his body at the national arena in Kingston, have been looking up, as many did while he was alive, to the raised image of Mr. Manley .. . Carol Spencer in Falmouth reported that the town was ‘very quiet’, as most people were glued to their television sets while others were ‘gone to town’ (Kingston). ‘Falmouth is silent today and you can understand why,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there is another town in all of Jamaica where Michael Manley is loved as he is in Falmouth. The entire town seem to have gone there (the funeral). I know that most of

Michael Manley / 193

them may have had to stay along the route and did not get to see much. But you think them care?’!

October 1917, Petrograd. The American journalist John Reed is describing the first appearance of the leader of the Russian Revolution, Lenin, before his triumphant supporters: . .. It was just 8.40 when a thundering wave of cheers announced the entrance of the presidium, with Lenin—-great Lenin-among them. Ashort, stocky figure,

with a big head set down in his shoulders, bald and bulging. Little eyes, a snubbish nose, wide, generous mouth and heavy chin; clean-shaven now, but

already beginning to bristle with the well-known beard of his past and future . .. Unimpressive to be the idol of a mob, loved and revered as perhaps few leaders in history have been. A strange popular leader-a leader purely by virtue of intellect; colorless, humourless, uncompromising and detached, without

picturesque idiosyncrasies—but with the power of explaining profound ideas in simple terms, of analyzing a concrete-situation. And combined with shrewdness, the greatest intellectual audacity . . . His great mouth, seeming to smile, opened wide as he spoke; his voice was hoarse—not unpleasantly so, but as if it had hardened that way after years and years of speaking . . . For emphasis, he bent forward slightly. No gestures. And before him, a thousand simple faces looking up in intent adoration (Reed 1976: 121-2).

These two excerpts are used, exactly eight decades, though worlds apart, to focus for a moment on a peculiarity of the political world; that of the leader who is revered by his followers beyond the normal limits; for whom untold numbers are, on occasion, willing to die in battle; and

whose aging but loyal supporters preserve his icons years beyond his death. Max Weber has coined the notion of charismatic leadership to speak to this phenomenon. Weber’s usage is, as shall be discussed, fraught, yet the dynamic of the hero and the crowd has been at the centre of modern politics, from Hitler to Mussolini, from Gandhi to

Nkrumah, From Stalin to Sukarno and from Lenin to Manley. Is there a single identifiable set of criteria to be assigned to the charismatic leader? Is charisma a function of the leader’s special qualities, of the crowd’s perception of him, or both? Under what conditions does charisma develop and how does it wane? Can charisma abide within institutions or does it reside solely in the personality? Are different instances of popular leadership common examples of charisma, or discrete instances of leader-follower interaction? Can a special case be made out

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for Caribbean charisma as a sub-category of a general phenomenon? All of these questions cannot be answered in this short chapter, but before an attempt is made to address some of them, ‘we should return for a moment to two examples of Michael Manley at the height of his powers. The first instance is what this writer refers to as the episode of ‘Double High Science.’ After winning the 1976 election with an overwhelming mandate, Manley, in an oft-discussed moment, was faced with an

economic crisis of tremendous proportions. The coffers were empty and there was what seemed to be the almost unavoidable imperative of seeking IMF loans for survival. Faced with this option that would almost certainly have meant an end to the social programmes on which his popularity had been constructed, Manley set up a committee of left scholars to discuss the possibility of an alternative economic path (Girvan 1998). When the proposed ‘Emergency Production Plan’—discussed in numerous forums across the length and breadth of the island—could not come up with satisfactory answers as to where the necessary funds would come from, Manley took the decision, in the face of sharp opposition from his new coterie of advisors and the influential left wing of the People’s National Party (PNP), to travel the IMF route. In subsequent meetings with the Party executive and members, he appeared to have convinced a working majority of his followers that instead of retreating ignominiously, he had won a decisive battle with the IMF. At the subsequent September 1977 PNP conference, he called the purported victory, in true Anansi fashion ‘double high science,’ implying-in touch with Jamaican popular culture-that he had managed to both gain the critical IMF approval and maintain the popular social programmes. There was some truth in this, as the initial IMF agreement was mild, but then Jamaica failed the relatively moderate Christmas tests and shifted into full, and ultimately for the PNP, destructive structural adjustment (Girvan, Bernal and Hughes 1980:113-155) in 1978, contributing to his electoral

defeat two years later. The second instance surrounds the October 1980 electoral debacle. There had been anticipated, though in its scale, unprecedented violence leading up to the election, discussed in detail in his important, if littleread testament, Struggle in the Periphery.2 Among the main features was the virtual insubordination of significant elements in the armed forces, the shooting to death by the police of the junior minister of national security, the shooting up of a meeting in Spanish Town at which Manley was present, numerous incidents of terrorism by gunmen supportive of

Michael Manley / 195

both major parties and an atmosphere that led ey to conclude that the country was bordering on a coup. Jamaica Labour Party (JLP) opposition leader Edward Seaga, the record shows, won an overwhelming mandate. Many thought that if he had lost, the situation would have been uncontrollable and Manley would not have been able to govern. Immediately after the election, there was sporadic violence, mainly from PNP areas in the city and at least two communities-Arnett Gardens (Concrete Jungle) and Green-

wich Town-opened direct hostilities against the armed forces. The youth of Greenwich Town-supportive of the Marxist Worker’s Party of Jamaica (WPJ)-in an unrecorded, though very real act of resistance, de-

clared their community the People’s Republic of Greenwich town. And, in a critical moment after the results had become clear, the PNP’s general secretary, speaking from Party headquarters, declared that the struggle had entered a new and revolutionary phase. Almost immediately, he was cut off the air.t Within two days; things had calmed down and aside from sporadic outbursts, what appeared to have beenalocalised, but definite insurrectional impetus, ebbed. What was it that prevented the escalation of an insurrectionary wave among the militant and highly mobilised PNP supporters of downtown Kingston? It is this writer’s assessment, though the research is still incomplete, that Manley, against the wishes of some of his closest advisors and against the rising tide from downtown, gave the order to concede. That he was right is, in historical perspective, self-evident. Had there been a battle for state power, not only was it the case that the JLP irregulars, steeled in the internecine struggle of the past five years, were better armed, but the full force of the state and, if necessary, external support would have been brought to bear on what would then have been an insurrectionary and illegitimate party. This, more so, would have been devastating from a political perspective,

in a context where only a small part of its popular support base had been revolutionised by the previous months of urban guerrilla warfare. These cases are mentioned to drive home the point that Manley, in his generation in Jamaica, was revered by the people and had popular influence and power like no other person. And further, that his intervention into the political process at critical junctures—which only he had the authority to implement-profoundly affected the future development of Jamaican politics and society. His long-time rival and competitor for power, Edward Seaga, pales in comparison. When Manley’s support was up, as it was immediately after the then popular decision to call the State of

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Emergency in 1976, he was considered the most outstanding leader by 60 per cent of Jamaicans. Seaga only gained 17 per cent of the poll. Even at the trough of his support in 1980, when thete was no food on the shelves and machine guns were rattling every night, Seaga, on his most favourable terrain, when the question was posed as to ‘who is best able to run the country in times of crisis,’ garnered a narrow plurality of 39.8 per cent to Manley’s 36.3 per cent. Less than a year later, in what should still have been his honeymoon period in office, the old pattern had reasserted itself. When asked who was Jamaica’s most outstanding leader, 33.4 per cent said Manley; 29.2 per cent supported Seaga (Stone 1982). It never changed again. When Manley died, a full 67.9 per cent supported the view that he should be made a national hero (The Daily Gleaner, March 17, 1997); and three years after his death, national polls still considered him the prime minister who by far had done the most for the people.5 What was it that Manley had that his competitors did not? And can it be described in the formal sense as charisma? Let us for a moment return to Weber and two of his critics in order to begin formulating an answer. Weber’s Charisma

Charisma is one of Weber's three well-known categories through which leadership is legitimated, the others being the ‘traditional’ and the ‘legalrational’. He argues, inter alia, that in times of popular distress, a natural

leader, rather than an appointed officer, emerges from the ranks. His supporters are won to him as they arrive at the conclusion that he possesses special gifts of body and mind, almost invariably considered as supernatural (Weber 1978:1111-2). Central to Weber’s framework is the

assertion that charismatic leaders become recognised as such by performing miraculous acts, and once they are recognised as having the gift of grace, need to continually prove themselves as worthwhile in order to retain their charismatic appeal. Charisma is therefore essentially unstable; if miracles are not regularly performed, outwardly loyal followers will soon abandon their erstwhile champion (Ibid: 1113-4). However, for the time that he rules, (and it is mostly, though not always ‘he’) once

the crowd continues to adore him, all autonomy is surrendered. No ab-

stract laws restrain the charismatic ruler. To this extent then, Weber saw

charisma with its absence of fealty to the past, as in direct opposition to traditional forms of power, indeed, as the ‘specifically creative revolu-

tionary force of history’ (Ibid: 1117).

Michael Manley / 197

Further specifying, Weber suggests that charisma is essentially a localised, ethnically based, vocationally restricted, phenomenon. It is,

therefore, not only temporary in its scope, but also limited in its reach (Ibid:1113) Finally, following his central theme of its instability, he notes that having emerged due to extraordinary circumstances, when the contextual conditions wane, charisma too subsides and becomes institution-

alised. It is the fate of the charismatic leader to fade with the onset of permanent institutions (Ibid:1133) What is immediately striking about Weber’s description is its specificity. Unlike subsequent theorists who have, on occasion, sought to apply the notion of charismatic leadership in mechanical fashion to diverse, modern social contexts, Weber is surprisingly cautious and tendentious. Indeed, for Weber, the emergence of modern bureaucratic

society signals the death knell of charisma. It is interesting to note, following this, that many critics of the concept attack its theoretical usefulness, accusing it of being too generdlised, an assertion to which Weber, perhaps, is least guilty. Robert Tucker’s Modification

In “The theory of Charismatic leadership’ (Tucker 1970), Robert Tucker argues for the essential Weber. An interpretation of Weber grounded in religion, which sees his propositions as absolute, is not useful in the contemporary world. If we take, however, Weber’s categories as a point of departure and look at tendencies, then we might come up with a useful framework. Thus, rather than the notion of followers giving automatic acquiescence to the leader, Tucker suggests that there is, rather, a tendency to acquiesce. He makes the important additional point that the charismatic leader is not just any leader, but the leader of a social movement. To this extent, he underlines Weber’s argument that the issue is not simply one of personal qualities. The leader is not just charismatic, but is so to the extent that he develops a charismatic following and a charismatic movement (Ibid:78).

The essential feature to be maintained in any modern application of the notion, Tucker emphasises, is that charismatic leaders arise in moments of distress and provide deliverance from that distress (Ibid:81).

Equally, he adds the necessary caveat that charismatic leaders develop counter-charismatic hatreds. Yet, there is also the necessary. search for specific qualities commonly possessed by the charismatic hero. ‘Tucker

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stresses the sense of the rightness of his mission and the personal sense of leadership. In summary: .

. .. charismatic movements for change arise and spread at times when painful forms of distress are prevalent in a society or in some particular stratum of a society. The unique personal authority of the leader and the rapturous response of many of the followers grow out of their feeling that he, by virtue of his special powers as a leader, embodies the movements salvational promise, hence that which may be of supreme significance to them. Since he ministers to their most pressing need-the need to believe in the real possibility of escape from an oppressive life predicament-they not only follow him voluntarily and without thought of material recompense, but tend to revere him and surround him with that spontaneous cult of personality which appears to be one of the symptomatic marks of the charismatic leader-follower relationship (Ibid:85).

George Danns’ Intervention In an important intervention, ‘Leadership, Legitimacy and the West Indian Experience’ c George Danns rigorously applies Weber’s theory to the West Indies in the anti-colonial phase with interesting results. Like Tucker, but with greater criticism of the core arguments, he suggests that Weber needs to be seriously modified if his theory is to be made applicable to the West Indies. He stresses the institutional and popular context of Caribbean leadership, arguing, though not in contradiction with Weber's theses, that support for leaders arises out of causes, not personally created principles (Danns 1978b:27). The outwardly charismatic Caribbean leader gains his magnetism from the personification of the causes for which he fights. Further, speaking of a generation of West Indian leaders, Danns concludes that the aim of the leader was never, pace Weber, to revolutionise the structures of society, but to replace one leadership cadre with another (Ibid:29). Danns further suggests, in a rich but insufficiently explored diversion, that the ethnic diversity of the Caribbean constrains the charismatic leader’s domination of his followers, by virtue of the necessity of having to compromise (Ibid: 41). The reality of the West Indian experience then, is a lower level ‘authoritarianism’ and not ‘genuine’ charisma as defined by Weber. Why, however, Danns chooses to see these two categories as mutually exclusive is difficult to fathom. It is precisely the fact of unlimited allegiance that makes the charismatic leader, no matter how well meaning his in-

Michael Manley / 199

tentions—potentially authoritarian. In summary, the charismatic leader today is different. He is oriented towards economic and utilitarian considerations and makes use of rational means towards this end. He gains support through a calculus of new ideas, rational endeavours and personal magnetism. But have Tucker and Danns in their respective attempts to modernise and ‘West Indianise’ Weber’s notion, explained away the concept? Have they merged the charismatic leader with any leader, with the stuff of leadership in general? Let us for the moment go back to Manley and survey his origins and rise to power and influence in order to see if the signals point in one direction or the other.

Scanning Manley’s Rise® A rapid scan of Michael Manley’s rise to prominence, might suggest the following features as being critical: The Personal

The most evident, is that he was born with the proverbial ‘gift of grace’. The son of prominent King’s Council and later national leader Norman Manley and his English-born wife and leading artist, Edna, he was blessed at birth by being the offspring of the emerging country’s first family. This provided him with immense reserves of goodwill and yet, the important point here is to note that he was only the second son. His elder brother, Douglas, shared all these advantages and never strove for national leadership. We need, therefore, to conduct a wider search for

what catapulted Michael to the fore. The logical starting point is his personality. Unlike the phlegmatic, inwardly focused and moody Douglas,’ Michael from very early gave indications of the leadership qualities for which he would become famous. His oft-recounted resignation from Jamaica College (JC) is a necessary

example. As a senior student at the prestigious grammar school, Michael had prospered under the ‘benign headmastership’ (Levi 1989:7) of Reginald Murray, who treated him like a ‘semi-adult’ (Ibid:8). But then Murray left and his replacement, JWS Hardie reverted to a more traditional

authoritarian approach, committing the unspeakable crime of reproaching the monitor Manley in front of younger students. Manley wrote a protest letter, considered the height of impertinence by Hardie and the tension between them worsened. What brought the situation to climax was Michael’s perception that he was being victimised for his outspoken

200 / Caribbean Charisma

views. An English master gave him an extra essay and when Michael asked why, was told abruptly, that it was an order. The incensed Manley retorted ‘Do your damndest!’ threw his books at the blackboard and stormed out of the classroom. Hardie summoned him, offered the hu-

miliating option of a caning, or the alternative of expulsion. At eighteen years old, Michael responded: ‘you know something Mr Hardie, you'll never live to expel me. I resign!’ (Ibid:9). When he packed his bags to leave, his schoolmates bore him on their shoulders, chanting ‘We want Manley! Down with Hardie!’ (Ibid:9). It is an important coda to note that when his father Norman got wind of the incident, he told Hardie that if Michael were expelled he would be faced with a court case. The unprecedented ‘resignation,’ then, as opposed to the more damaging expulsion was allowed to stand on the son’s record. Three features can perhaps be isolated from this incident. The first, is the young Manley’s courage and boldness, captured in the readiness to write the protest letter and then face the headmaster frontally, denying him the pleasure of either administering a caning or expulsion. The second, is his rage in opposition to victimisation. It was unfairness, both in the initial reprimand in front of younger students and the view that he had been singled out for unfair extra work that precipitated his response. The third is the evident willingness of large numbers of students to support him. In the authoritarian atmosphere of Hardie’s JC of the nineteen forties, it could not have been a simple decision for youngsters to break classes and bear Michael to the gate. Clearly his act of resistance had ridden a wave that was latent though widespread, but no one else had been willing to ride. It is at the juncture of courage and the ability to recognise and voice the popular mood that the young Manley was borne to the gate, as the future ‘Joshua’ (the Biblical allusion to the ancient Is-

raelite leader) would be borne to national leadership. Following from the above coda, a further point should be underlined. Michael’s courage in this instance is real, but it is bolstered about and carried aloft in the full knowledge that he is lawyer Manley’s son and that ultimately, resignation would not mean the squandering of his life chances and utter deprivation. Thus, courage and by implication, leadership, is in this instance encouraged and supported by privilege. An additional ascriptive feature of the young Manley needs to be brought into the picture and this has to do with his physical appearance. Manley was fair, though not white. His father, though dark brown, was

clearly of mixed African and European ancestry. His mother was for all

Michael Manley / 201

outward appearances white, but she was the first cousin of Norman and the African roots were evident in her mother’s family. This particular location distanced Michael from the vast majority of African Jamaicans,

yet not enough to make him an outsider. Thus, in later years when the PNP bandwagon would play the popular rally song ‘My Father Born Ya’, it directly counterpoised Manley’s connectedness to the Afro-Jamaican continuum in contrast to Seaga’s distance from it.® Yet, Manley’s ‘brownness’ and privileged position gave him another advantage in colour stratified Jamaican society. In the 1938 labour uprising, Norman’s very light-skinned cousin and later political nemesis, Alexander Bustamante, had risen to national prominence, when in the face of imminent assault, he bared his chest and urged the police to shoot him but not his people. Both he and his supporters in the crowd survived. This relative immunity granted to the elite of colour in a highly stratified society served Busta well and Michael certainly benefited from it. Simply put, it was safer to follow a brown leader than a black one, because not only was the leader’s longevity more likely, but one’s chances of survival were greater in the former’s shadow. When one recalls the sharp confrontations between Manley and the police and military leading up to the 1980 elections,? it is moot as to whether he would have lived through them all had he been unambiguously black. A related feature of this is what might be called the ‘gratefulness factor.’ In a society in which most well-off brown people prided themselves on their physical, social, economic and cultural distance from the black majority and in which patronage with deep roots into slavery still flourished, for a brown man to take on the cause of the majority was in itself miraculous and ample cause to be grateful. This love for Manley, deriving from this feature, was evident at the time of his funeral, where, many mourners

perceived him, though in contradictory fashion, as the powerful, altruistic patron who had come down from his privileged heights to help the people. This slogan, neatly written on the side of a brown cardboard box and held proudly aloft by a poor, black middle-aged woman, is illustrative: The Right Honorable Michael Manley Government fonder of Jamaica

Both home and abroad Intellect,

A great leader advocate and inspirator for the poor One who was concerned about

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The educational background for people From all walks of life He inteduce the jamal Foundation and free education For all children at primary school to be awarded free places at tertiary institution. : This he did and many more for the betterment of the maces people. This is whyhe is hailed as gient. May his soul res in peace. Although you are sleeping We closed with love comred.!°

Yet there is one further, powerful, yet highly ephemeral dimension of the physical that needs to be mentioned, which is Manley’s personal magnetism. He was a tall and undoubtedly handsome man. Yet, beyond these he possessed an indefinable quality of attractiveness. His mother certainly recognised it in him and Rachel Manley in her insightful reminiscence Slipstream captures it in one of Michael’s visits to his parents’ mountain retreat ‘Nomdmi’: Mardi always looked at my father as though she were surprised to see him; as if he had recently grown taller. He did rather look as though he had suddenly sprouted from any spot where he was standing. That was how he emerged on any horizon-as if a sleeping giant had suddenly sat up. Things around him tended to get displaced. Like a bright light, he always attracted attention . . . Mardi used to say that only mountains ignored my father. And maybe that was why he was always in awe of them (Manley 2000:76).

This larger than life presence, when combined with a quiet kindness, in which Manley would pay personal attention without fanfare to a child, or sick friend (Manley 2000:89), made him an alluring

leader of men, ‘. . . always the band’s drummer .. .’ (Ibid:51), long before he entered politics. It also made the young Manley, to his daughter Rachel’s obvious chagrin,!! irresistibly attractive and attracted to women. This, in the phallocentric universe of mid-twentieth century Jamaica, was no millstone around his political neck. The Moment

Yet, born to the first family and with a striking personality does not the leader of a nation make. Michael benefited from two further fac-

Michael Manley / 203

tors: his decision to enter the trade union movement when he did and the timing of his ascension to leadership of the PNP. Since the birth of modern Jamaican politics out of the 1938 uprisings, trade unionism had been the acknowledged route to political power. Alexander Bustamante, who became a national leader through his powerful personalist trade union, the Bustamante Industrial Trade Union (BITU), established this pattern. And, it was only in the fifties when the National Worker’s Union (NWU) under Michael’s leadership had emerged as the affiliate of the PNP that the party was able to triumph at the polls. Organising NWU workers, particularly in the strategic bauxite sector, gave Michael a requisite sense of the popular pulse as, simultaneously, it exposed tens of thousands of union members and their families to Norman Manley’s son. It is very difficult to imagine the mature Joshua with his exquisite oratory without this apprenticeship. Michael, after all, grew up in the rarified world of Drumblair in an era before the Guyanese scholar Walter Rodney had demonstrated to the intellectuals that it was possible to ‘ground’ with their brothers in the ghetto. And it can be argued in support of this point that Michael, even at his most populist, never spoke ‘broad’ Jamaican in his formal speeches or elsewhere. Few can, however, question his sense of timing, brilliant rhetoric, or grasp of the popular mood that was honed, at least in part, on this formative experience. Ironically, the trade union event that thrust Manley more than any other into national focus, involved middle-class workers at the state

owned Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation (JBC). In 1964, after some two years in office, the JLP government had decided to fire two workers at the JBC. The NWU considered it political victimisation and in Michael’s reaction, as captured in Slipstream, we see again the enraged sixth former and his courageous response: Before going to work that first morning of the strike, my father had stormed up and down the hall, twisting knots into the length of the telephone cord as he talked. How dare they? Did they realize the course of history can change because of some small nettle of injustice? They had better reinstate these men or face one hell of a strike. He sucked up all the energy of the house and, dropping us off at school, roared on to battle (Ibid:129-30).

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The chances of winning in a non-essential sector outside a broader, national crisis were, of course, very slim. In the end, one worker was

considered justifiably fired and the other was given a tiny recompense. But Michael, like his cousin Bustamante before him, had now led workers defiantly into the streets. In a defining incident, while he lay, arms linked with other protesters on the ground, a police vehicle had raced up to him, stopping abruptly short of running over his head. Michael didn’t flinch. His mother called it ‘a legitimizing moment’ (Ibid:32): He was in the newspapers daily, photographed in moods of defiance, his jaw always leading the way. On the rival radio station, his name dominated the top story of every hour. His familiar voice came over in passionate clips. “He’s like the oboe,” said Mardi sagely, as though she had expected all of this, “The whole orchestra will have to tune itself to him!” . . . At school I began to hear “Michael Manley” in a way that riveted people’s attention. It was like hearing a name for the first time from the outside in, instead of from the inside out. . .

“Michael Manley lie down in the road, and the traffic drive right up to his head and have to stop!” the girls said at school (Ibid:131).

Thus was the name of the new hero ‘Joshua’ born, as Michael, rheto-

ric still immature, pointed at the radio station and said ‘these are the walls of Jericho’ and some unidentified person in the crowd retorted ‘tear them down Joshua’.

_

But even with the creation of this myth, Michael might have ended up as the powerful but marginal leader of a trade union movement, were it not for the national conjuncture. Norman Manley’s long sojourn as leader of the PNP was drawing to an end. His final year in office coincided with the emergence of the Jamaican black power movement. In October 1968, the Hugh Shearer led JLP government had declared University of the West Indies historian, Walter Rodney, persona non grata. Students had marched, the police

attacked them and the urban ghettoes of Kingston exploded in a day of rioting. The PNP’s response, at first critical of the government, changed when ‘subversive’ documents, purportedly coming from the students surfaced in parliament. It was evident in the new political climate that the old union/party anti-colonial alliance was insufficient to address the problems of the urban youth with their militancy and grassroots ideologies of black nationalism and Rastafarianism (Lewis 1998).

Michael Manley / 205

Michael succeeded his father as president of the party some four months after these events. The rest is the proverbial history. In three years, due to force of personality, hard work and political acumen, Michael rebuilt the party, sweeping to power with a decisive mandate in February 1972 (Senior 1972). The new PNP, while formally committed to a multi-class alliance, had come to power with a clear mandate to change the social and economic lot of the poor. While the election slogan ‘power for the people’ did not imply social revolution, it was interpreted as such by many among the urban and rural poor. The Party’s eight years in power can be interpreted as the attempt to resolve this tension, between the expectations of its supporters and the Party’s weaknesses as a vehicle to address them.

In Power

The euphoria of victory was followed by a short honeymoon, during which innovative policies were tried, like the initiative of voluntary work on Labour Day, a National Youth Service and an adult literacy programme (Jamaica Movement for the Advancement of Literacy, JAMAL). Reflecting on the myriad initiatives undertaken by Manley’s government from the distance of almost three decades, it is evident that the most enduring were those concerned with raising the dignity and personhood of the ‘ordinary’ people.!? Certainly,

when

one

reads

the

numerous

remembrances

and

reminiscences that were published in the popular media immediately after his death, the majority mentioned programmes like the maternity leave with pay law, the status of children act (repealing the notion of bastardy), the literacy programme and the building of mass housing for the poor. The fundamental issue of the unequal Jamaican social order, however, had barely been dented when, in 1974, the Organisation

of Petroleum Exporting Countries’ (OPEC) inspired oil price increases sent the economy into a downward spiral. Manley’s levy against the bauxite companies increased the country’s earnings from the strategic mineral and this marginally offset the worst effects of the oil crisis, but in retrospect, from at least 1974 (Levitt and Man-

ley 1997:81-115), critical elements of the upper and middle classes had already bolted the alliance. And, in the face of increasing hard-

206 / Caribbean Charisma

ships on the poor, Manley and his party had to battle to retain their grassroots support. The PNP ‘rededicated’ itself to democratic socialism in 1974 and this ideological hardening helped at first to rally the forces. Some further ground was secured as Manley’s advocacy of a New International Economic Order, support for non-alignment and opposition to apartheid in South Africa increased his international prestige and the small country’s standing in world affairs. In 1975 and 1976, in the face of a sustained and brutal tidal wave

of violence that swept through the urban ghettoes and threatened to engulf the entire country, Manley and the Party seemed at first to have no answer and there was fear among his closest advisors that they would lose even the core support among the urban poor. Then, in the middle of 1976 at the peak of the violence, he threw down the gauntlet to his opposition by declaring a popularly received state of emergency. This appeared to hold the fort and served to rally his forces, contributing to his enlarged victory margin at the December 1976 election. At the height of his influence at the September 1976 PNP conference, Manley, on the basis of his social policies, symbolic

representation on behalf of the poor and now, demonstrated willingness to fight back, had developed an organic, almost religious connection with the metaphorically appropriate PNP ‘massive.’ This excerpt from that speech captures, if only in pale shadow, the panache! and electricity generated between the hero and his believers at the peak of his powers: PRIME MINISTER: Every worker who has ever had to go hungry ona picket line knows what it is to struggle. And when he has won his strike, then the suffering is over and he enters a new pasture of joy and principle. And they are making us suffer but what they did not realize is that the masses would show the capacity to struggle (APPLAUSE)... PRIME MINISTER: And we will remember then the Basic Schools that we built, because we know where we are going (APPLAUSE). We will remember the Day Care Centres that we are building because. we know where we are going (APPLAUSE). The National Youth Service that we have started, because we know where we are going (APPLAUSE). JAMAL and literacy and into the light for the masses because we know where we are going (APPLAUSE) . .. And my comrades, there is now equal pay for work because we know where we are going. We have a minimum wage law now because we know where we are going (APPLAUSE). We have a Family Court for mothers

Michael Manley / 207

now because we know where we are going (ECHO FROM CROWD). There is status for children now because. VOICES: We know where we are going. PRIME MINISTER: We are having worker participation in industry now because .. VOICES: We know where we are going... PRIME MINISTER: We know where we are going. We are creating a new man. We have begun the building of socialist man. We are working towards the day when there will be no more masters and no more servants but only one together in the Lord (LOUD APPLAUSE). And we are learning now to go not upon our knees, but as true, sovereign,

human, dignified human beings, because we know where we are going .. . In the name of every victim that ever lived, in the name of every martyr that ever

died,

we

will not

fail. We

shall

overcome

(THUNDEROUS

APPLAUSE).!4

This indefatigable bond between-Joshua and his people was never severed after this. He had gone beyond the grace of his birth and his early legitimation to enter the realm of myth and prophecy. Hereafter, no matter what he did, no matter the vicissitudes of the real

economic and political situation, among the true believers he had been forever canonised.

For Joshua had come

down from the

empyrean heights and delivered simple, mundane, but from the experience of Jamaica’s post slavery history, profound social justice. And the narrative was being related and in turn, received, in the rhetorical call and response style of the popular wayside preacher and the prophets in Kingston’s markets. Through the IMF travails and violence of the next four years, despite the uncertainty and vacillation of the government's policies, through the long decade of opposition in the eighties, through his reconciliation!5 with neo-liberalism and re-election in 1989 and beyond his death, the image of the ‘true’ Manley, at the moment of this

stance in 1976, remained intact among the faithful.

By Way of Conclusion How does this narrative fit with Weber’s analysis or the subsequent above-mentioned modifications? The simple answer is that much in Manley’s rise does not conform to the details of Weber’s analysis,

though it would be foolish to altogether abandon the notion.

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Michael Manley certainly did not ‘emerge from the ranks’ but was, in the end, the scion of the PNP, the model, some might argue,

of the constitutionally based, procedurally driven post-war, anticolonial party. Far from being limited and localised in his reach, Manley’s influence extended across Jamaica and into the Jamaican

and debatably, the wider Caribbean diaspora. Finally and importantly, Manley, despite his fiery rhetoric, was personally and in private quite self-effacing and consciously sought to avoid the outward trappings of charisma.!© The compromise would seem to be a ‘paper thin theory’ of charisma that would, somewhat along the lines advocated by Tucker, preserve the essence of the powerful, deified leader who arises in a crisis, though retaining great sensitivity to the specific features of that leader’s location in a particular sequential history connected into late modernity. With this and the previous narrative, we might suggest that Manley in his time became a leader with inordinate authority and influence, though not as Danns suggests, should he be described as ‘authoritarian.’ Even then, there is need for further clarification.

Manley’s authority was strongest at the PNP grassroots and then among poor and working people generally. His influence among the middle classes as evidenced by the seventies, gradually ebbed as his policies became less ‘national’ and more ‘social.’ Any understanding of charisma has then to be rooted in the social soil of a particular place, focusing especially on the relationship between the leader and the social forces that form the core of his alliance. But a further issue is raised by the trajectory of Manley’s career that, while mentioned by Tucker and Danns, is in opposition to Weber. This relates to the autonomy of the leader from his popular following. While, as suggested at the beginning of this chapter, Manley possessed sufficient autonomy to make decisions that were against the run of the popular mood, it is also true to say that his course, from moderate politician in 1972 to anti-imperialist rhetorician in 1976, suggests that he too was very much acreature of the increasingly militant positions of his support base. Indeed, as has been mooted, at a certain point the myth of Joshua takes flight, quite independently of the man and serves as its own mythical symbol and organising force. In the end then, Weber’s proposal, while not to be abandoned, is neither template nor model. This brief sketch of Man-

Michael Manley / 209

ley’s rise suggests the importance of the specific interplay of class and caste, birth and personality quirk, conjunctural moment and chance of fate that come together to determine the rise of the hero. Heroes there are, but the assertion of a general overarching theory should be approached with care. Post note: A Gramscian Alternative? Antonio Gramsci in The Modern Prince hints at an alternative to Weberian charisma: At a certain point in their historical life, social groups detach themselves from their traditional parties in that given organizational form, when the men who constitute, represent and lead them, are no longer recognized as the proper representation of their class or fraction of a class. When these crises occur the immediate situation becomes delicate and dangerous, since the field is open to solutions of force, to the activity of obscure powers represented by ‘men of destiny’ or ‘divine men’ (Gramsci 1970:174).

Gramsci here, with potentially useful effect, nuances the debate, by placing the phenomenon onafield of social classes and at a rare moment of conjunctural crisis. The somewhat sweeping assumption is that in the normal world of class struggle, classes are led by recognised parties, though occasionally, there is a crisis point. When the old parties and old representatives are unable to provide leadership, a ‘dangerous’ alternative emerges. This, far more explicitly than the Weberian template, raises issues of the social and historical foundations of crisis and suggests, though only if Gramsci’s Marxist foundations are read into the statement, that there may very well be quite different types of leaders depending on the particular character of the social formation and the nature of the conjunctural moment; but this is not elaborated. Applying Gramsci’s implicit assumption, the relevant question for the Caribbean is, what is the possible outcome in a context where there is no articulated history of leaders and (overtly) class-based parties? What, further, if the conjunctural crisis is persistent, because of the inability of any social force to seriously take hold of and set the

agenda for the future of the state? What, in other words, if the ability of the post-colonial state to significantly improve the lives of its citizens, via patron-client means or otherwise, has been so undermined

210 / Caribbean Charisma

as to make it moribund? In such a context, the room is always more or less open for intervention from ‘dangerous men’ or, in the absence of intervention, the likelihood of the collapse of the political project altogether. If we might then, for a moment, return to Weber's notion of the charismatic hero as enchanted, though likely to lose this quality if he does not perform, then we might also suggest that if the state fails to perform its even minor miracles, then it too becomes subject to disenchantment. Thus, subsequent heroes who would step in to rescue distressed masses in such a context of widespread disillusionment, find themselves in a no man’s land in which the political itself is negated as a space for reconstruction. This, more than the danger of the quixotic hero, is the imminent risk in the current moment in Jamaica.

Or, there is a third imaginary, in which the inscribed image of the hero accompanied by his loyal following is subverted; in which worship and gratefulness are replaced by fraternity, sorority and respect; in which democracy trumps hierarchy-and in which the single charismatic hero is replaced by the entire heroic people. This, while the less likely option, would seem also to be a necessary consideration for the yet to be determined future.

ENDNOTES 1. One of the important historical footnotes concerns the arrival at the funeral of Manley’s close friend and erstwhile ally of the seventies, Cuban leader Fidel Castro. The response from the crowd, more than that for any other leader, local or foreign, was overwhelming. According to The Daily Gleaner: ‘Companero Fidel’ and ‘Quiero Castro’ were repeated at regular intervals and one American journalist remarked ‘this is absolutely amazing’, at which point a Jamaican man shouted to him: ‘Please sir, no propaganda; please write what you have seen here today when you get back to America.’ 2. See Michael Manley, Jamaica: Struggle in the Periphery, 1982. 3. Indeed, the shooting to death of Minister Roy McGann was an earlier and equally definitive moment. There was outrage and spontaneous mobilisation in the urban PNP communities. Civil war could easily have erupted had Manley not firmly come down against any act of retaliation. I thank Tony Harriott for a comment leading to this note. Far more research is obviously required on this critical period. 4. As a young TV producer at the Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation I witnessed this firsthand. We were all listening to the PNP General Secretary in a surreal

Michael Manley / 211

daze when it suddenly dawned on us that he was speaking on the studio monitor, but was not on the air. . In the Stone Organisation poll of December 2000, when asked which Prime Minister had done the most to improve the lot of the people, 54 per cent said Manley, 16 per cent said Edward Seaga. Current Prime Minister PJ Patterson was third with 4.5 per cent of the vote. See The Weekend Observer, December 1, 2000.

. Manley’s biography and rise to power are captured through a number of sources. Among the more accessible are: Darrel Levi, Michael Manley: The Making of a Leader, 1989, Rachel Manley, Drumblair: Memories ofa Jamaican Childhood, 1996, Rachel Manley, Slipstream: A Daughter Remembers, 2000 and Brian Meeks, Narratives of Resistance: Jamaica, Trinidad, the Caribbean, 2000.

. See for a sensitive comparison of the two brothers’ characters, Rachel Manley, Drumblair, pp 87-92. . Seaga’s parents were Jamaican, though of Syrian descent and thus recent ‘jus’ come’ migrants to Jamaica. He in addition suffered from the fact that he was born in the United States and was thus doubly inauthentic. . See, for details Struggle in the Periphery, in particular the ‘Appendix Destabilisa-

tion Diary’, pp 223-237. 10. I thank Jan deCosmo for her . This chagrin is certainly one the sequence when he takes then pays more attention to

picture from which this excerpt was taken. of the central themes in Slipstream. See especially his daughter out of boarding school to lunch and the attractive lady on the nearby table. See Siip-

stream, p 96. a2; Even at the nadir of PNP popularity in 1979, when Carl Stone asked whether more social justice would help Jamaica’s progress, a large 86% agreed. See Carl Stone, 1982, p 31.

13. Manley’s ability to connect with the crowd at the level of style and panache, speaks to a sensitive grasp of the nuances of Afro-Jamaican culture. This, however, would seem to be contradicted by his social profile, which should have distanced him from the people. A careful analysis of how the middle class is acculturated into the popular culture and at the same time alienated from it is required to explain this. I thank Rupert Lewis for his comments at the Caribbean Studies Association Conference in St Lucia (May 2000), which led to this footnote. See, for a discussion of the role of ‘panache’ in Jamaican culture Mervyn

Alleyne, Africa: Roots ofJamaican Culture, 1996, p 164. 14. Michael Manley, Address to the 38th Annual Conference of the People’s Na-

tional Party, September 19, 1976, in Not for Sale: By Michael Manley and famaicans with a relevant supplement by C.L.R. James, nd. a5¢ Though Manley himself disputes that it was a capitulation. It is difficult however, not to conclude that this was the case, from the subsequent history of Jamaica’s free market policies that have opened the country for business, though with little sign of growth nor of long-term development. See Levitt, 1997. 16. I thank Louis Lindsay, sometime advisor to Michael Manley and my colleague in the Department of Government at Mona, for reminding me of this important dimension of Manley’s character.

8

NELSON

P VALDES

Fidel Castro (b 1926), Charisma and Santeria Max Weber Revisited

Peoople event or a natural ening or

who want a sane, static measurable world take the first aspect of an person and stick to it, with an almost self-protective obstinacy, or by limitation or their imaginations. They do not indulge in either deepmagnifying.!

Our slogan must therefore be; reform of consciousness, not through dogmas but through analysis of the mystic consciousness which is unclear to itself, regardless of whether it is religious or political.?

Introduction

The concept of charisma has been central in the sociology of religion and politics. This essay reviews the classic definition of charisma, its utilisation in works on the Cuban revolution, presenting a critique of its application. The author suggests that in order to understand the origins of charisma, three basic features should be understood: the personal qualities of the charismatic leader, the structural conditions that allow the

emergence of charismatic authority (instead of legal-rational or traditional authority), and the political importance of popular religiosity. It is the latter aspect that this chapter addresses. The thesis of the argument is that Fidel Castro’s charisma originated in a special event, a sign that many Cubans interpreted as divine in origin. The present chapter addresses the impact that Cuban popular religiosity has had on the interpretation of some recent political events. The chapter ends with a brief discussion of the question of political succession in Cuba. It is not this writer’s claim that everyone in Cuba believes in some as-

Fidel Castro / 213

pect of popular religiosity, but for those who do, there are different levels of beliefs. At the same time, this paper does not wish to assert that any of the revolutionary leaders are followers of Santeria. However, it is clear that government officials have been aware of the importance of popular religiosity within Cuba. Popular religiosity is certainly one of the factors that has contributed to the legitimacy of the Cuban revolutionary leadership; it is that relationship that is explored here.? Charisma Defined

Following the discussion presented in chapter one, Ian Robertson defines charisma as ‘an extraordinary attribute of individuals that enables its possessors to lead and inspire without the necessity of formal authority.’ The term charisma comes from the Greek, meaning a ‘divine grace.’+ Max Weber introduced the concept in sociology and defined it as follows: “The term charisma will be applied to a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities.’ Weber adds that these qualities are ‘not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as of divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as a leader,’ (Weber 1947:358-59).

One of the earliest references to charisma appears in Romans 12.° The quality of prophecy, teaching, ministry is identified with charisma. It is identified with a gift of the Holy Spirit, which speaks through Christ. Charisma refers to a gift of grace, which enables and calls the individual to fulfill certain activities. In the Bible, charisma originates from God and its basic function is diakonia, that is, service to others. Charisma

is a quality, a gift, a grace imposed by God on a mortal.° When Max Weber introduced the concept he stressed the non-rational dimension. The charismatic individual is perceived by others to have super human qualities and powers. Weber utilised the concept in order to analyse the emergence of religious movements, and the concept of charisma has been transferred to the study of political movements. But the borrowing has implied the secularisation of the concept. Reinhard Bendix writes that, ‘charismatic leadership occurs most frequently in emergencies, it is associated with a collective excitement through which masses of people respond to some extraordinary experience and by virtue of which they surrender themselves to a heroic leader.’ Bendix

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goes on to note that, ‘People surrender themselves to such a leader because they are carried away bya belief in the manifestations that authenticate him,’ (Bendix 1962:300). , The concept of charisma, in its classic sociological definition, implies a social relation. Charisma is a quality that someone has because followers believe the person to have it. As a social relation, charisma cannot exist without followers. It is thus the perception by the followers of a leader that defines charisma. Consequently, charisma is tied to signification. Signification here means the signs that a set group of people interpret as having a special meaning; in this case the subjective meaning of having grace or a special gift. In a 1961 essay, Carl Freidrich elaborated on this theme. He wrote, ‘charismatic power is a kind of power which originates in the belief, shared by leaders and followers, that the leader is invested with divine ‘favor or grace and therefore presupposes a religious conviction that there exists a divine being which can dispense such a favor of grace...’ Seen in this way, charismatic leadership ‘is clearly affected by the doctrines of the particular religion from which it springs, and more especially by the conception of the deity with which it is associated,’ (1961:17). It should be added that in the charismatic relation, it is not

necessary for the leader and the followers to share the same subjective assumptions; all that is necessary is for the followers to believe those meanings. The leader can act without sharing those meanings, but he cannot explicitly challenge them. Charisma refers to several qualities, meanings and significations. Among these it is (a) a special type of authority generated by the personal trust given to the leader by his followers, (b) the followers accept the charismatic leader because he is believed to have extraordinary qualities, and (c) those extraordinary qualities are not inherent in the leader, but rather, are a representation believed by the followers to be held by the leader. They constitute a gift received from a non-human source. Once the charismatic leader has authority he is able to originate new norms, rules and regulations. Under charismatic’authority, rules are not permanently set; they can be changed depending on the circumstances as interpreted by the charismatic leader. Administrative routine is avoided as charismatic authority seeks to establish a new system of behavior— one that is in constant movement; one that is non-institutionalised. As

long as power is exercised by the charismatic leader, administrators are

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chosen not on the basis of professional competence alone, but on whether they have personal attributes compatible with charisma.

Concept of Charisma Applied: The Cuban Case The concept of charisma can be very useful, but one should avoid too loose an application of it. Few scholars have failed to stress the prevalent role of Fidel Castro in the Cuban revolution. The dominant paradigm among scholars has been to assert that Castro’s leadership is a concrete and dramatic example of charismatic authority. Application of the concept has focused on Fidel’s exercise of power and his overall influence in politics, society, economy and culture in Cuba. As a rule, the concept of charisma has been used merely as a description of the reality. At times, charisma has become equated with Fidel Castro’s personality. Thus, we get Herbert Matthews, who began one of his books by declaring that, “The Cuban Revolution is Fidel Castro’s Revolution,’ (1970:15). Ramén E Ruiz in the same vein noted that, ‘In Fidel Castro

the Cubans found their latest leader, a bold, politically acute, and charismatic young caudillo who claimed that he spoke for the ideals of Marti,’ (1968:17). For his part Tad Szulc has equated charisma with personality. He queried whether, “The fundamental question concerning Fidel Castro, the 1959 revolution, and Cuba’s transformation into a Communist

state is naturally whether this whole experience was logically dictated by Cuban history or represents an extraordinary political aberration primarily instigated by his overwhelming personality,’ (Szulc 1986:23). Juan del Aguila also indicates that ‘Castro relied on his own appeal, charismatic qualities and unparalleled audacity to transform personal leadership into hegemonic authority,’ (1987:51). Then there is Edward Gonzalez, perhaps the best exponent of this point of view. Gonzalez wrote that, ‘Fidel exhibited a powerful political personality that tended to overwhelm followers and adversaries alike’ (1974:169-70). Following

the discussion presented in chapter one, according to which the bulk of humankind is generally comfortable with being cast in the role of follower rather than that of leader, times of national crisis or serious social

upheaval are particularly noteworthy for throwing up charismatic leaders. Thus, Irvine Schiffer noted that the ‘call to the charismatic role can

come from “a rescue-hungry people” in a time of crisis or distress, which predisposes them “to invest a leader with charisma” (1973:11). We know that those who are needy in this way ‘will charismatize a leader and allow

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themselves to be carried away by the charismatic experience’ (Glassman 1975:617). These are the ones Edward Shils described as ‘weak,’ and as

needing some sort of emotional direction‘and psychological order in their universe. Their vulnerabilities are protected and their anxieties are calmed by the charismatic leader, who stirs their passions and in whom the weak see the possibility of salvation (Shils 1965:202). Thus,

Gonzalez also noted that for many Cubans Fidel: possessed the personal qualities of the supreme caudillo—physical strength, valor, audacity, and authoritativeness—which they themselves lacked but could now achieve vicariously through their hero . .. Endowed with machismo, strong personal convictions, and rhetorical power, he also proved capable of personally dominating even those who were committed to his overthrow (1974:169-70).

As a description, the observation that Fidel Castro has charisma is unquestionable. However, usually we are not offered a definition of what constitutes charisma. Even the ritual of quoting Max Weber is avoided. Joseph Bensman and Michael Givant in 1975 noted that often the literature on charisma abused the concept by merely showing the popularity of a public personality assuming that charisma was present (1975:570). What is obviously implicit in such statements and assertions, is that charisma is just an expression of a set of character or personal traits.’ Charisma thus becomes the ‘magnetic’ or ‘mesmerising’ quality inherent in the personality of an individual. This is hardly an explanation of what charisma is, or where it comes from. Fidel Castro certainly is a unique person (taller than most Cubans, articulate, action oriented, lucky, per-

ceptive, filled with energy, leading through example, unusual memory, intense).® He has unique leadership and organisational qualities, but as a phenomenon, charisma is far more complex than this.

Authority Vacuum and the Emergence of Charismatic Authority Charismatic authority must be assessed in its historical context, its structural origins, its function, as well as in terms of the political-social context expressed, defended and symbolised by the leader. Charismatic leadership occurs in emergencies, in times of crises, when neither legalrational authority nor traditional authority function or hold sway. It prevails when the old order no longer works and pressure from below or outside demand change. Charismatic authority emerges as a structural

Fidel Castro / 217

possibility in a situation of social and political crises.? Such was the case on December 31, 1958, the eve of the revolutionary triumph.

It has been noted that, ‘at the very moment that the Batistiano hierarchy fled, all the state institutions (police, military, local and national governments, judges etcetera) were left without any leaders.’ This was due to the fact that the traditional mechanisms of social control had broken down and no substitutes were in evidence. Having fled, the dictator was in no position to leave ‘behind a transitional caretaker government. All efforts made in that direction failed. Therefore, on January 1, 1959, the

whole bourgeois state machine built since 1940 came to an end,’ (Valdés

1976:1-2). It is in the structural context of a political authority vacuum, with neither legal-rational nor traditional powers able to exercise control that a charismatic leadership moved into place. In other words, a revolutionary leadership could become charismatic because the society no longer functioned in a normal fashion, (Ibid:1-37). A given person can perform the charismatic role when that person recognises the crisis, and presents a well-articulated and popular interpretation of it. Having singular personal qualities help; yet, personal qualities will not be sufficient if the authority impasse and the structural situation are not present. Fidel Castro’s personal qualities, combined with the breakdown of the old political order, certainly helped produce an opening for the development of charismatic authority. Personal leadership without a crisis of authority does not produce charisma. The present analysis does not focus on the specific personal qualities of Fidel Castro as a national and revolutionary leader, nor the social and political contexts that permitted the emergence of charismatic authority. The right personal qualities and the structural conditions are necessary but hardly sufficient to produce a charismatic leader. Charisma appears at the intersection of individual biography, socio-political context and cultural milieu. As a rule, most studies on Cuba have concentrated on

the first aspect, made passing references to the second and said little, if anything, about the last. And it is this last aspect, the political-cultural conditioning, however, that will be explored here.

The Importance of Popular Religiosity and Culture As noted earlier, the classic literature on charisma recognised the dynamic relationship between leader and followers. Some Cuba scholars

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have made the same point. Jorge Dominguez, for example, remarked that Castro has charisma and ‘charisma provides an authority that rests upon the extraordinary quality of the ruler as a person as it is perceived by the citizenry.’ As is well known too, the revolutionary quality of charismatic leadership resides in ‘the leader’s conviction that he is not dependent on election by his followers but has been “elected” by a supernatural authority, either God or some “historical force”; and on the citizenry’s sharing that conviction’ (1978:197). In similar vein, Richard Fagen also noted that, ‘the charismatic leader is always the creation of his followers,’ and he goes on to point out that ‘charismatic authority . . 1s rooted in the belief system of the followers rather than in some transcendental characteristics of the leader,’ (Fagen 1972:155). If a significant element in charismatic leadership and authority is the suprahuman qualities that followers see in a leader, then it is imperative to pay attention to the followers, to what they perceive and the meanings attached to those perceptions. When charismatic relations between leader

and followers are shaped by the shared assumptions, beliefs and images found within Cuban popular religiosity; then the latter must be studied. This is an area that Max Weber did not elucidate in his treatment of

charisma. As Luciano Cavalli writes, ‘there is no complete discussion of mass phenomena by Weber, because the charismatic process is for him simply the natural development of the vertical relationship between charismatic leader and followers.’ Because of this ‘Weber does not systematically analyze the horizontal relationships between group members’ (Cavalli 1987:317-18). To pay attention to the followers means to study their shared views. As early as 1965, Richard Fagen recognised that there was ‘no lack of reports which mention that in the early stages of the Cuban Revolution Castro was regarded by large segments of the population as the heavensent savior of the nation’ (1972:155). Fagen goes on to note, however,

that there was no systematic data to ascertain the extent and degree of the religious-charismatic overtones within the population (Ibid:158). Those empirical studies were never made. Nonetheless, it is possible to describe the impact of popular culture on the early Cuban revolutionary experience. The impact of popular religiosity and culture on the Cuban revolution has not been thoroughly studied. Cornell West noted that political analysts in general, including Marxists, have little understanding or appreciation of popular culture. Indeed, people going through revolution-

Fidel Castro / 219

ary experiences have been viewed, at times, as political agents but rarely as cultural agents (West 1984:17-18). Yet, it is imperative to explore the relations between revolutionary politics and popular culture (Tucker 1973:173-90). Cuban popular religiosity is here understood as a socially constructed reality, expressed in thought, language and symbols. These are linked to both the sacred and supernatural that correspond to the lower classes and the powerless in the island. Cuban popular culture to a large degree has been influenced by its African roots, including its religious side. And although it is within that popular culture that one encounters popular religiosity, the former must not be confused with the latter. Thus, it is worth recalling the words of the Cuban anthropologist, Fernando Ortiz Fernandez, who was the first to observe that Cuban

popular culture emerged among the black slaves who could not return home, and also among the poor whites, who had neither inheritance nor privileges in the colonial Spanish regime. ‘Cubanness,’ wrote Ortiz, ‘emerged from below’ (Ortiz Fernandez 1939:14). Since the eighteenth century, the establishment of plantation agriculture, with the massive importation of African slaves, had a most profound impact on Cuban society and culture. The different waves of imported African slaves took to Cuba their own cultural expressions. Later, these were syncretised with the Spanish colonial population, producing a cultural synthesis which was the collective expression of the lower classes. In religion, there was a syncretisation process at work as well, bringing together aspects of Santeria, Mayomberia, Spiritism and Spanish folk Catholicism. In that religious syncretism, the supernatural and the spiritual had a central part. African music, dance and religion permeated the formation and development of Cuban culture. Indeed, African influences penetrated the language, the sayings, the imagery, the food, the medicinal habits and the very structure of constructing reality in the island (Ortiz Fernandez 1983:86). Central to that popular culture, so influenced by African roots, was the magical and religious universe of the black slaves (Pérez and Mena 1998:15). After the abolition of slavery, the magical world brought from Africa survived and expanded. Santeria and Mayomberia, the two main religious movements from Nigeria and the Congo, had taken root in Cuba.!0 The traditions of the Yorubas and Bantus have continued to influence popular culture, religion and even politics in the island.! There are numerous references acknowledging the African influence on the religious side of the Cuban people. Peter Marshall points out that

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Santeria had ‘the greatest impact on Cuban culture. And when those with power monopolised the state, the economy and other resources, the poor, the powerless and those who were discriminated against, continued to resort to magic from Africa’ (Marshall 1987:240).

Not long ago the Cuban Catholic Church officially acknowledged that today Santeria (or popular religiosity) ‘is probably the religion of the majority of our people.’!? In the Yoruba and Bantu religious traditions the spirit world, the spirit of the dead and spiritual forces (known as orishas) communicate with people in this world, act through them, and thus shape human history. Such premises and beliefs can be found in some segments of the Cuban population (Cutlé Bressler 1998:75-81, James Figarola 1996:12-15). Thus, it is imperative to explore the linkage between Cuban popular religious beliefs and the origins of revolutionary political charisma.

From Leadership to Charisma. Max Weber was particularly interested in applying the concept of charisma to the emergence of religious movements. Later, other sociologists used the concept to study political movements, but in doing so charisma was secularised (Shils 1965:199-213). The ‘sacred gift’ or ‘grace’ that was attributed to leaders by their followers in Weber’s model was abandoned, and instead the literature posited the concept of the “gifted leader.’ The supernatural force was transformed, converted into a ‘historical force.’ Charisma became unique and exceptional but lost its sacredness; in other words, it became profane leadership.

The change was not lost on some analysts. Karl Loewenstein questioned whether the concept of charisma could be applied in contemporary politics, since it was implicit that it depended upon a widespread belief in the existence of extraordinary or supernatural forces. According to Loewenstein, charisma could be applied only to situations where there was a popular belief in supernatural powers influencing politics (1966:74-87). Conceptually, then, it is essential to differentiate political

leadership from charismatic political authority. > It is clear that Fidel Castro became a revolutionary leader prior to 1959 due to his unique personal qualities and skills. With a successful revolutionary organisation, he was able to assert his political leadership over the opposition movement against Fulgencio Batista, and in just two years (1956-58) he seized power through a revolutionary guerrilla army.

Fidel Castro / 221

He was recognised as having leadership qualities at a point when the political movement he belonged to, and the people who followed him, shared similar assessments of the political situation: the Ortodoxo party confronted a leadership crisis after the death of Eduardo Chibas in 1951. A few months later, General Fulgencio Batista seized power and none of the traditional political organisations seemed capable of reacting with a viable strategy. This is the point at which Fidel Castro stepped into that vacuum and claimed the leadership of the opposition on the basis of his superior organisational skills and his willingness to take decisive action. There was no need to persuade others, for he preached to the already convinced. Castro did not need to create a political movement from scratch because one already existed and all he had to do was take it over. He just had to show through his daring and example the road to follow, and others followed. In other words, he tapped what was already there while giving it his own personal stamp. This was not charisma at work, but political persuasion, organisational skills and massive public support against an illegal regime. Before 1959, Fidel Castro did not possess charisma. The collapse and overthrow of the old regime created the unique circumstances making possible the transformation of a revolutionary leader into a charismatic revolutionary leader. Those Cubans immersed in the country’s popular religiosity, could interpret the success of the guerrilla commander as a possible sign that Fidel Castro had the support of orishas and gods from the pantheon of Santeria, Mayomberia and Spiritism. His movement had overcome extraordinary political and military odds in a very short period of time. But political success leading to recognition of leadership, should not be confused with charismatic powers. Edward Gonzalez, for example, applied a secular version of the Weberian framework. He wrote: Fidel’s charismatic authority had stemmed from his proven ability to perform extraordinary deeds (such as overthrowing Batista) and to produce remarkable and beneficial results (such as the agrarian reform, and defeat of the United

States at the Bay of Pigs, and the successful defiance of Moscow) thereby winning over and maintaining the devotion of the popular masses and immediate followers alike (Gonzélez 1974:212).

To the Cubans, the economic and political crisis in which their country was steeped called for an extraordinary, if not a superhuman leader to

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provide guidance or deliverance. This was the propitious situation that Fidel inherited and which came to nurture the popular embrace of him as a God-sent liberator. The genesis of charisma, however, requires a clear sign—one considered supernatural, divine or sacred. Max Weber posited that, ‘it is recognition on the part of those subject to authority which is decisive for the validity of charisma.’ And he went on to write that ‘this recognition is freely given and guaranteed by what is held to be a proof, originally always a miracle, and consists in devotion to the corresponding revelation, hero worship, or absolute trust in the leader’ (Weber 1968:242). Such symbols have been an integral part of Cuban political performance (Miller 2000). On December 31, 1958, the Batista dictatorship came to an end, as

the man who had dominated Cuban politics since 1934 fled the country. For as I have argued elsewhere, In a country accustomed to signs from the other world, Fulgencio Batista chose December 31 to abandon power minican Republic. For Cubans, it is essential to leave the behind before a new year begins...If Batista had remained, burdened throughout the coming year with the bad karma

1989:31).

it was logical...that and flee to the Doold year’s problems he would have been of his defeat (Valdés

‘After all, General Batista was a Santeria believer, if he had been defeated

it would be assumed that his adversary enjoyed the support of the gods and orishas.!3 On January 1, 1959, the revolutionaries seized power. This was a significant date in the Santeria calendar, for it marks the day when the orisha Eleggua announces and opens new paths to a people. On that same date, Fidel Castro and his guerrilla fighters came down from the Sierra Maestra mountains and in the city of Santiago de Cuba stated, I do not speak in my name. I speak in the name of the thousands and thousands of fighters who made victory possible. I also speak in the name of our dead and for the respect they deserve. The dead will never be forgotten. This time it will not be possible to say, as it has been the case on other occasions...because this time the dead will continue to be in command.

For outside observers, Castro’s words may have been interpreted as yet another instance of Latin American literary license, but in Cuban

Fidel Castro / 223

popular culture the reference to the dead and their role in history had an entirely different meaning. In the Santerfa and Spiritism worldviews, the spirits of the dead roam this world and can shape events, even the history of nations. !# , The following week the guerrilla commander travelled from east to west, reaching Havana on January 8. After a long procession through the city streets, the victorious rebel army arrived that afternoon at the presidential palace, the center of political power. Fidel Castro spoke briefly. There were close to a million people surrounding the building and they also filled all the streets around. Indeed, so large was the crowd that the revolutionary leader could not depart, so he went back to the microphones and asked the Cuban people to part ranks, like the Red Sea. They did, and the image was not lost on the Cubans. It was in that highly charged atmosphere that the new leader, undoubtedly caught up in the euphoria of the moment, went to the former headquarters of the Cuban military, Camp Columbia, and gave one of his most memorable speeches. At one point during the speech delivered that night, Castro turned to his second in command, Camilo Cienfuegos, and asked ‘Voy bien Camilo?’ (How am I doing, Camilo?) His comrade replied, ‘you are doing fine, Fidel.’ This question, so openly posed, may have been political theatre, but in the process of asking, Fidel Castro symbolically transferred validation to someone else. Camilo could judge Fidel. Fidel shared the stage with someone else. Nevertheless, this was not yet the behaviour of a charismatic leader. Fidel at that moment had all the elements of a populist leader, but not of charisma. He was not yet the chosen one; but his time was not far off, for a few minutes later, as all of Cuba watched their television sets, an ex-

traordinary event took place. Two doves flew over the audience of about 20,000 and then started to circle above the podium where Fidel and Camilo stood. Spotlights followed the creatures. The audience at Camp Columbia and all of Cuba was taken by the apparition. Then one of the doves landed on the podium and soon the other was perched on Fidel’s left shoulder. The crowd gasped, then began to shout ‘Fidel! Fidel! Fidel!’ (Szulc 1986:470). The dove was a symbol that people in Cuba and elsewhere understood. To some, it simply meant peace. Commenting on the extraordinary event, Rafael Cepeda, a Protestant minister, was to declare a year later that, ‘Fidel Castro is an instrument in the hands of God for the

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establishment of His reign among men’ (1960:110). And Carlos Franqui, who at the time was a close advisor and publicist of the revolutionary regime, wrote that the event was ‘as if God indicated, with its finger: here is the new man’ (1980:25). All the central elements in the making of

a charismatic figure were present: Castro as the David who defeated the American-supported Batista Goliath; the local leader in whom the masses invested their hope for deliverance; the extraordinariness of the white doves seemingly sent by God as a symbol that Fidel was the chosen one; and the fact that all classes of Cuban society appeared enthusiastic about the prospects of ending the deep social and political crisis of the day. To the Cubans steeped in popular religiosity the message was clear. “The saints (santos) communicate their feelings via the orishas, or super-

natural messengers. White doves are the messengers of Obatal4, the right-hand man of the god of all creation. Thus when the bird landed on Fidel, everyone watching knew that Castro was blessed; he was El Elegido (the Chosen One)’ (Valdés 1989:32). Before that moment, Fidel

Castro enjoyed the mundane respect ofthe Cuban people; but from then on he received charisma in the Weberian sense. Thus, I would venture to argue that on January 8, 1959, Fidel Castro’s charisma was born, effec-

tively announced by two doves sent from heaven. In the practice of Santeria one does not pray directly to the Almighty. The only way to communicate with any of the Santeria deities is by collective prayers and chants, and special offerings. A prayer or a request can be elevated to the heavens by gaining the attention of one of the santos (saints or deities). The deities enjoy music and particularly drumbeats. Once a request is heard, the god sends a messenger back with the reply. The messenger, a spirit who is also a deity, is called an orisha. In the belief system, the orisha transmits the reply in different ways, including ‘mounting’ (possessing) a mortal. The person mounted then speaks the words of the orisha, and is regarded as a divine horse or caballo. A ‘horse’ refers to a mortal who has been taken over by an orisha and speaks the orisha’s words.!5 Since January 1959, Fidel Castro has been

known in Cuba as ‘the Horse.’ The eloquence and persuasiveness of Fidel Castro, e/ caballo, according to Santeria, is rooted in his connection with Obatalé and its orisha.

Thus, as noted in chapter one, charisma is not the inherent or natural personal qualities of a revolutionary leader; rather, it is what the followers assume supernatural powers have granted to a mortal man. And

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whether or not those powers are real is unimportant. What is important is the fact that the followers come to believe that they are real. Thus, it is not at all surprising that within a few days all of Cuba referred to Fidel Castro as e/ caballo and arrogated unto him qualities and powers not usually reserved for mere mortals. Who is Obatala?

In Santeria, Obatala is the oldest of all deities created by a supreme entity (Olofi). His colour is white, his preferred animal is the white dove. Obatala was given the task of finishing the creation initiated by Olofi. Obatalé rules over the minds of humans as he represents education, learning and enlightenment. He cures and gives illnesses, is regarded by believers as the epitome of purity itself, and is associated with the highest of morals. Obatala detests money and greed, and his main standard

or concern is with justice.!¢ ‘ The identification of Fidel Castro with Obatala helped to legitimate charismatic authority in two significant ways. Firstly, it indicated that Fidel Castro had the blessings and favour of the highest divine power acting on human history, as far as Santeria was concerned. Secondly, the particular deity that Fidel was identified with had all the qualities necessary for a radical revolution: a commitment to social justice, and the priority given to health, housing and education for all. Thus, the making of Castro’s charisma was specific to circumstances and conditions in Cuba at the time: the imbedded beliefs found in Cuban popular culture and specifically, popular religiosity; the interpretation of the extraordinary episode with the doves; the absence of traditional or legal-rational authority which produced an authority vacuum; the unique personal traits of Fidel Castro himself; and the great organisational resources at his

command. Together all of these produced a charismatic authority.!7 By the end of 1959, 43 per cent of ‘fervent supporters’ equated Fidel Castro with a saviour, protector or guide. Even 22 per cent of his enemies in Miami at some point believed that he was a ‘saviour’ (Free 1960; Fagen,

Brody and Leary 1968). The Problem of the Permanence of Divine Favour

Once a political or national leader is identified as charismatic, the critical issue becomes how to exercise authority and use power while preserving the support of the followers. Max Weber made the point that the charis-

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matic leader constantly needs to prove himself to the followers by meeting their demands. ‘If charismatic proof is not forthcoming, if the charismatically gifted leader appears abandoned by his god, his magical or his heroic powers, if success is repeatedly denied him and, above all, if his leadership does not enhance the well-being of those subject to his authority, then there is every possibility that his charismatic authority may vanish’ (Weber 1994:33-34). The ‘caballo’ as an agent of the gods is obliged to remain in power until told to leave by the supernatural, or, stated differently, until he loses divine favour. What, then, constitutes di-

vine favour? Charismatic leadership is unstable under three different scenarios: if symbolically the leader seems abandoned by the ‘gods’; if the leader is unable to deal with serious problems; or if the leader cannot meet the real material needs of the followers. In the Cuban cultural milieu, there

are circumstances when people might conclude that the orishas have withdrawn their favor, threatening the legitimacy of the charismatic leader. One such possibility occurs yearly when the leading babalawos (Santeria priests) meet in order to engage in divination to foretell the future. This happens on the last two days of Decémber (Colina 1990:12). The Ifa oracle (tablero de Ifa) is interpreted by Santeria priests, who then announce what the oracle disclosed. Of course, relying on signs from the gods is risky business. In 1987, the If oracle, the annual prediction for the new year, announced that Castro would die unless the Yoruba “king of kings,” the “great Ooni” of babalawos, travelled to Cuba and kissed the ground. The revolutionary government duly issued the invitation, and a picture of the great Ooni arriving at the José Marti Airport in Havana graced the front page of Granma, the newspaper of the Communist Party. Reportedly, the Nigerian kissed the ground, Fidel did not die (Valdés 1989:34).

During the Gorbachev period in the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), many Cubans in the island and in exile were convinced that the revolutionary leadership in Havana would have no choice but to follow the precepts of perestroika and glasnost. The fact that the USSR provided so many strategic resources to the Cuban economy seemed to be sufficient argument that a change would occur in the island. But there was another reason why many Santeria believers assumed

that Gorbachev could force Fidel Castro to change his ways: Mikhail had the ‘kiss of Eleggua’ on his forehead. Some birthmarks are considered

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orisha signs. And Eleggua determines the future. Yet, Gorbachev lost power and Castro stayed in control of the island. His capacity to survive further reinforced the conviction among believers that he is ‘blessed.’!8 And it is in this precise context that the political furor that surrounded Elian Gonzalez, the young Cuban castaway, becomes relevant to an appreciation of Castro’s charisma and the deep religious sensibilities of the Cuban population, both in Cuba and in Miami.

Elian Gonzalez v Fidel Castro: Charisma, Orishds, and Politics in Cuba and the US The heated and controversial clash over Elian Gonzélez was more than an issue of custody and family rights; it became more than a conflict between political foes across the Straight of Florida. Hidden behind the press conferences and legal proceedings was a view of politics and history seldom noticed when reporting .on Cuban-American affairs. A significant number of Cubans in the US and in Cuba believe that politics and history are shaped by supernatural forces, and those forces reveal themselves ever so often.!9 Enter five year old Elian Gonzalez, who was found on Thanksgiving Day 1999, holding on to an inner tube and floating in the ocean for what must have been several hours after his mother and others had drowned. Most people immediately thought that this was an amazing survival story, but in Little Havana it was an obvious miracle.?9 To Cuban Americans, the fact that the boy was found on Thanksgiving Day was just an added symbolic element; although the day had no real meaning for Cubans in the island, since it is more properly an American celebration. Two persons who had gone fishing that day rescued Elian. One of them, fame-seeking Donato Dalrymple, a Pentecostal missionary, had never gone fishing before. The mass media and the Miami Cubans referred to him, however, as a fisherman, which, as would be seen, had the appropriate Biblical connotation and seemed more appealing than his real job as a house cleaner. In his first statement to the media, Dalrymple said: ‘I’ve travelled around the world as a missionary, but I have never felt like this. What a gift to find this kid today. I would like to see his face

again.”2! Throughout December 1999, no references to miracles or the inter-

vention of supernatural forces had yet been made. The realm of myth and the sacred had not yet entered the Elian Gonzalez story. There

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were, however, numerous questions as to how a small child could survive in the water for over 48 hours without dehydration, hypothermia or even drowning. No one at the time seemed interested in finding more earthly and practical answers.

The Right-Wing Move The Cuban American National Foundation (CANF), the Brothers to the Rescue organisation, and the Cuban Democracy Movement, however,

among numerous other right-wing Cuban-American organisations, had joined forces to offer their resources to the Cuban-American family that held Elian Gonzalez.22 On November 27, within 48 hours of Elian’s res-

cue from the sea, his father requested that the US government return his son to him in Cuba, but all the right-wing Cuban-American organisations, together with the boy’s Miami family, spoke in opposition to the father’s request. Why such interest on the part of the right-wing organisations? Because they wanted to trigger a reaction from the Cuban government during an election year in the US. In other words, the whole Elian affair, with all the costs and conflicts, had been manufactured in

the vain hope of pushing the Cuban government to overreact, and unleash another Mariel crisis. On January 5, 2000, the Immigration and Naturalisation Service (INS) decided that Elian should be returned to Cuba.?3 This decision

appeared to deflate the crisis, but that was not the case. First, the lawyers provided by the CANF initiated numerous legal actions. The next day lian participated in the Three Kings Parade in Little Havana, and although there was still no implied sacredness, it was at that point that the story telling and myth making began in earnest in South Florida.2+ Within hours, a number of Cuban-owned radio stations in Miami began broadcasting in their call-in shows that Elian was a ‘miracle child’ and a ‘messenger from God.’ On January 9, 2000, Donato Dalrymple, the socalled fisherman, told the Miami Herald, ‘I know it was the hand of God,

but on, ple not

I feel that I gave birth to him from the ocean.’ From that moment the story of dolphins looking after Elian surfaced. Although Dalrymdoes not speak Spanish, he was reported as saying that Elian, who did speak English then, informed him that dolphins accompanied him

when he was alone and afraid in the water. He told the Associated Press,

‘I would like to believe that God used the dolphins as an instrument to keep him safe in that water.’ Dalrymple also considered himself, as

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rescuer, part of that divine intervention. He claims that such a personal role has been prophesised to him. As days went on the dolphins story was further embellished.25 _

The Religious Make-over On January 11, 2000, El Nuevo Herald, the Miami Spanish language newspaper published afairly long opinion piece by José Marmol entitled “The Future of Elian.’ The article publicised what already was circulating among the Cuban community in Miami. He wrote that Moses’mother, in order to save her son from the Pharaoh, placed him on araft on the Nile. The child was rescued and then changed the history of Egypt. In this rendition, Eli4n was Moses, and Fidel Castro the Pharaoh.

The enslaved people of Israel, with Moses leading, finally would see the Promised Land of Israel, and so too would the Cuban exiles. ‘Moses

lived to lead his people out of slavery in Egypt to the Promised Land of Israel, an exodus that lasted 40 years, about the same as our exile from

Cuba.’ Marmol went on to add that Elian was ‘also a symbol and even more, many attribute to him that he is a messenger with a miraculous mission who will return freedom to the suffering people of Cuba.’ Signs of miracles began to appear. The image of the Virgin Mary was found at the bank where Elian’s aunt, Maryslesis, worked. Other images and signs began to appear everywhere. In the crowds in front of the Gonzalez house in Miami, one sign read ‘3 Kings, 3 Children: Moses, Jesus, Elian.’

The sidewalk in front of where he lived was lined with candles at night. Keeping Elian in the US was no longer a family matter. It was a clash between the forces of good and the forces of evil; between Christianity (be it Protestant or Catholic) and communism; between Miami and Havana:

CANF v Castro.?6 Javier del Pino, reporter for the Madrid paper E/ Pais, was the first to report (January 23, 2000) that the right-wing Cuban-American organisations had begun to foster and promote the legend that Elian Gonzalez was a ‘miracle child.’ The Miami relatives played the game as well. Marisleysis Gonzalez, the surrogate mother, (after Elian was taken by

the INS she became the ‘spiritual mother’), told The Times of London, ‘People need to believe in miracles. This kid was in the middle of the ocean, his feet hanging over an inner tube and he had no fish bites, no scratches, nothing. How can that be? The other two survivors had blis-

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ters, holes in their legs and were sunburned. Elian had nothing. It was like God sent the fishermen to get him.’27 In the Cuban exile millenarian message, promoted by the media in Miami, if God intervenes and saves a child, then the child has a purpose.

The child is to be the messenger, the Messiah of Cuban national redemption. Elian was transformed into the anti-Fidel. By the end of January, the then six year old had become ‘el milagro’ (the miracle), the child Moses, the messenger, the child-prophet, and the angel. Jean Marbella wrote in the Baltimore Sun, ‘Whenever Elian goes in public, people try to touch him or otherwise bask in his aura.’2? Indeed, the crowd around the Miami house included people who were mystical believers as much as anti-communists. People flocked to the house where Elian stayed because he was believed to have magical curing powers. Sick children were held in the hope that the ‘miracle child’ would touch the sick. The old and the infirm shouted to him, asking Elian to come near the fence in order to touch them. Some even claimed that his powers were so great that they won money in the Florida lottery.?9 Murals and T-shirts depicted the six-year-old as divine. And few resisted the opportunity to be close to the miracle kid: Roman Catholic priests, Protestant and Evangelical Christian ministers and preachers proclaimed the sacred quality of Elian. A powerful propaganda machine went to work to foster the child redeemer image. Miami exile poet, José Manuel Carballo, wrote poems about Elian, duly read over AM radio.

Over 200,000 postcards were sold in Miami portraying Elian with Dolphins and God (or the Virgin of El Cobre). The postcards read, ‘God Given Freedom’ and have the address of the White House on the back. Thousands of Elian posters and T-shirts have been sold as well. Artists did likewise: Alexis Blanco did several paintings of Elian, dolphins and God looking from above. He notes, ‘I . . . think it has been a miracle from God that this boy was rescued alive and that dolphins, like Elian himself says, helped the situation. Elian, for me, is like a messenger that announces the end of the communist dictatorship.’30

Political Opportunism Politicians flocked to have their photo opportunities with the child as well. A Miami politician gave Elian a puppy with the name ‘Delfin’ (dolphin) which, oddly enough, is the name of his great uncle Delfin Gonzalez (and brother of Elidn’s father, Lazaro). Cuban-American

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congresspersons, Iliana Ros and Lincoln Diaz Balart, along with Robert ‘Torricelli and many others, posed with the divine kid. A Republican congressman from New Jersey apparently learned to speak Spanish in the mere presence of the child who then told him that he did not want to go back to Cuba. Violent former CIA operatives even had unique transformations. Full-time anti-Castro activist and president of Brothers to the Rescue, José Basulto, who had worked as a CIA asset in Cuba and

throughout Latin America, told a New Republic reporter that the dolphins had protected Elian because he was an ‘angel.’ How he learned to discern such things was not revealed. Obviously, Miami image shapers understood that in Hollywood and in American television, angels were ong!

In less than a month, Elian Gonzalez was rapidly transformed from a regular child to someone saved by divine intervention and later into an angel himself. This transmogrification happened only after the INS declared that the child should be with his father in Cuba. References to God, Moses, dolphins, puppies and angels could find resonance within the American public.3? And for the right-wing spin masters, it became necessary to ‘explain’ to the public why the Cuban government insisted on demanding the return of the child. Obviously, neither common sense, international law, nor the fact that the right-wing Cuban Americans had put them in a lose-lose position, seemed to dawn on them. Thus, the esoteric interpretation was projected onto Fidel Castro and his government.

The Santeria Connection On January 31, 2000, WFOR-TYV, a CBS affiliate reported that some

people in Miami believed that Fidel Castro had taken a personal interest in the Elian case because of his beliefs in Santeria. By that time Ninoska Pérez, the spokeswoman for the CANF, in her daily radio program ‘Ninoska a la Una,’ on WQBA-AM (11401) reported on aletter that she re-

ceived ‘anonymously.’ According to the letter, which she read over the airwaves, Fidel Castro needed to have Elian because of his Santeria be-

liefs. According to the undisclosed source, Fidel Castro had to literally sacrifice the child. Ernesto Pichardo, a leading Santeria practitioner and advocate who won a Supreme Court ruling in 1993 on the use of animal sacrifices, rejected the letter and noted that Santeria did not practice

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human sacrifice. Pichardo considered the whole situation bogus. Yet, Ninoska had a second program on the same subject.?3 On February 1, 2000, the story of Elian, Fidel Castro and Santeria

crossed into the US mainstream media. The Associated Press circulated a story from Coral Gables, Florida, that said, ‘One unconfirmed story

circulating through Miami’s Cuban community has Cuban President Fidel Castro consulting a babalawo, a priest in the Afro-Cuban religion of Santeria, which melds elements of Catholicism and West African spiritualism and sometimes calls for animal sacrifices. The santero told Castro his future depends on Elian, and if the child stays in Florida, Castro’s regime will fall. If Elian returns to Cuba,’ the story went, ‘Castro will re-

main in power forever.’ In the same show Pérez gave credence to the interpretation and noted that ‘Castro will fall if Elian Gonzalez is not returned.’34 The actual story from Cuba was slightly different. Victor Betancourt, a babalawo from Centro Habana, and president of the Ifa Iranlowo Society in the island, claimed that Elian had escaped and defeated death and anyone who had close access to the child could overcome illness and death.3> The Santeria priest never claimed that.he had Fidel Castro as one of his clients. Moreover, he stressed that regardless of what happened to the child, the effects would be positive for Cuba. Somehow those details did not cross the Straight of Florida. Apparently messages from Orishas in Cuba are also not interpreted the same way in South Florida. In Miami, the message was clear. It had been spelled out to the Spanish-speaking public. This was no longer the mystical interpretation of a Pentecostal preacher or a few old Catholic believers. Radio and television programs soon followed. On February 15, Ninoska Pérez again appeared on television, along with two Santeria priests, Roberto Oriozco and Luis Naveira. Both claimed that Elian was, in fact, the human repre-

sentation or messenger of Eleggua. Ernesto Pichardo, the other santero who had disagreed with Ninoska, challenged the whole thing, but the CANF received assistance from other quarters. A week later, the London-based Cuban novelist, Guillermo Cabrera Infante, gave the story even further credence by asserting in the Madrid newspaper El Pais (February 22, 2000) that for many ‘Catholic believers’ in Miami, ‘Elian is the re-incarnation . . . of Eleggua.’ He went on to stress that Fidel Castro was a devoted believer of Santeria. Thus, a highly recognised international figure added his voice to the Elian affair.36 Who is Eleggua? In the Ifa religion of Nigeria, known as Santeria in

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Cuba, Eleggua is a spirit force (called orisha) who knows the past, the

present and the future. If one ‘loses’ one’s Eleggud, then one has no future. Eleggua can manifest himself in one of 21 different guises; but he is always a trickster. According to believers, wherever Eleggud-child goes, confusion follows. Eleggua is the messenger and spirit force that ‘opens doors’ and announces new paths. This, however, was not the first time

that Eleggua had been brought up by conservative Cubans in Miami. At the time that Mikhail Gorbachev visited Cuba on April 3, 1989, it was claimed that Fidel Castro had no choice but to follow the route of glasnost and perestroika because the Soviet leader had the ‘kiss of Eleggua’ on his forehead. But somehow, the Cuban revolutionary went his own way. When a few months later the Cuban government charged two identical twins who were high officials in the Cuban government with drug trafficking and executed one of them, the story surfaced that Fidel Castro’s days were numbered because one cannot separate ibeyes (identical twins). Of course, such interpretations depart from meanings and symbols understandable to a significant portion of the American public, and as long as the messages remained in Spanish, there was not much to worry about.

Political-Ideological Manipulation What had been crude political-ideological manipulation by the CANF acquired a dangerous political dimension; it could be construed as irrational and nonsensical if it spilled over into the US mainstream; and it did. When the CANF decided to lobby Congress to grant Elian US citizenship, it took to Washington a delegation of luminaries. Among those who went was Juan Carlos Formell, a Cuban-American singer nominated for a Grammy. Formell testified before the US Senate Judiciary Committee, where he was expected to state his opposition to returning Elian to Cuba. Formell, who had spent most of his life in Cuba and could talk about growing up there, followed the script well. But before concluding his remarks he surprised and amazed associates and hosts. On March 1, he said:

Finally, there is the most important aspect of this case—one that has been overlooked completely. It explains why the determination of Elian’s future is it will afthe most important event in contemporary Cuban history—because fect Cuban history in the future. The soul of the Cuban people is represented

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and personified by its patron saints—Our Lady of Charity and her sister, Our Lady of Regla. Both are manifestations of the Virgin Mary, with the former ruling over fresh water and the latter ruling the sea. More folk legend than religious doctrine, their influence has survived the destruction of established religion in Cuba. All those saved at sea are viewed by the Cuban people as specially blessed—and are referred to as “Yemaya Diordde”—a title that comes from our African heritage. This image, of the Holy Mother, suspended over the sea with a child in her arms is the central icon of the Cuban identity. There is no one in Cuba who does not share a deep reverence for this. Fidel Castro’s hysterical insistence on the return of this child is based on his knowledge of this icon, and his cruelly subtle ability of how to manipulate the Cuban people. It is a tremendous irony that Castro is admired by many as a figure of what is thought of as progressive, when in reality he runs his country with the use of witchcraft and superstition. If you, as rational people, find this idea hard to accept, I refer you to the Book of Matthew, chapter 2, verses 1 through 8, when

Herod tells the three kings to bring the child to him after they have found him. As rational people, members of this committee might find this absurd, but it is not absurd to the Cuban people.37

Having control over Elian became more than a matter of custody; it was a struggle over who will rule Cuba. In Little Havana, Elian was considered to be the very source of power in Cuba, hence, the legal struggle, the mobilisations, and the unacknowledged, barely-seen-by-the-American-public esoteric attempt to remove Fidel Castro by means of Santeria. The struggle for power in Cuba was simplified into the snatching of a child from his father. The exiled Cuban writer, Jestis Diaz, who now

resides in Spain, notes that a people that depend on heroes, martyrs and miracles, is easily manipulated.+° It is clear that the right-wing leadership in Miami, in attributing mystical and sacred qualities to Elian for its own practical and instrumental reasons, was able to mobilise a population that usually is very supportive of preserving the family unit at all costs. It was one thing to discuss the issue of Elian as a regular child without a mother and afather waiting for him in Cuba; it was something else to send the ‘future liberator of Cuba’ to a ‘Cuban hell.’ Or worse yet, to be the instrument that would preserve Fidel Castro ‘in power. The Miracle Child

Elian as divine messenger resonates within a small but powerful sector of the Cuban-American community. In the eyes of such Cubans, history is shaped by non-human forces that intervene in day to day life, and who

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constantly provide us with ‘signs’ as to what those forces want or compel us to do. It could be an orisha, a dolphin or the Virgin Mary appearing to Lazaro Gonzdlez on an oval mirror in his bedroom, or on a commer-

cial bank’s ATM machine. But what is particularly revealing is that some Miami Cubans, including right-wing ones that play such an important part in shaping US policy toward Cuba, should have such a millenarian perspective on the future of Elian. And further that that perspective should become so intertwined with the future of Cuba. The miracle child message was acceptable because these Cubans have no real hope that their political agenda can be attained. They have waited for the demise of the revolution or at least the death of Fidel Castro. They have tried every tough measure possible, from exile invasion to the HelmsBurton Bill, but nothing has worked. The return of Elian to his father,

and his eventual departure for Cuba, just marks another exile failure. On April 22, 2000, the Miami Jesuit priest, Florentino Azcoitia, in his

Radio Mambi program (WAQI-AM 710), ‘Family Encounter’ (Encuentro de Familia), read from the Book of Isaiah. He noted that on the ‘land of the shadow of death’ a child of light would come. He declared that child to be little Elian, who, although he spoke little, had opened ‘caminos’ (paths). Here the Catholic priest borrowed the images of Santeria and declared, ‘A child was born to us that God wanted him to be [for us] what Jesus Christ was for all the world. This child’s name is Elian.’

Within hours the house where Elian had stayed in Little Havana became a shrine and a sanctuary. At the front, by the lawn and on the fence, pilgrims left flowers, letters with messages, little dolls, crucifixes and many other objects. On April 24, Victor Betancourt, the most important babalawo in Cuba, told Radio Havana Cuba that all Santeria priests in the island had done the appropriate magical and religious offerings to have Elian with them. Miami, apparently, had failed to sway the other world to its side.3?

The Metaphysical Turn The presentation of the Elian affair in metaphysical terms, began when the US government decided to return the child to his father. Following the lead of the CANF, the Spanish language Miami media transformed a normal child into a divine figure. The survival of Elian at sea became the ‘first miracle,’ the ‘second miracle’ was to be staying in the US. But as the US government insisted but failed to act, the Miami family made the

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metaphysical interpretation its own as well. So it became ever more difficult to give the child back. There were too many political and economic pressures as well. The rights of a father to his son got lost in the process. Besides, the US government seemed reluctant to act. The Cuban-American power structure saw itself as having an unusual and unique relation with the US; it was invincible. After all, anything that they had wanted from the US government was always given, including military intervention in the island. Now, for the first time in 41 years,

the federal government denied the right wing the right to have a child from Castro’s Cuba. Reynaldo Cué has noted that this caused a‘political and ideological trauma in a community that saw itself as all powerful. As the crisis and rift with the US government and with the national media deepened, the metaphysical framework became even more important.’ Indeed, the search for a metaphysical explanation and solution happens in moments of profound crisis, when nothing else seems to work. It is in such a context that charismatic figures emerge. The millenarian expectation for a divine redeemer only reveals the political irrelevancy of the Miami right-wing Cubans. Elian was expected to accomplish what neither the US government, the US embargo, or the CANF has been able to attain. Such is the irrational thinking of the most powerful lobby shaping US policy on Cuba: the militant, right wing, Miami-based CANF tried to transform a human tragedy into a seemingly supernatural sign to indicate that Fidel Castro no longer had the blessing of the orishas. It all relates to the magic of religion, whether Christianity, Santeria, or other. And whenever a public figure’s charismatic appeal is buttressed by religious legitimacy, whether in the case of Elian or Fidel, the result is an emotional outpouring of support that has been known to defy rational discourse. To accomplish exceptional deeds and conquer insurmountable challenges, reinforces a prior conviction that the charismatic leader continues to have divine favour. In the case of Fidel Castro, his regime had extraordinary successes, among them: his security forces have dismantled over 400 assassination attempts against his life; under his leadership a handful of men seized power and have retained it for over 41 years; a very small country and very close to the US challenged and did away with American hegemony over the island; the revolutionaries allied with the USSR at the height of the cold war, provoked and even survived a major nuclear war confrontation; they unleashed the most radical and utopian social experiment in the western hemisphere; the country took

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on an activist role in foreign policy, and despite its small size, sent soldiers to Africa, the Middle East and Vietnam. But perhaps the most extraordinary of all Fidel’s accomplishments, has been the fact that Cuba managed to survive the demise of the Soviet bloc while everyone expected that the Revolution’s ‘final hour’ had arrived. Instead, the revolutionaries stayed in power and opened the ranks of the Communist Party to religious believers, In a sense, then, Castro’s ‘divine mission’ has been proven time and again. awd the US dalla, Charisma and Succession

A revolutionary regime that comes to depend on a charismatic leader eventually faces the question of continuity. The most common question asked about Cuba is: what will happen when Fidel Castro is dead? Often it is assumed that Fidel Castro cannot be replaced or that the charismatic figure will not work on a succession mechanism. The classical literature notes that there are numerous ways to secure a successor. Max Weber tells us that there are four main paths open to succession under charismatic rule: (a) designation, (b) written procedure, (c) heredity, or (d) rev-

elation. In the case of Cuba, three of those four options already indicate who the successor would be. Designation: The usual procedure is for the charismatic leader to publicly announce his successor and have the consent of the community of followers. Fidel Castro has done this on numerous occasions. As early as May 1, 1960, he named his brother, Ratl Castro. He ratified that deci-

sion on October 10, 1992, at the Communist Party Congress. Legal/written stipulations: The Cuban Constitution provides that ‘in the absence of the President of the Council of State (due to illness or death), the first Vice-president will assume those functions’ (Article 94,

Cuban Constitution of 1992). A similar procedure comes into place if the president of the council of ministers is unable to function, the first vice-president, who happens to be Raul Castro, will step in. Within the Communist Party, Ratl occupies the position of second secretary and is in line to become first secretary if his brother is unable to lead anymore. But more important yet, Ratil Castro and his associates ‘have attained a degree of control, cohesion and resources not found among other sectors of the society. If only domestic forces are taken into account, the outcome of the succession is already secure.’ This is not surprising because even charismatic leadership needs organisation and bureaucracy.

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The charismatic leader has to deal with everyday issues and demands— from food supply, to information, to security. The Cuban experience demonstrates that charismatic authority depends on new but bureaucratised methods of exercising power on a day-to-day basis. Heredity: Although the charismatic ruler might try to transfer power to an heir, this had not been the case. Instead, the.successor is a brother.

However, Fidel claims that Ratl is his choice not out of nepotism but because Ratl has earned the right by his personal efforts and political skills. In other words, the argument is not one based on heredity but rather on achievement. Revelation: There is a possible scenario that has not occurred yet. The Santeria sign oracle (the Ifa) could reveal that Ratl has been chosen to continue the mission initiated by his brother. Such revelation could happen while Fidel is alive. There are many Santeria stories available that address the transfer of power. For example, There was a time when the world was ruled by the powerful Obatal4. He was wise and intelligent and he did not need any help. But Obatala decided to find someone who would govern the Earth in his place. Right away he remembered Orula. One could trust him. Orula was too young, so he did not have much experience for the task: to govern the Earth and lead the men. ‘First I must test his wisdom,’ thought Obatalé, “Then I will see what I do afterwards.’

Once tested and proven to be wise, Obatal4 chooses Orula. Orula is the chief diviner of the Yoruba pantheon. He is the youngest of all gods. He happens to be the patron saint of all the babalawos (the Santeria high priests) and is identified with technical knowledge and the future of everything. Orula represents the educated, the technicians, and the skilled administrators. Orula has unique skills and in a sense is the orisha/spirit that knows the rules and does not violate them. One does not pray to Orula nor ask favors of him. In the Santeria universe, he is married to Oshtin (which happens to be the patron saint of Cuba, or the Caridad del Cobre in its Catholic facade).

Raul will succeed his brother. But he cannot rule like Fidel Castro for the simple reason that he does not possess the secular personal traits and historical legitimacy of the older brother; nor can the charismatic quality be transferred, since charisma is a social relationship dependent on the followers’ perceptions. All that Fidel Castro can do on behalf of his brother is to try to transfer his own legitimacy to him. That is an aspect

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of the routinisation of charisma, as Max Weber called it. Apparently US policy-makers are convinced that Raul Castro would take charge and even manage to control a post-Fidel Cuba. That is why the Helms-Burton legislation forbids any US government from recognising any regime of which Ratl Castro is a member. Conclusion

This chapter has sought to highlight the interaction of charismatic political authority and popular religiosity within a revolutionary context. It has shown that the contribution made by Max Weber to the study of charisma can be applied to the Cuban political experience in a manner that conforms to its original meaning. Moreover, the central caution is that it is important to consider the influence that Afro-Cuban popular religiosity has on the interpretation of political events. The Cuban political leadership takes notice of such factors, perhaps the academic world will begin to do so as well.

ENDNOTES

1. Anais Nin. D H Lawrence, An Unprofessional Study. Chicago: Swallow Press,

1964. 2. From letter to Arnold Ruge, kreuznach, September 1843, in Saul K Padover, ed Karl Marx on Religion. (New York: MacGraw Hill, 1974) p 235.

3. The African roots of Cuban identity, nationalism and politics are explored in Perez-Sarduy and Stubbs (eds), 1993. 4. Encyclopedia of Sociology, Connecticut: The Dushkin Publishing Group, Inc, 1973,

Bt: 5, Raters 12: 6 (‘For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you.’) 6. It has been noted that ‘Charisma was first used as a scholarly term by German church historian Rudolf Sohm, who took it from the New Testament’. In this

initial scholarly use, the concept shared the same source as it did for the present full-gospel community, namely, the Greek term meaning ‘gift of grace.’ See; Margaret M Poloma, Charisma and Institutions: A Sociological Account of the ‘Toronto Blessing’, Sociology Department, The University of Akron, Akron, OH 44325-1905 USA. 7. For a review of the literature on charisma as a set of personality traits and attributes see: Kojiro Miyahara, ‘Charisma: From Max Weber to Contemporary Sociology,’ Sociological Inquiry, Fall 1983. 8. Nelson P Valdés, ‘Fidel Castro,’ in Joel Krieger, (ed) Oxford Companion to World Politics, Oxford University Press, 1993.

9. H M Trice andJ M Beyer have posited that five conditions are necessary for

24 0 / Caribbean Charisma charisma to be present in a historical situation. These are: (1) the leader possesses extraordinary gifts, (2) a crisis exists, (3) followers believe the leader to

have transcendental powers, (4) the leader’s gifts and transcendence are validated by repeated successes. See: ‘Charisma and Its Routinisation in Two Social Movement Organisations,’ Research in Organisational Behavior, 8, 1988, pp 113-164. 10. A thorough description and analysis of the different religious beliefs and practices originating in Africa can be found in: Anibal Arguelles Mederos and Ileana Hodge Limonta, Los Hamados cultos sincréticos y el Espiritismo, La Habana: Editorial Academia, 1991. The Catholic Church has paid special attention to Santeria and Mayomberia in thinking about its own work in Cuba. See: Hermana Marta Lei, Algunas definiciones sobre religiosidad popular, La Habana, no date, manuscript, 44 pages. Lis In Cuba since colonial times the ‘supernatural’ has been explicitly used by those

who held political power. Romulo Lachatanere, E/ sistema religioso de los afrocubanos. La Habana: Ciencias Sociales, 1992. 2 Encuentro Nacional Eclesial Cubano, Documento Final, Rome: Tipografia Don Bosco, 1987, p 80. 13. After his coup d’etat, Fulgencio Batista claimed that an ‘Indian’ was his ‘guide and guardian.’ See: ‘La leyenda del indio’ Prensa Libre (Havana), March 15, 1953, p ee It has been noted that Santeria is a ‘cult of the dead.’ See: Wyatt MacGaffey and Clifford R Barnett, Cuba, Its People, Its Society, Its Culture, New Haven: HRAF

Press, 1962, p 206.

5. One of Cuba’s foremost essayists wrote, ‘Cuando el-santo se digna regresar del mas all4, para hablar por boca de un sujeto en estado de extasis, aligera las palabras de todo lastre vulgar, de toda nocién consciente, de toda ética falaz, opuestos a la expresién de su sentido integral. Es posible que, en realidad, el santo no hable nunca; pero la honda exhaltacién producida por una fé absoluta en su presencia, viene a dotar el verbo de su 4gico poder creador, perdido desde eras primitivas.’ Alejo Carpentier, Ecue-Yamba-O, Buenos Aires: Editorial Xanandi,

1968, pp 55-56.

16. On Obatala’s qualities and characteristics see: Judith Gleason, Orisha: The Gods of Yorubaland, New York: Atheneum, 1971; E Bolaji Idowu, Olodumare, God in

Yoruba Belief, New York: Praeger, 1961; Angelina Pollak-Eltz, Cultos afroamericanos, Caracas: Universidad catdlica Andés Bello, 1977; Dona Rose, Santeria, The

Cuban-African Magical System, Hialeah, Florida: Mi-World, 1980. 17. The importance of mythology in Cuban popular culture has been explored by Miguel Barnet, ‘Funcion del mito en la cultura cubana,’ in La fuente viva, Habana: Editorial Letras Cubanas, 1983, p 161. 18. Leopoldina Grau (Polita), one of the key figures in coordinating CIA sponsored

counter-revolutionary activities in Cuba once stated that ‘Your leader is pro-

tected by someone more than the G2 (secret police). See: Luis Baez, ‘Al lider de

ustedes lo protege alguien mas que el G2—Entrevista a Polita Grau,’ Juventud Rebelde (Havana), November 28, 1993, p 6.

19. The most detailed chronology of the events was written by Dr Carlos Alzugaray,

profesor at the Instituto Superior de Relaciones Internacionales (Havana), ‘Cronologia del Caso Elian Génzalez (versién corregida el 13-12-1999 a las

7:30 am)’, Cuba-L Direct (Albuquerque, New Mexico), December 13, 1999. 20 . Jean Marbella, ‘A Pawn ina Political Battle,’ Baltimore Sun, January 3, 2000.

Fidel Castro / 241

ee 5-year-old Found on Inner Tube 2 other Cuban Rafters Survive,’ Miami Herald,

November 25, 1999. 22 ‘Miami's Passionate, Self-defeating Fight for Elian Gonzo New Republic, January 19, 2000. 232 State Department Briefing, Immigration and Naturalisation Service Press Conference with INS Commissioner Doris Meissner, January 5, 2000. 24. ‘Paralizada Miami,’ Diario las Américas (Miami), January 7, 2000. . ‘Divine Cuban Boy,’ Associated Press, January 31, 2000. 26. José Marmol, ‘El futuro de Elian,’ Nuevo Herald (Miami), January 11, 2000. 27. Javier del Pino, ‘El milagro,’ E/ Pais (Madrid), January 23, 2000. 28. Jean Marbella, ‘A Pawn ina Political Battle,’ Baltimore Sun, January 3, 2000. 29. ‘Players Bet the House: Elian Digits Win Lottery,’ The Miami Herald, November 4, 2000. 30. ‘Elian es venerado por algunos exiliados cubanos de Miami,’ Associated Press, January 29, 2000. 31. ‘Divine Cuban Boy,’ Associated Press, January 31, 2000. 32. Ann Louise Bardach, ‘Cuba, the Cast of Characters in a Family Melodrama,’ Los Angeles Times, January 30, 2000. 33. Jacob Bernstein, “Their Eyes Were Ee Eleggua,’ Miami New Times, April 20, 2000. sa One version of the story can be ae at: http://webhome.globalserve.net/ ernesto/polemica/santos.htm a9: Roberto Céspedes, “The Mystical Power of Elian,’ New York Times On The Web, April 4, 2000. 36. Guillermo Cabrera Infante, ‘Santeros Link Castro’s Future to Elian,’ Miami Herald, April 17, 2000. This is the translation of the Spanish version that ap-

peared in El Pais (Madrid). 37. Prepared Testimony of Juan Carlos Formell, Before the Senate Judiciary Committee, Washington, DC, March 1, 2000. 38. Jestis Diaz, ‘Cuba rota,’ El Pais (Madrid), January 31, 2000. 39; ‘News on Cuba and Latin America,’ Radio Havana Cuba, April 24, 2000.

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Notes on the Contributors

Anton L Allahar was born in Trinidad (Diego Martin) and obtained his PhD from the University of Toronto in Political Sociology. He is Professor of Sociology at the University of Western Ontario in London, Canada. His books include: The Sugar Planters of Colonial Cuba (1982);

Class, Politics and Sugar in Colonial Cuba (1990); Is there Life after Debt? The Latin American Debt Crisis (1993); Sociology and the Periphery: Theories and Ideologies (1995), Generation on Hold: Coming ofAge in the Late 20% Century (1996); Richer and Poorer: the Structure ofInequality in Canada (1998). Percy C Hintzen was born in Guyana and received his PhD from Yale University in Political Sociology and Comparative Social Change. He is an Associate Professor in the Department of African American Studies at the University of California, Berkeley, and has served as Department Chair and Director of Peace and Conflict Studies. His publications include: The Costs of Regime Survival: Racial Mobilization, Elite Domination,

and Control of the State in Guyana and Trinidad (1989), West Indians in the West: Self Representations in a Migrant Community (forthcoming); and sev-enty-one biographic entries on Caribbean leaders in Dictionary of Latin American and Caribbean Political Biography.

Linden Lewis was born in Guyana and received his PhD in Sociology from the American University in Washington, DC. He is an Associate Professor of Sociology at Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. Some of his publications include: ‘Nationalism and Caribbean Masculinity’, in Gender Ironies of Nationalism: Sexing the Nation, Tamar Mayer, ed (2000); ‘Masculinity and the Dance of the Dragon: Reading Lovelace Discursively’. Feminist Review, no 59, Summer, 1998; ‘Socialist

Crisis and the Trajectory of Caribbean Politics.’ Beyond Law, vol 6, Issue 17, January, 1997; “The Social Reproduction of Youth in the Caribbean,’ In Essays on Youth in the Caribbean (1995); ‘Richard B Moore: The Making of a Caribbean Organic Intellectual-A Review Essay.’ Journal of Black Studies, vol 25, no 5, May, 1995.

Brian Meeks was born in Canada (Montréal) and is currently a citizen

of Jamaica. He received his PhD in Government from the University of

Notes on the Contributors / 257

the West Indies, Mona. Dr Meeks is Senior Lecturer and head of the

Department of Government at the University of the West Indies, Mona, Jamaica. He is the author of Caribbean Revolutions and Revolutionary Theory: An Assessment ofCuba, Nicaragua and Grenada (1993); Radical Caribbean: from Black Power to Abu Bakr (1996); Narratives of Resistance: Jamaica, Trinidad, the Caribbean (2000).

Patricia Mohammed was born in Trinidad and obtained her PhD at the Institute of Social Studies in the Netherlands. Her primary areas of work and interest are gender studies, history and art. She has held a variety of positions ranging from researcher to course director in Trinidad, the UK and on the three campuses of the University of the West Indies. She holds the position of Senior Lecturer and Head of the Centre for Gender and Development Studies, Mona Unit, the University of the West Indies. She has published several books and essays in the field of gender studies. Among these are the co-edited Gender in Caribbean Development, (1988); Rethinking Caribbean Difference, Guest edited Issue No 59, Feminist Review (1998); and co-author of Caribbean Women at the Crossroads

(1998). Pedro A Noguera was born in the United States (New York) and re-

ceived his PhD from the University of California at Berkeley. He is a Professor in the Graduate School of Education at Harvard University where he serves as the Judith K Dimon Chair Professor of Communities

and Schools. Dr Noguera’s research focuses on the ways in which schools respond to social and economic forces within the urban environment. He has published on topics such as youth violence, race relations within schools, the potential impact of school choice and vouchers on urban public schools, and issues resulting from desegregation in public schools. Dr Noguera has also published ‘Adult Literacy and Participatory Democracy in Revolutionary Grenada’ in Caribbean Quarterly Spring, 1995; ‘Charismatic Leadership and Popular Support: an Analysis of the Leadership Styles of Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop’ in Journal of Social and Economic Studies, September 1995; The Imperatives ofPower: Political Change and the Social Basis of Regime Support in Grenada (1997). Nelson P Valdés was born in Havana, Cuba. He holds a PhD in History and Sociology from the University of New Mexico, and is Professor

of Sociology at the University of New Mexico. He has edited the selected works of Fidel Castro and Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, as well as the

258 / Notes on the Contributors

very widely used Cuba in Revolution (1972). His articles include: ‘La Chachita y El Ché: Patron Saints of Revolutionary Cuba’ in Encounter (Albuquerque), Winter 1989; ‘Fidel Castro,’ Oxford Companion to World Politics, 1993. Professor Valdés also specialises in US Southwest, Socio-

logical Theory, and Cuba-un verdadero ‘toddélogo.’ In addition he is Director of the Program of Academic Research on Cuba at UNM, and President of the non-profit Cuba Research & Analysis Group, which produces the daily Cuba-L Direct. Hilbourne A Watson was born in Barbados and received his PhD in Political Science from Howard University. He is Professor of International Relations at Bucknell University and specialises in international political economy, international relations, and political theory. Some recent publications are, “he Caribbean: Western Hemisphere Integration and Global Transformation’ in Between Cuba and NAFTA.J Tulchin et al

(eds), 1997; ‘Global Change and Enterprise Culture in Barbados’ in fournal of Eastern Caribbean Studies, Volume 22, Number 3, September 1997; ‘Introduction’ to Technology and Restructuring Special Issue of Latin American Perspectives Volume 26, No5, Issue 108, September 1999;

‘Global Finance: the Role and Status of the Caribbean’ in The Political Economy of Drugs in the Caribbean. I Griffith (ed), 2000; ‘Global Neoliberalism, the Third technological Revolution and Global 2000’ in Contending with Destiny: The Caribbean in the 21 Century, K Hall et al (eds),

2000.

"Index

Adams, Grantley (Barbados); early career of, 44-45; populist leadership of, 26; support of British intervention in Guyana, 139

communist label, 43; death of, 61-64; and Duffus Commission, 70n; foreign

policy of, 69n; and freedom of speech,

Adult suffrage; in Grenada, 79; in Guyana, LS 5

54-56; and the independence debate, 34-35, 47-48; paternalism of, 23; political career of, 33-34; political

African retentions; in Cuban popular

philosophy of, xii, 38-44, 48-54; and

culture; 219-20 Allahar, Anton, L, 256 American Institute for Free Labor;

political corruption, 52, 53; and issue of race and class, 49-52, 56, 66-67; and socialism, 19, 40, 45-46, 49-51, 52-53,

destabilisation of Guyana by the, 123-24 Anglican Church (Barbados); and Barrow, 70n

Antigua Caribbean Liberation Movement (ACLM); 51 Armstrong, Aubrey; on Burnham’s legacy, 115-16 Authority see traditional authority, rational-legal authority and charismatic authority Barbados; political development of, xii-xiii; and ethics of charismatic leadership, 54-58; race/class issues in, 48-51, 56, 66

Barbados Community College, 69n Barbados Institute of Management and Productivity (BIMAP); 44 Barbados Labour Party (BLP); and Barrow, 33, 38; and social change, 40 Barbados National Standards Institute (BNS]); 44 Barbados Official Secrets Act; and ethics of leadership, 54-56 Barbados Workers’ Union; and Barrow,

38; and social change, 40 Barrow, Carolyn; 70-71n Barrow, Errol Walton (Barbados); achievements of, 44, 49, 63-64, 69n;

and the Anglican Church, 70n; background of, 38, 58, 69n, 70n; and the

black power movement, 66; and Caribbean radicals, 51-52; charismatic appeal of, x, xii, 33-67, 68n; and

65-66; and succession planning, 61-62, 66-67; and women, 52, 58-61 “ Barrow, Dame Nita; 71n

Barrow, Reverend Reginald; influence on Barrow, 40 Batista regime (Cuba); overthrow of, 222-23 Bendix, Reinhardt, concept of charisma, 213-14

Bird, Vere (Antigua); populist leadership of, 26 Bishop, Maurice (Grenada); charismatic appeal of, x, xii—xiii, 31, 73-74, 76-79, 86-88; emergence of, 83-88; paternalism of, 23; and socialism,18 Black power movement; in Barbados, 50, 66; in Jamaica, 205 Blackman, Sir Courtney; on Barrow, 38, 53 Blaise, Herbert (Grenada); 84, 90n

Bloody Sunday (Grenada); 85, 91n Bottomore, Tom; on charismatic

leadership, 38 Bradshaw, Robert (St Kitts); populist

leadership of, 26 Braithwaithe, Edward; and the colonial mentality, 12 Britain; and the decolonisation of the West Indies, 166; intervention in Guyana’s politics by, 137-146 British Guiana see Guyana British Guyana East Indian Association (BGEIA); and Jagan, 130, 131 British Historians in the West Indies (Williams); 188-89

260 / Index

Bureaucratic organisation; 17-18 Burnham, Jessie; analysis of Forbes Burnham by, 104-5, 117 Burnham, Linden Forbes (Guyana);

Castoriadis, Cornelius; on looking at Burnham’s legacy, 116 Castro, Fidel (Cuba); charismatic appeal

of, x, xv, 2, 31, 210n, 215-39;

background of, 92-93; charismatic appeal of, x, xiii, 92-120; and

paternalism of, 23; and Elian Gonzalez

constitution reform, 113-15; and Cuffy, 108-9; and the democratic process, 118-19; electoral policy of, 110-11,

revolutionary leader, 220-1; and socialism, 18; application of Weber’s concept of charisma to, 221-25; and

legacy of, 115-17; and the military,

succession planning, 237-39

issue, 236-7; paternalism of, 23;

107-8; oratorical skills of, 98-99; paternalism of, 23; and the PNC, 112;

Castro, Raul (Cuba); successor to Fidel,

and the PPP, 100, 112, 136, 141-42; personality cult, 106-9; political development of, xiii; populist appeal, 93-94, 102-5; and the race issue, 101-2; regional and international profile of,

Catholic Church (Guyana); resistance to Burnham, 112 Charisma see also charisma of office,

103-4, 119n; resistance to, 111-13; and corporate socialism, 18, 102-3; and issue

of succession planning, 106-7 Bustamane, Alexander (Jamaica); and anti-

colonial movement, 166; populist leadership of, 26; support of British intervention in Guyana, 139; and the trade union movement in Jamaica, 203 Bustamante Industrial Trade Union (BITU, Jamaica); 203

Butler, Uriah (Trinidad); populist leadership of, 26, 166 Capitalism; and political charisma, 35-37 Capitalism and Slavery; 155, 188 Caribbean; the cold war and the, 144-47; economic conditions (1930s), 25-28; decolonisation of the British, 166; defining the, ix—x; independence movement in the, 28; international

economic policy and the, 149-153; labour movement, 26-28; post-colonial

development of the, 72-73; postindependence economic conditions, 21-22; populism and paternalism in the, 22-24; race/class issues in the, 21-22, 51; radical intellectuals, 51-52 Caribbean Labour Congress (CLC); and the TUC, 140

Caribbean leaders; charismatic appeal of selected, x—xi, 31, 72-73; Danns’ analysis of, 105; paternalism of, 23; populist, 18, 23-24, 26; postindependence, 12; and socialism, 18-19, 20, 139

Caribbean personality; analysis of the, ix Carter Centre; and Guyana, 152

237-39

modern charisma, political charisma and pure charisma; Bendix concept of, 213-14; defining, xi—xii, 213-15, 239n;

followership and, xi, xiii, 1-2, 5-6, 7-9, 12-13, 97-98, 117-18, 214, 215-16;

Friedrich’s concept of, 214; importance of popular religiosity and culture in, 217-20; Robertson concept of, 213; Roth’s concept of, 94; Tucker’s concept of, 197-98; Weber’s concept of, 1-31, 35-38, 75-76, 94-98, 117, 196-97, 210, 213-14; limits of, 88-89, 109-10; women and, 58-59, 96; and social

relations of production, 64-67, succession, 237-39 Charisma of office; Weber’s definition of, 9-10, 76; and the colonial mentality, 10-13

Charismatic authority; Danns’ concept of, 37-38, 105; authority vacuum and the

emergence of, 216-17; and populism, 102-5; Weber’s definition of, 4-6, 75-76, 97-98, 193-94

Charismatic Caribbean leaders; xi-xii; Danns on, 105, 198-99 Clarke, Austin; 69n Class see Race/Class issues Coard, Bernard (Grenada); 76 Cold war; end of the, 151; impact on

Guyana’s political development, 141-42;

and West Indian nationalism, 144-47 Colonial mentality; 45; and charisma of office, 10-13 Communism; and Barbados, 44; and Cuba, 144, 215 ; and Guyana, 135-141, 141

Cuba; economic conditions (1940s—50s),

28-31; and US policy, 20; women in pre-revolutionary, 29-31

Index / 261

Cuban American National Foundation (CANF); and Elian Gonzalez issue,

227-37 Cuban popular religiosity and culture; impact of Castro’s charasmatic appeal, 217-20 Cuban revolution, xi, 28-31, 144-46; Castro’s influence on the, xv; role in the

analysis of Castro’s charisma, 215-25 Cuffy; Guyanese slave hero, 108-9 Danns, George; application of Weber's theory to Caribbean leaders, 105,

198-99; concept of political charisma, 37-38; analysis of PNC policies, 102-3 Darke, Father Bernard ; resistance to Burnham, 112

Decolonisation; and the rise of populist leaders, 17-19 Democracy; Weber’s concept of, 95

Democratic Labour Party (DLP, Barbados); and Barrow, 33, 38; and communist label, 44; policies of, 42-44; and elections (1976 and 1981), 54, 56-58; modernisation strategy, 57-58; and women, 58-61, 70n; and succession

planning, 66-67 Democratic League (Barbados); and social change, 40 Douglas, Rosie; and Barrow, 51 Duffus Commission; and Barrow, 70n Dupres, D D; and Eric Williams. 157,

179, 187, 190n Duvaliers (Haiti); charismatic authority of the, 97

East Indians; support of Jagan, 132, 135-36, 142, 145; and issue of race in Guyana, 125-27; and the PPP, 142; in T&T, 174-77 Eisenstadt, Samuel; on charismatic leadership, 75-76 Emmanuel, Patrick; and Barrow, 51

Enlightenment; and the development of rational thought, 14-16 Fabianism; analysis of, 45 Fanon, Frantz; and the colonial mentality,

11-12; on role of the party in political organisation, 113 Followership; in the charismatic relationship, xi, xiii, 1-2, 5-6, 7-9, 12-13, 97-98, 117-18, 214, 215-16

Freedom of speech; in Barbados, 54-56

Freidrich, Carl; concept of charisma, 214

Gairy, Eric Mathew (Grenada); charismatic appeal of, x, xii—xiii, 2, 73-74, 76-78, 79-84, 86-88, 97; decline of, 82-86; paternalism of, 23; and socialism, 19 Gomes, Albert (Trinidad); populist leadership of, 26, 166 Gonzalez, Elian; as religious icon in antiCastro movement, 227-37 Gramisci, Antonio; theory of leadership, 209-10

Grenada; charismatic leaders of, 73-91; labour protests in (1951), 79-82;

political development of, xii—xiii, 19, 73-74, 79-91; socialist revolution in, 78; and US policy, 20, 78; Grenada Manual and Mental Workers Union

(GMMWVU), 82 “Grenada National Party (GNP); 84, 90n Grenada United Labor Party (GULP); 77, 82 Guyana; adult suffrage in, 135; British intervention in, 137-146; and the cold war; 141-42 constitution of 1980, 113-15; economic crisis in, 119n—20n, 148-49; anti-communist ideology in, 135-141; electoral fraud in, 110-11, 119n, 146, 150; electoral reform in,

150-51; role of the military under Burnham, 107-8; political development of, xiii-xiv, 100-20, 121-54; issue of race

and class in the politics of, 101-2, 125-27, 145-46; struggle for internal self-government in, 133-35; socialism in, 131-40; and US policy, 20, 119n;

US/British intervention in the politics of, 137-46 Guyana Industrial Workers Union (GIWU); and Jagan, 130, 131 Guyana Labour Union (GLU); and Burnham, 100

Guyanese Action for Reform and Democracy (GUARD); formation of, 149

Hintzen, Percy C, 256

History of the People of Trinidad and Tobago (Williams); 173-74, 175-76

Industrial Stabilisation Act (1965, T&T); 51

262 / Index International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU); anti-communist agenda of the, 140 International financing; impact on Guyana, 148-49 International Monetary Fund (IMF); and Guyana, 148-49, 152-53 Inward Hunger (Williams); 157, 161-63, 166-67, 174-75, 186-87 Jackman, Oliver; on Barrow, 53 Jagan, Cheddi; achievements of, 154; background of, 125-29; and the CIA, 119n, 122; charismatic appeal of, x, 124-25, 132, 135-36; challenge to colonialism, 133-35; and communist threat, 135-41; death of, 122; paternalism of, 23; and the PPP, 100, 135-46; policies of, 138-39, 142-44, 150-54; political development of, xlii—xiv, 2, 121-54; political vision of, 121-22; presidency, 151-53; and race issue, 101-2, 107, 145; resistance to

Burnham by, 111-12; and struggle for internal self-government, 133-35; and socialism, 18, 131—40; and the trade union movement, 130-31; US-alliance, 150; and US policy, 122-25, 133;

US/British collaboration against, 137-46; impact of USA sojourn on the political development of, 127-29 Jagan, Janet; background of, 129; and the PPP, 136 Jamaica; economic crisis; 194; trade union

movement and the political development of, 203 Jamaica Labour Party (JLP); and the 1980 elections, 195; government and M

Manley, 203-4 John, Patrick (Dominica); charismatic

authority of, 97

of power in, 3 Lee Fook, Madge; and Eric Williams, 157, 180 Lewis, Gordon; and the colonial

mentality, 12 Lewis, Linden, 256 London School of Economics; influence on Caribbean socialism, 45, 68n

Machiavelli; concept of leadership, 3 Man Powers Citizens’ Association (MPCA, Guyana); and Jagan, 130 Manley, Michael (Jamaica); achievements of, 205-6; background of, 199-212; on Barrow, 52; and the Black Power

movement, 204-5; charismatic appeal of, x, xv, 192-210; death of, 192-93; and 1980 elections, 194-96; and IMF, 195;

paternalism of, 23; personality of, 199-201; and PNP, 194, 203-7; and socialism, 18, 206; speeches of, 206-7; and trade union movement, 203-4

- Manley, Norman (Jamaica); populist leadership of, 26; support of British intervention in Guyana, 139 Manufactured charisma see modern charisma | ‘Massa day done’ (Williams); 172, 191n Mayomberia, 219-20 McShine, Halsey; and Eric Williams,

183-84 Meeks, Bryan, 256-7 Minimum Wages and Guaranteed Employment Act (1968, Barbados), 69n Modern charisma; concept of, 13 Mohammed, Patricia 257

Mongoose gang, 83 Morgan, Sir Peter; 68n

Movement for the Assemblies with the People (MAP, Grenada), establishment of, 84, 90n Moyne Commission; 26-27, 78, 90n

Joshua, Ebenezer (St Vincent); populist

leadership of, 26 Kennedy administration (USA);

destabilisation of Guyana by the, 123-24 Keynesianism; 45; impact on Barrow’s leadership, 49

Labour protests; in the Caribbean (1930s), 26-28, 68n; in Grenada (1951), 79-82

Leadership see also authority; charismatic, 1-31; Machiavellian concept of, 3; role

National Joint Action Committee (NJAC, T&T); 51 National Workers Union (NWU, Jamaica); and M Manley, 203

Nationalism: impact of the cold war on West Indian, 144-47; international

policy and West Indian, 151-53; Jagan — and, 144-47; Williams and movement for, 166 New Jewel Movement (NJM, Grenada); 51, 74, 77, 83-86, 90n; leadership conflict in the, 76 Noguera, Pedro A, 257

Index / 263

Oil crisis; impact on Barrow’s leadership, 48 O’Neal, Duncan; influence on Barrow, 40, 41, 42, 58 Oratorical skills; as a charismatic feature, 8; of Errol Barrow, 41; of Forbes Burnham, 98-99 Patriotic Coalition for Democracy (PCD, Guyana); formation of, 148-49

Payne, Clement (Barbados); populist leadership of, 26 People’s Alliance (Grenada); 90-91n

People’s National Congress (PNC, Guyana); 92; Burnham’s impact on the, 116-17; decline of the, 147-49; doctrine of the, 112-13; and electoral fraud, 119n, 146-47, 150; and electoral reform, 150-51; formation, 101, 145; and Jagan, 146-47; and the PPP, 145-47; and race issue, 145; and the UF, 146 People’s National Movement (PNM, T&T); 156; formation of the, 168-69; women in the, 186-88 People’s National Party (PNP, Jamaica); and IMF; 194

People’s Pressure Movement (PPM, Barbados); 51

People’s Progressive Party (PPP, Guyana); Burnham and the, 100, 136, 141-42; and the CIA, 119n; communist alliances of the, 145; and the communist threat, 136-41, 146; establishment and function of the, 132; government, 151-53; Janet Jagan and the, 136; leadership conflict within the, 100-1, 141-42; and race issue, 142; resistance to Burnham, 112; US/British destabilisation of the,

137-46 People’s Revolutionary Government (PRG, Grenada); Bishop’s leadership of the, 74 Political Affairs Committee (PAC,

Guyana); establishment and function of the, 131 Political charisma; Weber’s concept of, 1-10, 35-38 Populism; and charisma, 16-19, 64; and charismatic authority, 102-5; and

paternalism in the Caribbean, 22-24 Populist leadership; analysis of, 16-20, 22-23 Power; Weber's concept of, 3

Protestantism; and the development of rational thought, 14-16 Public Order Act (1970, Barbados); enactment by Barrow, 50-53 Public Services (Conditions of Employment ) Act (1971 St Vincent); 51 Pure charisma; Weber’s definition of, 6-10 Race/Class issues; in the Caribbean, 51; and the PNC, 145; in Trinidad, 162, 174-76, 177-78 Raddix, Kenrick (Grenada); Co-chairman of MAP, 84

Rational-legal authority; Weber’s definition of, 4

Rationality; development of, 14-16 Regional Cooperation; implications of Jagan’s alienation on, 140 ‘Relations with the Caribbean Commission’ (Williams); 173 Religious movements; and charisma, 213

v Representation of the People’s Act (Guyana, 1986); and electoral fraud, 110-11

Robertson, Ian; concept of charisma, 213

Rodney, Walter (Guyana); resistance to Burnham by, 111, 112 Roth, Guenther; concept of charisma, 94 Routinised charisma see charisma of office

Royal Barbados Police Force; 69n—70n Santeria; 219; and emergence of Castro as a charismatic leader, 221-25; description of, 224-25, 240n; and Elian Gonzalez

issue, 227-37; recognition by the Catholic Church, 220; and the Cuban revolution, xv—xvi Sawmill and Forest Workers Union (SFWU, Guyana); and Jagan, 130-31 Seaga, Edward (Jamaica); 195, 196

Singh, Ricky; on negative consequences of Burnham’s legacy, 116 Social crises; and development of Caribbean charismatic leaders, 20-28 Social security scheme (Barbados), 69n Socialism; in Guyana; 131-40 Succession planning; Barrow and, 61-62 The Negro in the Caribbean (Williams), 155,

172 Toure, Kwame (Stokely Carmichael); and Barrow; 51 ‘ Trades Union Council; and communist threat, 139-40

264 / Index Traditional authority; Weber’s definition of, 3-4 Trinidad and Tobago (T&T); class structure in, 162; East Indians in, 174-77; race issue in, 177-78 Tucker, Robert; concept of charismatic

leadership, 197-98 United Force (Guyana); 145

United States of America; Cuba postrevolution relations, 144; destabilisation of Guyana by the; 123-25, 137-46; anticommunist ideology of, 135-41, 144;

hegemony in the Caribbean, 141; influence on Caribbean political development, 20; invasion of Grenada, 78

Valdes, Nelson P, 257-58

Williams, Eric; anti-colonialism of, 166, 169-74; background of, 161-65; charismatic appeal of, x, 158-59,167-69, 170-74, 182-83; and Chinese community, 185; death of, 157-58, 190n; and East Indians, 174-77; and gender issue, 177-78; oratorical skills of,

172; paternalism of, 23; personality of, 179-81, 183-84; political development of, 168-72; analysis of the political career of, xiv—xv, 155-89; and race issue, 174-78, 179; and socialism, 19; speeches and writings of, 155, 159-63, 172-74, 178, 179, 181, 191n; and women, 183, 185-88; and the youth, 181-82 Williams, Erica; and Eric Williams, 158,

169 Williams, Evelyn; 184, 185 Williams, Hubert; on negative

consequences of Burnham’s legacy, 116 Watson, Hilbourne, 258 Weber, Max; definition of charismatic. leadership, 75-76, 193-94, 196-97, 210,

Women; workers in Barbados, 52; and charisma, 58-59, 96; in pre-

213-14; concept of democray, 95; concept of political charisma, xi—xii,

revolutionary Cuba, 29-31; in the political development of T&T, 177-78 ‘Workers’ Liberation League/ Workers

1-31, 35-38, 94-98; and women and charisma, 58-59, 96

Working People’s Alliance (WPA,

West Indian Federation; Jagan’s rejection of the, 140 Whiteman, Unison (Grenada); joint leader of the NJM, 84 Williams, Elsie; 184

Party of Jamaica (WPJ); 51 Guyana); 51; resistance to Burnham by, 111-12 World Bank; and Guyana, 148-49, 152-53 World Federation of Trade Union (WFTU); and the TUC, 140

ribbean Gh aS

|

In the early days of political decolonisation (1960s), the climate of Caribbean politics was charged with a sense of national euphoria

premised on the promise of liberation from colonial instruction. Seizing

the moment and thefavourable political mood, compelling public

figures such as Fidel Castro, Michael Manley, Forbes Burnham, Cheddi Jagan, Eric Williams, Errol Barrow, Eric Gairy and Maurice Bishop, All|

to varying degrees and in their own unique styles, exploited a perceived charismatic endowment, which was woven into the populist politics of

the time. In the process, they experimented with the ideas of empowernient and self-determination with a view to winning and cementing the loyalties of their followers.

Caribbean Charisma, employing Max Weber's treatment of the bases of political legitimacy (charismatic, traditional and rational-legal), seeks to assess the degree to which the concept of charisma is relevant to an

appreciation of the political triumphs and successes of the leaders in question, and examines how these modern leaders were able to utilise their charismatic qualities in pursuit of specific political ends.

This book is an original and timely approach to understanding the nature of political leadership in the Caribbean, and is intended for all interested in the nature of political succession.

ce Ian Randle Publishers Kingston 6, Jamaica

Lynne Rienner Publishers Inc Boulder, Colorado

Cover photograph by Salas

.